The UK Conservative Party, a political entity currently possessing all the structural integrity of a wet Digestive biscuit, has reached its latest inevitable milestone of absurdity. Kemi Badenoch, the latest soul to be handed the poisoned chalice of Tory leadership, has summoned the remaining 116 MPs to a mandatory session of ‘not being embarrassing.’ The core of her message? A stern warning against ‘plotting and psychodrama.’ It is a fascinating command, akin to a director of a low-budget slasher film walking onto the set and demanding that the actors stop screaming and bleeding. The Conservative Party does not merely engage in psychodrama; it is the very foundation of their existence. It is the only thing they have left to export now that they have successfully dismantled every other functional pillar of British life.

Let us contemplate the number 116. This is the ‘remnant,’ the survivors of an electoral asteroid strike that they spent fourteen years inviting. These 116 individuals represent the skeletal remains of a party that once claimed to be the natural party of government. Now, they are a support group for the soon-to-be-unemployed, huddled together in a room in Westminster, trying to look like a serious political force while the ceiling tiles literally and figuratively fall around their ears. Badenoch’s attempt to instill discipline in this lot is charmingly naive. You cannot demand unity from a group of people whose primary hobby is leaked WhatsApp messages and whose secondary hobby is checking the betting odds on their own replacement.

Then we have the catalyst for this sudden urge for cohesion: Nigel Farage. Farage, a man whose entire political career is a masterclass in the lucrative art of failing upward while smelling faintly of stale ale and cigarettes, has issued a ‘deadline.’ He has given the Tory MPs a cutoff point to defect to his ‘Reform’ vehicle before he closes the door. It is a classic grifter’s move—the limited-time offer. ‘Join my sinking ship now before the lifeboats are full of other desperate egoists!’ Farage isn’t a politician; he’s a vulture with a better tailor, waiting for the Tory carcass to stop twitching so he can pick the bones clean. The fact that the Tory leadership is actually reacting to a deadline set by a man whose party is essentially a private limited company tells you everything you need to know about the current state of British right-wing ‘intellectualism.’

The irony, of course, is that the ‘psychodrama’ Badenoch loathes is the only thing keeping the party in the news. Without the constant backstabbing, the anonymous briefings, and the theatrical weeping in the tea rooms, the public might be forced to look at the actual policies—or lack thereof. There is no vision here, no coherent plan for a country that has been stagnant for a decade. There is only the frantic, clawing need to remain relevant. The Left, meanwhile, watches this slow-motion car crash with a brand of performative glee that is equally nauseating. They mistake the Tory collapse for their own success, failing to realize that a vacuum is rarely filled by anything other than more hot air and disappointment.

Badenoch’s meeting on Monday night is a funeral directors' convention where the guests of honor are the ones being buried. She wants an end to the plotting because she knows that she is the primary target. In the Tory party, the honeymoon period doesn't last long enough for the ink to dry on the marriage certificate. The ‘plotting’ she warns against is simply the biological imperative of the Conservative MP. They plot because they cannot govern. They scheme because they cannot lead. They engage in psychodrama because reality is far too depressing and requires actual work.

What we are witnessing is the final, twitching stage of a political organism that has lost its purpose. Farage provides the external pressure, Badenoch provides the internal scolding, and the 116 MPs provide the comedy. The British public, as usual, is left to watch this farce from the wings, paying for the tickets with their tax pounds while the actors set fire to the stage. It would be tragic if it weren't so predictably pathetic. Badenoch can order as many meetings as she likes; she can demand silence, she can demand loyalty, and she can demand an end to the drama. But you cannot fix a rot by painting the door. The Tory party isn't going through a rough patch; it is returning to its natural state: a collection of self-interested careerists fighting over the captain’s hat while the ship is already on the ocean floor. It is a spectacle of the highest order, and the only tragedy is that we aren't allowed to change the channel.