Day two in the Big Brother house. The chimps are still completely out of control and have started throwing food and worse at one another. Would Andrea please come to the diary room?

No one could accuse Andrea Leadsom of not learning from her mistakes. When she first ran for the Tory leadership, she made a point of inviting everyone to witness her campaign launch. It featured a “major speech on the economy” in which she didn’t once mention the economy and a march on Westminster comprising just her, Tim Loughton and Theresa Villiers. Once seen, never forgotten. That one joint she smoked at university must have had a devastating long-lasting effect on her.

This time round, though, Leadsom was taking no chances. Her launch took place in a Westminster broom cupboard to which several journalists, myself included, were refused entrance. The venue was full, we were told. All 15 seats were already reserved. Only that wasn’t quite true. There were still empty chairs by the time Leadsom appeared on stage to talk. To herself, if no one else.

What wasn’t so clear was why she imagined she was any better suited to being prime minister now, having crashed and burned so spectacularly first time around. The only possible conclusion was that she reckoned that in the intervening three years the idiot bar had lowered significantly.

Leadsom looked up nervously. She wanted people to be the very best they could be. Unlike last time when she had wanted them to be the worst they could be. Nothing escapes Andrea.

And she had an absolutely foolproof Brexit plan. She would tell parliament she had a really shit, unworkable plan and that if they did not want to vote for it then she had an equally shit plan for no deal. But not to worry, as there was no chance of her becoming prime minister.

“Who am I?” she asked. It was a very good question. But if she didn’t know, there was precious little chance of anyone in the audience being able to help her out. Assuming they actually gave a toss. The BBC certainly didn’t, gleefully curtailing its coverage to go to a story about an escaped hamster. Or something. By the time the Beeb cut back to Leadsom five minutes later, she had all but wrapped up her launch.

There was an awkward silence at the end before a couple of admirers led a round of desultory applause. No #Rally4Leadsom glory days this time round. The ever-loyal Loughton trudged back to Westminster alone, quietly sobbing to himself: “Who do we want? Andrea Leadsom.” Where had it all gone wrong? Maybe next time. There would be a next time. Wouldn’t there?

Play Video 1:06 Andrea Leadsom and Mark Harper outline differing Brexit visions – video

Half an hour later, in another room in the same building – presumably there had been a buy one, get one free offer – Mark Harper strode purposefully to the front and took off his jacket. As if to say: here is a man who means business. Who would give straight answers to straight questions. The first of which was just who the hell he was. Not even his family always got that one right.

“Aha,” said Harper. The very fact he was completely unknown – other than for having had to resign as immigration minister for employing an illegal immigrant – was what made him just the person to lead the Conservatives and deliver Brexit. He would just wander up to Angela Merkel and say: “Hi, I want to do a deal,” and she would reply: “Sure. Danke fuck you aren’t Boris or Michael or Jeremy.” And that would be that. A deal would be done sometime in the next six months or so. It was no more incredible than anything anyone else had come up with.

No, he hadn’t done any drugs, he added, wistfully. He’d longed to join in with all his colleagues doing lines of coke – Mikey was a total blast when he was off his head – and smoking dope. But he’d just never been invited to the right parties. That was why his campaign slogan was “Time for a party where everyone is invited”.

It wasn’t long before the only question anyone could think to ask was whether a lion would beat a bear in a fight. Harper deliberated for a few moments. “Lion,” he said. Koala bears everywhere cheered wildly. They’d never had it so good. The state of the Tory party. The state of the country. Humiliated by its own government, by its own pretenders. Harper sidled off, never to be seen again. It had been a short and sweet campaign. In its way, a collector’s item.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Rory Stewart preaches peace and love. Photograph: Andy Rain/EPA

Something rather more hallucinatory was on offer later. Tugging on his opium pipe, Rory Stewart had hired a circus tent on London’s South Bank. To go out with a bang. Or a bong. And what visions Rory the Ringmaster had on offer to a packed house of 600! Here was a possibility of a united Britain. A Xanadu where people came together to settle their Brexit differences through a citizens’ assembly. Where people felt a sense of shame at the state of hospitals, schools and prisons. Where conviction and seriousness walked hand in hand. Where binary politics dissolved into a purple haze of peace and love.

It was by far the best speech any Tory candidate had made. One which offered a real sense of leadership. Only it will never catch on, as the party Rory the Ringmaster wants to lead is not the Conservative party. It’s the Lib Dems, or something like them. And in his heart he knows that. Towards the end, when the visions were less intense, reality began to seep in. He admitted that his middle ground was a lost cause in a contest where Boris Johnson was favourite. The Ringmaster was no match for the elephant. Whether in the room or out. He even said he would back a Labour bill to take no deal and prorogation off the table.

And with that the dream really did die. It was a matter of when, not if, his campaign turned to ash. The Electric Fool-Aid Acid Test would have to carry on without him.