When I was at school, some time before the last ice age, the final day of term was a quasi-holiday. There might be slide shows, and I remember my housemaster introducing me to Klee and Mondrian (I am still unconvinced about Mondrian). Today, it is all very different. I gather that once the exams are over, the brats are sent on trips or expeditions. The fear is that if they were confined to barracks, they would wreck the place.
The Tory high command (if there is one) clearly needs to consult a cunning modern schoolmaster. In the final days of the last term, Conservative MPs came close to sabotage and mutiny. Much the most formidable political machine of the past two centuries departed for the summer with all the dignity of an overturned ant hill.
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Against that background, some Tories met.
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