New Romney | i n s e c t i n s i d e

The flies are beginning to emerge from the wheelie bin in Lydd. One overly ambitious fungus gnat, named The Truss, is already waiting on the far right of the lid to spout her hate to anyone who happens to be flying by. Those maggots yet to metamorphose continue to feast within the bin, their appetites undeterred by The Truss’s antics. Among the remnants of discarded waste, they have found sustenance in a lettuce, the wilting vegetable that had outlasted her short 49-day tenure as Prime Minister.

Drawing inspiration from her hero, Maggot Thatcher, The Truss meticulously cultivates an image reminiscent of the former Prime Minister, from her demeanour to posing for photographs atop various unsavoury heaps, be it landfill sites or compost bins or the grass verges where people walk their dogs. Though diminutive in stature, her presence exudes an aura of insignificance, a testament to her desperate pursuit of influence.

Beneath this faux facade of power and prestige, The Truss remains an abhorrent figure to the worms entrenched in the compost below. They bear the scars of her past economic policies, which left them destitute when their compost bins were emptied in the name of progress. As she resurfaces with renewed ambition, they squirm angrily, questioning why she wasn’t squashed for the havoc she wreaked upon their livelihoods.

Her aspirations seem limitless as she aims to spread her messages of animosity far and wide. Known for her penchant for posturing and her apparent belief that soundbites could substitute for sound economic policy, The Truss has rebranded herself as a PopCon, taking a swipe at anyone who doesn’t see the world through her very narrow compound eyes. Her delusions of grandeur knew no bounds when she ventured across the pond to hobnob with the likes of Nigel Fraaage and Donald Dump, to complain her tenure as Prime Minister was “sabotaged” by the “administrative state and the deep state,” “wokenomics”, and boldly announcing that environmentalists are the new Communists… On and on she trilled, much to the bewilderment of the moderate observers of the ecosystem who see her as a fly in the ointment for democracy.

As she incessantly flutters about in a frenzy of self-importance, the only ones genuinely captivated are the few insects who inhabit her realm, who will hopefully be swatted into oblivion at the next election.

Oh dear, all is not well in Drowning Street. The moderate Conservative sand hopper MPs of Greatstone beach are hopping mad, trying to downplay the embarrassing mess the Prime Minister and his cabal has plunged them into. Swamped with tales of cronyism, corruption, and cover-ups none of this is going down well with the electorate. First it was the billions of pounds of public money wasted on a Track & Trace system that never worked, then the dodgy deals around PPE, followed by the Prime Minister demanding money to pay for the decorating of his ‘tip’ of a buckthorn bush high above the beach – fittingly he always looks like he’s been pulled through a hedge backwards.

The latest controversy are the ‘parties’ held on the strandline during lockdown, when everyone else was tucked away obeying the rules. The government laughingly dismissed them as just ‘Wrack and Brine’ after work. A chance to ‘let their antennae down’, to ‘let off steam’. But now an old seamail has surfaced inviting 100 staff to a BYOB party. And it has exposed the party culture at Drowning Street, with the strandline coming alive at dusk when all the hoppers start jumping around drunk to a DJ in the shingle and leaving a big mess.

Understandably, the other residents of the beach are seething. The cockles had spent months self-isolating in their shells, and the mussels, who usually congregate strung together, did their absolute best to social distance. Even the crabs, curbed by foreign travel restrictions, decided to hunker down this side of the Channel.

Currently the Prime Minister, oblivious to his own lies, is in hiding, flailing about garnering support for ‘Operation Save Big Dog’ and plotting his return by throwing a few colleagues under a boat.

Meanwhile, some of the beachbenchers whose constituencies are high up in the red wall dunes, are beginning to sweat. A safe Conservative seat in faraway North Shropshire was won by the Liberal Democrats in a recent by-election. Some are burying their heads in the sand hoping it will all wash over them. Others fear the tide is turning and they will all be swept away in a tsunami of more sleaze.