The image of Britain’s poshest prime minister since Sir Alec Douglas-Home in the ’60s engaging in what, I suppose, is technically termed necrozoophilia at a semi-secret ball full of druggy cross-dressers only confirms Middle England’s suppressed fears and fantasies about life at the top. They have always suspected that behind closed doors, the toffs were getting away with murder. They only wish they could be murderers, too.
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