Scientists of Liminal Britain, having peered through their brass telescopes and run their equations upon the most delicate of chalkboards, have arrived at a startling conclusion: Homo Britannicus never grows up. Or at least, not in Westminster. The Members, like Peter Pan’s unruly cousins, dwell forever in the playground—trading conkers, spreading rumours, and sulking on the swings. The House of Commons is merely the schoolyard covered by a roof; the Speaker, no more than the weary prefect, blowing a whistle no one hears.
The ruling party, as every schoolchild knows, is the Gang with the Ball. They decide the rules, change them mid-game, and then feign surprise when accused of cheating. Their leader is the Captain: part bully, part visionary, mainly concerned with who gets to be striker. The opposition forms the Gang by the Fence, muttering darkly about justice, fairness, and how they would have scored more goals had the referee not been so obviously biased.
Liberal Democrats, charming though they are, occupy the position of the Over-eager Monitors, forever volunteering to tidy up the hopscotch chalk or organise a debating club, only to discover that no one else has noticed. The Greens are the Eco-Crusaders, furious about the grass stains on the cricket pitch. And as for the far-right, they are the Gang Behind the Bike Sheds, swigging a can of beer and dealing in dubious cigarettes while shouting slogans in voices breaking with adolescent fervour.
International relations are no less playground. America is the Tall Kid Who Brings His Own Ball and insists on captaining both sides. China is the Marbles Champion, silent, inscrutable, pocket jingling with coloured glass. Russia, naturally, is the boy who brings conkers that smash all with suspicious ease and refuses to let anyone examine them. Europe resembles the School Orchestra: earnest, occasionally tuneless, always arguing over who gets to play first violin.
What elevates the theory from mere parody to the dignity of science is its predictive power. Take any political crisis of the day, transpose it to the playground, and suddenly clarity dawns. Brexit? Simply a sulk: “I’m taking my ball and going home.” Trade disputes? Swapping lunchboxes gone awry: France sniffs at Britain’s Marmite sandwiches, Britain refuses to eat anything that once mooed in Polish. NATO? A gang-pact scribbled in biro: “If you hit me, my mates will all hit you back,” initialled in the margin of a maths book.
As Dr Johnson once wrote, “Politicks are now nothing more than means of rising in the world. With this sole view do men engage in politicks, and their whole conduct proceeds upon it”. Rachel Reeves, recently evicted from the cabinet, may well contemplate such sentiments as she sucks on a consoling lollipop. And Jonathan Swift would surely have recognised the present state of things as full of Gullivers reduced not by Lilliputian ropes but by the endless cry of “Miss, he started it!” And we find practically all of Labour’s backbenchers griping about Sir Starmer’s decision that they are all just there to make up the numbers while the big boys hog the ball.
As a connoisseur of British culture, which despite the Liminality of modern Britain, still holds Liminal Britain’s feet on the ground, I offer Laurence Sterne’s consolation found in his first ever publication, “A Political Romance”, politics is at least something to write about if one can think of nothing else.
Now if Liminal Britain’s scientists are right, and our rulers are children no matter how old they are, and they may well actually biologically be when the 16 year old gains the vote, then we citizens are at least spared the terrors of grown-ups. The worst that can happen is a tantrum, a sulk, a broken window, or a stolen toffee apple. Which, in the history of nations, may yet count as an enviably happy lot. Though one does glance over one’s shoulders at the 17th century when all the boys yelled “Bundle” and a bloody mess ensued but one can blame that as the result of over enthusiastic vicars… Then one casts a nervous glimpse at Jeremy Corbin and his coterie of associates with rather un-english names and support from local mosques where one may find equivalents to over enthusiastic vicars. But one hopes that a firm association with Yorkshire, birthplace of Laurence Sterne, keeps it all nicely within the confines of the playground where a general truce can be declared when one has to go home for tea.
Happily as one digs into the proceedings of Liminal Britain’s scientific community, one comes across this peer reviewed paper:
The Eternal Playground Forecast: A Scientific Prognostication of Parliament 2025–2029
Abstract:
Following Prime Minister Starmer’s recent rearrangement of the sandpit buckets (styled in Westminster as a “cabinet reshuffle”), the boffins of Liminal Britain have issued a peer-reviewed projection. The methodology involves a fusion of advanced behavioural analytics, eighteenth-century wit, and the time-honoured technique of watching children squabble over marbles.
1. The Head Boy and His Prefects
Starmer, having replaced one lot of prefects with another, will continue to insist that he is in charge of the playground timetable. Unfortunately, the Prefects will spend their hours debating whether it is their turn to hold the skipping rope, while the Head Boy is left clutching a tattered timetable nobody reads. By Easter term, the “Prefect of Hopscotch” will resign, citing “principled objections to chalk allocation.”
2. The Conservative Gang (Now Lurking by the Bins)
Bereft of the ball, the Tories will form a splinter gang skulking by the bins. Their great intellectual project will be to carve slogans on the playground fence with compasses. Next year, Johnson will attempt a comeback as “Captain of British Bulldog,” but will be sent home for throwing mud. Ms. Truss will reappear briefly, one side of the Atlantic of the other, declaring that her daffodils are growing, only to eat her own seed packet in error.
3. The Opposition to the Opposition (Nigel & Co.)
Farage, forever behind the bike sheds with his illicit crate of Heineken, will lead a campaign called “Bring Back Proper Marbles.” His gang will attempt to annex the tuck shop, causing a national shortage of sherbet. Pollsters will record that 37% of pupils agree, provided they still get dibs on the swings.
4. The International Arena (Playground Abroad)
America will demand all skipping ropes be imported from Disney.
France will go on strike after Britain refuses to share its chalk.
Russia will continue to challenge all comers to conkers, claiming victory before striking a single blow.
China will quietly buy the entire sandpit and rent it back by the teaspoon.
By 2027, NATO will be described in the playground minutes as “a solemn promise of mates sticking together if anyone gets walloped at lunchtime.” And the little fat kid being beaten up by the bullies well somehow not be allowed into the gang because while he is being beaten up, everyone else can quietly think that at least it isn’t one of them.
5. Climate Policy (The Mud Puddle Question)
Every party will promise to stop children from splashing in the mud puddle. Every child will continue splashing in the mud puddle. By 2028, a select committee will publish a 2,000-page report concluding: “The puddle is wetter than expected.”
6. The Electorate (Parents at the Gate)
Parents, long weary of endless tantrums, will begin rattling the playground gates. “Can we please collect our children now?” they will ask. Westminster will respond with a white paper on the future of pick-up times. By the general election, the only firm policy will be “lines of acceptable behaviour to be drawn in chalk,” and a good thrashing will be delivered to those who step over them even if most were washed away in the rain.
Conclusion:
The scientists predict that, despite reshuffles, rebrandings, and rebadged lunchboxes, the present Parliament will achieve nothing greater than an endlessly replayed game of British Bulldog. The final whistle will come only when the Head Teacher (Her Majesty’s Electorate) decides it is time for new children to have a turn. At which point, the old gang will retreat once more behind the bike sheds to plot their glorious return.
All of which is, if not exactly ideal, implies a slide into obscurity that is rather suburban and bland than any scenario taken from William Golding’s Lord of The Flies might have us believe. But it’s only fiction isn’t it?
LIMINAL BRITAIN: Chapter One - An Alien in Essex
Thirty years in Asia. Two ex-wives. Countless false identities. Now I’m back in Britain and detained at Heathrow for looking like Gary Glitter. So begins my return…THE BOGGLED MIND is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Great piece, playground politics meets gastroenteritis tourism. Gang with the ball, gang by the bins, it’s all still Britain’s Outdoor Toilet in the end. Enjoyed this a lot.