On Monday, we held a dinner party in the Cavendish Room at Brooks’s, one of the most beautiful spaces in London. Our guest list started with Matthew Parris, whom my wife was panting to meet, observing that she agrees with him about absolutely everything except that she is reluctant to become gay. After that, it was merely a matter of ensuring that we included nobody who might profess enthusiasm for Trump, Brexit or — following their treatment of Dwin Bramall, Edward Heath and now Damian Green — policemen. We discussed the problem that scarcely anyone active in British politics dares to tell voters important truths, foremost among these that Brexit will make them poorer. Moderate Tory MPs remain imprisoned by the party’s right, masquerading as tribunes of the plebs, while their Labour counterparts are chained to the left. Within, say, five years, there is likely to be an unpredictable and even frightening reckoning at the polls, when voters behold the cost of the deceits they have been fed by both. Meanwhile, many of us feel victims of political differences so profound that they sustain an inescapable social divide. As Michael Heseltine said at parting on Monday night: ‘The fight goes on!’
This is an extract from Max Hastings' diary, which appears in this week's Spectator