Well. Who'd have thought that a Parliament created by the cult of Boris Johnson would be full of blackmail-prone idiots happily spamming strangers with dick pics?
It's so unexpected, like a broken boat smashing into a bridge, or an American divorcee deciding the Royal Family were too weird to live with.
Not only do we have 12 MPs, researchers and journalists reporting they've been spam-texted by someone claiming to have met them in a bar once and sending them saucy photos, but two MPs responded in kind, despite being utterly unaware who it might be or what they might do with them.
Now we find that William Wragg, the man who once complained that Johnson's No10 operation had tried to "blackmail" him, really is holier-than-thou, because it was his little pink boat that leaked first, following a Grindr date with someone who had "compromising" photos of him and "coerced" him for the contents of his phone book.
Here are Willy and Boris, pre-blackmail and the other, more recent blackmail (MEN MEDIA)What can one expect, really, from a "vice" chairman of its backbench committee, and someone who takes a keen interest in "constitutional affairs". No wonder Speaker Lindsay Hoyle clung on, when Wragg led the charge to dethrone him just a few weeks ago for the heinous crime of talking to Keir Starmer. Who'd want to be whipped by a damp Wragg?
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We could talk, at a length which is never as long as some might claim, about Parliamentary scandals. About how Tories are at it like knives, the Reds always end up on the take, and the Lib Dems are just utterly weird. We could go Back to Basics and discuss love-children, drink-driving, cash-for-questions, lobbying, peerages, forcing BSE burgers down your daughter's throat and THAT gateway kiss by David Mellor, but frankly, we'd all rather forget it, and besides that was different.
Because whether it was a Parliament voted in on the cult of Maggie, or Tony, or Dave, it largely took on their character. The Thatcher years were full of people with big brains and non-existent hearts, the Blair decade was all schmooze and charm, and the Cameron era was a succession of well-padded arses that had never sat on anything that wasn't an antique.
And so now we come, ahem, to 2019 and the slithering, cacophonic triumph of Boris, who while he has long left Parliament and has no involvement whatsoever in the current scandal has nevertheless got his sticky fingers all over it, because everyone who IS involved was elected on the coat-tails of an amoral shagbot with friends in all the worst places.
One look at the Republican Party under Donald Trump will prove the point (POOL/AFP via Getty Images)That the character of our leaders matters was never any clearer than when Downing Street became the most criminal address in the country over lockdown parties, when some of its residents were leaking photos of other of its residents having cheese and wine with their chums while the rest of the country was barred from socialising, and when scandal after scandal was overlooked, excused, minimised and defended by someone to whom ethics was the one bit of Ancient Greek he never really got.
People who identify with that leader are drawn to their party; drawn to vote for them, drawn to stand for them, drawn to storm the Capitol if necessary, or agree that judges who are not elected are the problem, as opposed to the idiots you did elect who keep breaking the law. That's why, if you vote for the likes of Boris, you inevitably end up with sexting, scandals, and what feels very like the orgiastic, last-chance, free-for-all, bunga-bunga version of the Fall of Rome.
So far this Parliament, we've had allegations of rape, convictions for sexual assault and wife beating, flashers, gropers, tractor freaks, half-blind day-trippers, VIP lanes, mate's rates, handsy Mr Hancock, paid advocacy, drunken-Pincher-of-bums, and blatant racism.
Of COURSE it sounds like a typical term at Eton or Harrow. It WAS a typical term, if you were called Harry Flashman and it was the mid-1840s. All it really lacks is the Russian honeytrap and oh, look, here it is, riding over the hill waving a wet Wragg.
He has apologised and moved on. Police are investigating and it's not for the party to comment. There's no Earthly reason to resign, because they've only got a month or two left and they still need to get the minimum wage researcher to wipe down the panelling so it can pass muster under a blacklight.
Why resign for exposing yourself and a dozen others to blackmail? Why call an election when there's only Brenda in Bristol who'd rather not bother? Why run the country, when you couldn't run a tap without bankrupting the water company and filling the rivers with s***?
The answer to all these things, of course, is "because I don't want to". Which is exactly what Boris said, when told to return to his constituency, face the voters, or defend his indefensible record. If you had to liken the Johnson Parliament to a song, 'The Frog Chorus' would surely be it.
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We can only hope that the inevitable election of Keir Starmer, a man widely considered as dull as Boris was exciting, as clever as he was dim, and as well-grounded by his upbringing as Johnson was over-inflated by his, will likewise herald a Parliament full of hardworking, bobbed or Brylcreemed, mums and dads who'll not the place get in such a mess, with little idea of how to send saucy pictures, much less a taste for it.
The sooner we can block and delete the last five years, the sooner Mr Wragg and all his chums can return to wiping things off in private.
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