Being a DUPer: how does it feel?

Right. An exercise in imagination for a summer’s day. Pretend that when you opened your eyes this morning, you were a member or a supporter of the DUP. Would the world on which you gazed have seemed one bristling with dangers and traps, you and your party at the mercy of powerful forces beyond your control? Or would it have seemed a place where the sun (at least metaphorically) shone, where you could feel your political muscle rippling underneath the duvet, from which prone position you leaped, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, eager to cash in on the opportunities Fate has lined up for you?

The answer seems obvious – you would find yourself in the latter, more b.-eyed and b.-tailed frame of mind. Your thoughts would have soared across the Irish Sea to Westminster, to mentally join your party’s ten MPs as they prepared to grip Theresa May’s Tories by the throat and extract every concession on the market.  Had this been a Hollywood movie rather than a dream come true, there would have been the sound of soaring orchestra strings as Arlene and her Triumphant Ten did a fists-in-the-ar dance up and down Downing Street. Truly, their day (and yours) had come.

But hold, pretend-DUPer. How long will your dream of bliss last? Come down from Cloud Nine and consider the nature of the Tory party to which you have hitched your wagon. This is a party led by Theresa May, whom the gods seem intent on first driving mad before they destroy her. Having squandered a massive lead in the polls – 20%? 25%? – notably by ducking out of debate with other leaders, failing abysmally to handle accusations of implementing a dementia tax, substituting face-pulling and meaningless sound-bites (“magic money-tree”, “weak and wobbly”) for political debate, she then, post-election, turns up at the scene of an appalling fire-tragedy reminiscent of the Blitz and forgets to meet with those living and suffering there.

So here’s my question, gentle pretend-DUPer: can a government led by such a woman succeed? And would it be any better, or might it even be worse, if Boris pushed Theresa under a political bendy-bus and took her place?

These are grim questions. Because the more you snuggle up to your Tory partners, the more the fleas on them will transfer to you, the more your fate will be bound up with theirs. Most commentators, including some who would be traditionally dyed-in-the-wool Tories, give Theresa May until Christmas before her self-inflicted wounds reduce the government to a vegetative state. How do you feel about acting as a bed-side support system for the remainder of her five-year term in office?

You may also want to sit down and think soberly about the fate of smaller parties in government. Run through the mental slide-show: the Progressive Democrats with Fianna Fail, the Labour Party with Fine Gael, the Lib Dems with David Cameron’s Tory party: alas, poor government props, how grim was their fate, beaten to a pulp by ten thousand ballot boxes, not so much for things they did, but for things their Senior Partner did.

And they at least got a honeymoon period, where their Senior Partner started off in rude good health. Your Senior Partner is currently bleeding all over the carpet and clearly mortified to be in need of first aid from you, the hick country cousin with the antediluvian take on the world.

Hey. Inflation may be making shrunk wage packets shrink further, the marching season may be flexing its tattooed muscles, but at least you don’t have to get into bed with the toxic Tories who think you’re even toxier.