It’s finally dawned on me that my relationship with the Conservative party has irrevocably changed. Dave and his young, dynamic, thrusting team are simply not interested in me or my Neanderthal views. They couldn’t give a stuff what I think. And I don’t blame them. There are far more votes to be gained from stern disapproval of global warming and renewing my massive subscription to the NHS than in escape from Europe and tax cuts. There are millions out there even younger than Dave or the Spectator staff who couldn’t or didn’t vote last time and they must be the number one target. This is a great relief. I can reject Conservative requests for money with no feeling of guilt (I’ve obviously missed the peerage gravy train) and need only attend trendy Conservative balls if Bryan Ferry is the cabaret. Once you know you are unloved you can move onwards and upwards.
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About 30 years ago some loopy astrologer in the Daily Mirror tipped me as a future prime minister. Although we Scorpios don’t believe in astrology and my political career had at that point been limited to an afternoon’s campaigning in Lewisham for John Gummer (he lost), I could never quite shake off the feeling that this unhinged prophecy might be fulfilled. Every time I sit opposite John Major at MCC Committee meetings I think wistfully of what might have been and now never will be, thanks to Dave’s brutal conclusion that Conservatism has moved on. He’ll still get my vote, of course.
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Last week, instead of pausing to address the nation outside the door of No. 10, I endured a slightly less majestic encounter with the British constitution when I was up before the beak in Northampton for speeding.
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