Opinion

Satire loves a fall — but Liz Truss is less a fall and more a controlled demolition carried out with the elegance of a wheelie bin flung down a ravine. Her 49-day premiership ended so abruptly that historians still argue whether it counts as a political disaster or simply a clerical error. Most people in her position would have retreated into lucrative obscurity: a few corporate speeches, a ghost-written memoir, perhaps a vineyard in Portugal.

But Truss is not most people. Instead of accepting the quiet mercy of public amnesia, she has returned armed with a ring light, a pop-up studio and grievances polished to a blinding sheen. She has not just hit “Record” — she has declared a one-woman uprising.

, marketed — with all the understatement of a collapsing bridge — as “the home of counter-revolution.” In her world, she is Joan of Arc by way of Instagram Live, battling the “deep state”, the establishment, and the unnamed but omnipresent forces that sabotaged her. In the trailer, she warns that shadowy elites “tried to destroy me”, a line that would carry more weight were it not delivered by 

the only prime minister ever defeated by her own tax plan

The premise of the show is simple: everyone else is wrong, and Liz Truss is the tragic visionary who was prevented — unfairly, cruelly, conspiratorially — from steering Britain to greatness. The show’s mission statement, repeated across YouTube, X and email newsletters, is a call to arms for those who genuinely believe Britain’s biggest problem is that 

the former PM didn’t get a long enough shot

Rather than confront the real legacy of her leadership — a tanking pound, skyrocketing mortgage rates, a bond market revolt, and the kind of national panic usually reserved for asteroid warnings — Truss now proposes to expose the “groupthink” that supposedly ruined her career.

But if her first episode is the standard, Britain is in for a long year.

 as “hapless ravings from a cupboard,”

 the debut episode sits somewhere between hostage video and late-night infomercial. Truss, surrounded by props suggesting both intellectual heft and a TK Maxx clearance aisle, delivers long, breathless monologues about a nation on the brink. Britain, she warns, is “falling apart.” Small-business owners are apparently yanking their own teeth out. Crime is everywhere. Socialism lurks beneath every storm drain.

But it gets better — or worse, depending on your tolerance for political theatre.

Her guests include Matt Goodwin (a man who has built a career on saying Britain is dying), Peter McCormack (a crypto evangelist whose economic insights are best described as “experimental fiction”), and Alex Phillips, who has never met a cultural problem she couldn’t blame on immigrants, feminists or hypothetically rogue Christmas decorations. Their collective contribution resembles a group counselling session for people who think the nation’s decline began when Greggs added a vegan sausage roll.

It’s tempting — so very tempting — to laugh. The memes write themselves; the soundbites are a buffet; the clips beg to be stitched into TikToks that will outlive us all.

But beneath the camp theatricality, something darker sits in plain view. Truss isn’t merely trying to stay relevant. She is doing something far more pointed: rewriting the story.

In her retelling, she didn’t crash the economy — the economy conspired against her. She didn’t ignite a national crisis — shadowy elites sabotaged her visionary reforms. She is not the architect of her downfall — she is the victim of a plot.

This is how movements radicalise: not with ideology, but with martyrdom.

And that’s the real punchline — a punchline delivered by a former prime minister who oversaw one of the most self-inflicted crises in peacetime history, now presenting herself as Britain’s Cassandra, the lone truth-teller who wasn’t believed.

Credibility matters. Record matters. Public trust matters. These are not abstractions; they are the basic currency of leadership. Truss, having depleted all three simultaneously, now tries to trade in nostalgic rage instead — the kind of populist fumes that animate fringe movements but rarely build anything more substantial than a merch store.

Her resurrection tour is less a comeback than a commentary on the times: when politics rewards grievance, when leadership is replaced by livestream, when the internet lets a failed prime minister reinvent herself not as the author of chaos but as its misunderstood prophet.

So Britain watches — not because it believes her, but because, frankly, she is riveting in the way all political car crashes are riveting. A human being insisting, loudly, repeatedly, theatrically, that the wall ran into 

Where history offers disgraced politicians a quiet exit, Truss sprints in the opposite direction — resurrecting herself on camera as if defiance alone can overwrite catastrophe. It’s not reinvention; it’s necromancy for a shredded reputation, an attempt to summon authority from the ruins she personally levelled.

And if this truly is the future of political engagement — if the nation is to be governed by the loudest exile with a YouTube account — then, sincerely, good luck to us all.

Truss Unveils New Show: Because 49 Days in Office Wasn’t Enough Unhinged Content

Related Articles

Trail Hunting and Nigel Farage’s Latest Dress-Up Act

Epstein Files Miss Deadline, Arrive Smothered in Redactions

FIFA Invents a Peace Prize for Trump After He Fails to Win the Real One

More