TIME WAS when political parties stored dirty linen inside their own wash house along with the hatchet men who were the scrubbing boards and the pious grannies who’d pap you through the wringer in the same blink of an eye as they managed and ran beetle drives and bingo teas. You always knew though that to the outside world the party was united, cracks were rumoured, mainly unseen and usually papered over, and there were no civil wars about issues other than whose turn it was to be the paper candidates.
Instead of fighting the Union now we’re waging war on each other, and we’re doing it deliberately and publicly