ONE of the most notable characteristics of 14 years of Tory rule is that the closer we come to breaking the seal on a brand new calendar, the more intensely the party tries to pull us back into a dystopian past.

It is not uncommon for the march of time to induce a Proustian nostalgia for Christmases of yore.

Except, for the Conservatives, the heady rush is triggered not by the memory of madeleines (or Old Spice or Terry’s Chocolate Orange) but by a lust for the good old, bad old days when you could safely pursue foxes, say. Or rape your wife.

The last few weeks have seen Tories gorge themselves on their outdated values. They appear to have been infected with a sudden panic, a sense that as the last grains of sand sift through their political hourglass, they must feast on their own oddities, oddities they – in their arrogance – assume are shared by the great British public.

James Cleverly believed his “joke” about slipping his wife some Rohypnol was relatable because “real” men secretly want to control their women, and loathe the “wokeness” of “simps” who respect their partners.

James Cleverly

Meanwhile, Mark Jenkinson thinks “country folk” of all classes yearn to don red jackets and let slip the hounds of war. This, despite the fact polls have consistently shown support for the fox-hunting ban straddles the urban/rural divide.

But perhaps the saddest self-own has been the push to allow wine to be sold in pint bottles: a move for which there was precisely zilch clamour, and which has been roundly mocked by anyone born post-decimalisation. And indeed by most people born before it.

The aim – clearly – was to offer up some sort of last-gasp Brexit dividend no matter how tenuous. And how better to do that than by invoking the ghost of a long-dead leader?

We may have lost freedom of movement,........

© Herald Scotland