Toby, you’ve made it.
You know how you kept on losing friends and alienating people?
Well, sleep in peace at night my friend: you’ve found your tribe.
They are the Liberal Rich Ars*holes that breathe in the rarefied self-satisfaction that can allow them to say, seemingly without a whit of self-awareness:
“It’s intimate and charming in a way that few other festivals are, partly because so many of the punters seem to know each other. To give just one example, there were at least half a dozen families there with children at the same primary school that my two youngest go to in Shepherd’s Bush.”

Of course the flip side of belonging – and you do belong – to such a bunch of rich t’ossers is, well, they’re t’ossers who come out with things like this:

“Every time [Robinson] made one of these outbursts it was met with a huge cheer and, at first, I thought he was sending up the left-wing pretensions of the entirely white, mostly privately educated, west London audience.”

Your “conservatism” is a cosmetic accoutrement that you wear like a dandifying originality to play to the gallery and to titillate those West Londoners who know – with more awareness than you, apparently, ironically enough, that, when push comes to shove, the Youngs will be joining THEM at Port Eliot in the Summer. If you were actually committed to conservatism, brexit, and the poor b*uggers who’ve been royally scr’ewed over by that class of West Londoner – in short representatives of our entire ruling class that we find, obviously at Westminster, but also omnipresent in the Media, Academia, the Judiciary and so on – you’d be feeling sick in your stomach to spend time socialising with them.
But you don’t.
So you’ve made your glamping Tepee, Toby: now go lie in it.

Fraud.