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Well, there it is. The UK’s third prime minister in just over three years is Liz Truss, the troubling result of a lab accident in which a community centre asset stripper was crossbred with a Live-Laugh-Love decal.
Her predecessor, Boris Johnson, left Downing Street this morning after an arrogant, lie-heavy speech, in which he displayed his character development after three years in office – precisely zero. None of his children was there (it’s actually quite a small street). He remains a short king over the water for any number of Conservatives who somehow still yearn to be shackled to a wildly underachieving narcissist who openly despises them. There’s being psychologically beaten, and then there’s … that.
A few hours later, Truss flew to Balmoral to meet the Queen, who she once wanted to abolish but now finds it more personally convenient to revere. Presumably Her Majesty asked Truss to form a government in the same way you might ask a telemarketer if you can call them back in five minutes. It’s always good when people explain what the Queen’s outfits mean; I assume that today’s choice telegraphed amused relief that she could be the only person spared having to hear Truss butcher a reading from Ecclesiastes at her funeral.
Truss uses the word “delivery” a lot for someone whose own delivery would lose the Bafta to an HGV announcing “This vehicle is reversing”. The vocal that will be delivering all the bad news to you this winter is slightly less appealing than a dental drill, if any of you are lucky enough to still have a dentist. Can you Auto-Tune the spoken word? I’d make Simon Cowell my comms chief if I were her. Truss does at least seem capable of reversing, having made “no handouts” a central feature of her campaign.
