You cannot fail to be aware of the screaming. It’s on the 6 o’clock news, every radio bulletin, and each newspaper front page.
Notable excerpts include cries of “get out of my country” and “get off my f***ing Brexit”, followed by wall-shaking leadership coups and the sound of thumping Parliamentary defeats.
The party being thrown against the wall next door now appears to be in its terminal, drunken stages, which involves a ding-dong so wild it’s tumbled out into the street where everyone is craning to see.
It’s private business, conducted in public with proxies, seconds, and staged photo opportunities. It’s loud enough for the neighbours to hear in their own homes, loud enough for people across the road to think someone is being murdered, loud enough for people many miles away to ask themselves if Typhoons have been scrambled to intercept a Russian jet.
So loud is this fuss that onlookers have barely been able to register the racists-on-pills raving away in the back yard, or the man frogmarching a hippy out of the building by her throat.
And while all this is going on, the woman who was last in charge of the party is packing her bags and about to depart the scene, thanking her lucky stars that those she leaves behind will make her look like the most reliable tenant the place ever had.
While members of the public stare at the unfolding horror, party-goers are claiming anyone who wants to complain about the whole offensive racket is a traitor to democracy.
These same people want 0.2% of the population to choose the leader of a minority government that is at less than 20% in the polls in order to force a constitutional change the majority of people don’t want. This party’s idea of democracy, and indeed treachery, is different from yours.
Those rubber-necking the chaos, and lapping up every bit of the nationally-remarkable row, are tutting and saying it’s awful that people are so nosey, while discussing the ins and outs at length on social media, fuelled by bots, ignorance and tribalism.
Above it all circles the Sky Newscopter – the BBC one’s still grounded – and people have started asking themselves whether someone should ring the police.
Unfortunately, the police have been called to this particular party several times already. They were called by a Home Secretary who told them to stop crying wolf, called to be told they’d be cut back, called to control people the party didn’t approve of, and then called to protect Donald Trump from the possibility of being touched by a milkshake.
The police say this party can sort itself out. They have multiple ear witnesses, but say that’s not enough to do much with. They’ve advised everyone to be calm and departed, knowing full well people will soon be lynching the neighbours.
The mob has now split into two factions – those who are pro-suicide, and those who are really for it. One camp is led by a man who looks like an elongated rabbit, and the other by a man who looks like a walking laundry hamper filled with unmentionables.
Both want the party to deliver on its promise to be a really great party, by leaving the place in which it has found a reason to exist.
The party they want to be in charge of is, let’s remember, filled with people who’ve overdosed on Winston Churchill and port. The invitations say it is the party of law and order, yet its loudest exponents say a screaming woman is no cause for concern.
They say this party is great for business, while agitating for it to be led by a man who shouts “f*** business!” and who is, in turn, now supported by another man who said “f***, f*** business”.
There’d be a nicely anarchist dance track to be had here, but they’ve confiscated their own recording devices because off-the-cuff song lyrics are a private matter.
The party has one or two embarrassing guests. If they’re not making freelance foreign policy with Israel or claiming that hate speech is just for snowflakes, they’re being convicted of crimes.
Most parties would not invite criminals to represent them. This one has decided to approve the criminal to stand for re-election by the same voters who just recalled him, presumably because they think dodgy expense claims are minor compared to everything else that’s going on.
Stand back a little, tune out the noise, and it’s clear this is a party that has gone catastrophically round the bend. The only reason it has our attention is because the Labour Party at the opposite end of the street is a disaster that’s slightly less extravagantly mad.
The Tories are ignoring the majority of the electorate who now want to Remain. They treat those who have voted for them already with disdain, expecting them to re-elect criminals and charlatans. And the only blows they’ve landed, of late, are on each other.
You may have forgotten, but this party was once competent. It was for strivers, the majority, the centre ground. But where it was once family-friendly, it’s now X-rated with frequent scenes of violence, criminality and plotting likely to cause disgust.
If the Tories were a real party, the police would have broken it up by now. If they were a person, they’d be in need of the Samaritans. And if they manage to form another government, it will be lucky if it survives until Christmas.
The party is more chaotic than the inside of Boris Johnson’s car. It is a case of domestic abuse on a national scale – angry men vying for control of an ideal they cannot admit is doomed, blaming everyone but themselves as their victims struggle to find the perspective needed to see what’s really happening.
The party is over. Everyone in it lost their dignity some time ago. The only question is whether the raving, Spitfire-crazed mob is destroyed within weeks by a dumb blond, or in months by a mindless brunette.
If you ask the neighbours, they’ll tell you the sooner it’s over the better. Pick the blond.