It’s time to move on!

Stop going on about Partygate! Come on now, chaps. We need to put it behind us. Stop blabbing on about what did or didn’t happen during those long dark Covid months. Forget it. It’s the past. It’s done. We’re drawing a line under the whole sorry affair…

…and don’t forget that it was Boris who got Brexit done!

It’s funny, this business of “moving on”. It’s more relative than either time or space. It involves more hypocrisy than Megan and Harry hopping across the Pond for the weekend. The Prime Minister’s defenders insist that we all forget about matters of just a short few months ago whilst constantly reminding us of victories as far back as 2016, 1945, 1805, or even that time when St George kebabbed a dragon.

And yet, should anybody from the other side of the argument dare “move on” and complain about… oh, let’s see… the infantilism of politics under this President of the United Kingdom, his indifference towards the rules, his brazen lowering of standards, the lies he routinely tells in the House of Commons, his historic philandering, his tardiness, the flimsiest legislative agenda in decades, his promoting third rate backbenchers to the highest offices of state, his pandering to the worst elements of an imported culture war, his numerous U-turns, his tendency to throw staff under the bus to save his bacon, his peculiar obsession with dressing up as Bob the Builder, his authoritarian streak, or any of his many other failures, then it’s all a symptom of Brexit which, you know, some people just can’t get over.

You complain about Brexit and it’s all about Brexit.

You complain about something other than Brexit and… it’s all about Brexit!

So, here we are, with members of the government talking up Johnson’s hollow victory and rebranding it as another glorious defeat of the “Remoaner” forces. Land of Hope and Glory. Spitfires over Downing Street. Time to slap a saddle on Mark Francois and ride him up The Mall. Huzzah!

The seeds were planted as early as Monday morning when Jacob Rees-Mogg appeared on Sky News. Resembling a semi-comatose paperclip, he gave a masterful display of modern political snark, being one of those rare politicians with a persona big enough to conceal the gulf in his substance. He knows more archaic words than Suzie Dent has had hot gramaungers but his chief technique is self-control. Forget what he says but listen to how well he patronises his interviewer with a cool “Miss Burley”. The tone of pious contempt never wavered as the village priest delivered a sermon whose theme was entirely comprised of hypocritical balloqes.

Laughing off his own attempts to categorise Theresa May’s rebellion (117 MPs voted against her in 2017) as a “very bad result”, he was now ready to claim that victory by a single vote would be enough of a mandate for Johnson. Besides, he assured us, it was all about Brexit. “There is a strong element of people who don’t like Brexit and want to reverse Brexit,” he said, citing Tobias Ellwood, “and feel the Prime Minister is the great stay and support of Brexit”. Soon he was reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone (yes, he owns one and it isn’t made from walnut or involves springs and a cuckoo) to quote “Peter and Brenda Yates from just outside Bristol” who have “utmost confidence in our beloved Prime Minister”.

“Beloved”? It’s one of those words that shouldn’t be used outside an obituary of an aunt, but this is where we are. It was all about our “beloved” Boris and our “beloved” Brexit, which soon became the de–facto explanation for why Boris Johnson faced a confidence vote in the first place. Next came Nadine Dorries, still pinching herself to make sure she really is the Culture Secretary, sent out to launch a throat-high tackle into Jeremy Hunt. It was a widely broadcast moment of puff and paranoia: “This is a very well-organised campaign,” she said. “It’s a perfect storm for some – it’s Remainers who are taking in others who are disaffected and, for a number of reasons, those who’ve lost their jobs in cabinet or as ministers, and I’m afraid anyone who says that this isn’t organised is not telling you the truth.”

Then it was the turn of Suella Braverman (the rest of us pinch ourselves every time we remember she is the Attorney General) to offer her support. James Cleverly figured out the maths and somehow forgot to carry 100 to conclude it a “third mandate from the parliamentary party”. Peter Bone called it a “massive majority”, which is like staring into the headlights of an oncoming truck and claiming it’s the first light of dawn.

But this, we were constantly reminded, was about the “people’s priorities”, a meaningless phrase, itself echoing so much post-Brexit rhetoric, repeated ad nauseam in what amounted to a hugely pre-programmed defence: big on soundbites and the stuff that gets Lynton Crosby out of bed in the morning. What a way to prove the critics wrong when they accuse the government of force-feeding loyalists with crib sheets, whilst bribing or threatening those who don’t profess their loyalty. It makes one wonder if MPs should be disqualified from office if they do need to be told what to say. Why employ MPs on eighty-four grand a year when the same job could be done by something built by Samsung and capable of syncing with your smartphone?

But by Wednesday morning, the new reality was established. It was like waking up in an Ira Levin novel, where the country has been taken over by people who look the same as they did yesterday but are suddenly parroting a strange new language. Meanwhile, in the Commons, a buoyant Johnson appeared at PMQs and was so eager to move on that he accused the opposition leader of trying to reverse Brexit.

We can be pretty sure that’ll be the last we hear of it. After all, he has apparently moved on.