The official tagline for the Tory leadership contest is “EXPERIENCE MAGIC THIS SUMMER”. Its key value divide is between candidates who would smoke opium at an Iranian wedding, and candidates who would order a drone strike on one. We haven’t even begun to hear from frontrunner Boris Johnson, that flytipped sofa, who will probably be endorsed next week by visiting indignitary Donald Trump.

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Still, plenty to be getting on with. Esther McVey would order you a drone strike, no problem. The only issue is whether she’d be able to get all the gays in one place. This week, Esther waded into the grimly regressive row about LGBT teaching, suggesting that parents should have the right to deny their children educational access to reality (I’m paraphrasing). As she put it: “I believe parents know best for their children.” Yes babe! That’s why measles is back. That’s why you personally defend the refusal to pay a mother benefits for her third child unless she can prove she was raped.

McVey joins every other Tory candidate in promising to “deliver Brexit”, even though it’s a parcel 30 times bigger than Britain’s letterbox. Esther’s full no-deal, naturally, while Sajid Javid … well, The Saj has bravely refused to reveal any spoilers about his thinking on Brexit.

Or perhaps you prefer the look of Dominic Raab? For reference, that look is “white-collar guy who’s never done anything wrong in his life before this. You have to believe him, he was just trying to keep her quiet – OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THERE’S SO MUCH BLOOD – OK, keep calm, keep calm. Panic’s how they’re going to get you. There’s that bit of copse past the golf club …” And so on. Dan Stevens stars.

As for Jeremy Hunt, I do enjoy the way Jeremy talks about his previous business running an educational courses database as though it were the East India Company or something. “Doing deals is my bread and butter,” he Andrew Carnegie-d this week. “I’ve taken risks, I’ve employed people. You have to do deals the whole time.” Deals Jeremy has struck with the taxpayer include claiming 27p for a 900m car journey, and repaying £9,500 for second home expenses. You win some, you lose some. Still, I’m looking forward to the bit in early July, if the field is whittled down as expected, where I find myself whispering, “Maybe … maybe Hunt’s not the worst?” at my reflection in a bathroom mirror, which I will then punch into a thousand pieces. Michael Gove … ? I can’t. I just can’t. Maybe next week.

Across all candidates there is an absolute refusal to admit Brexit is a mass Tory sex game that’s gone badly wrong. See modernity’s Matt Hancock, who this week attempted to attack Boris Johnson with the words: “To the people who say ‘fuck business’, I say fuck fuck business.” Gut response to this is: life, no parole. But for those who believe Matt’s crime should be in some way understood, this grammatical construction is known as the “double fuckative”. Contrary to assumption, there are policy positions beyond it – for instance “fuck the fucker of fuck business”, and “fuck fucking the fucker of fuck business”. Don’t ask what they mean – just let them mist you like three fragrant sprays of Matt by Matt Hancock.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Caramel waffles with Matt Hancock’s face on Good Morning Britain, May 2019. Photograph: Ken McKay/ITV/Rex/Shutterstock

After all, this is an election where shooting a selfie video makes you some Tomorrow Man who’s just landed in a whirlybird from the future. In my particular filter bubble, this tactic has helped make Rory Stewart everyone’s favourite outsider. He is certainly to be commended for an absolute refusal to admit that the target voter in this particular election is a 73-year-old woman from Beaconsfield who wants to bring back hanging and describes Aids as “nature’s way”.

That said, the Tory membership are easily sophisticated enough to get that there are two kinds of class A drugs: the ones you take out of politeness 14 years before being appointed prisons minister, and the ones that get you sent to prison, where they’re just as easy to get hold of, unlike any sort of a job once you get out. Make sure you take the right kind, kids! Also, please don’t expect us to have a grownup drugs policy ever. That’s one of the many, many things we’re leaving to your generation to sort out, while we wank on about sovereignty and the Blitz.

Meanwhile, on with the show, with viewers asked to accept increasingly ridiculous plot developments. On Thursday, this was a person called “Mark Harper” claiming to have been chief whip under David Cameron. I mean, maybe??? Mark joins a slew of candidates who might as well have been living in witness protection, who are now suggesting their anonymity makes them the perfect cleanskin to get us out of this mess.

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In similar vein, The Malthouse Ultimatum has also entered the fray. Leadership pitch: “You may know me from the compromise I named after myself.” Or as Kit prefers it of his momentarily-coalesced-around fantasy that had already been unequivocally pre-rejected by the EU: “Many commentators said it was the first time in 45 years that the Conservative party had been so united on Europe.” Remind us: how’s that looking now?

Ultimately, the intractable problems of Brexit mean anyone claiming to be “untainted” will be tainted by actual reality within minutes of acceding to the job. A “new face” is going to solve the Tory party’s underlying problems about as much as a “new face” used to solve Michael Jackson’s underlying problems.

Still, there will apparently be TV debates for this election you can’t vote in, which will at least facilitate a drinking game. The rules of this particular one are: as soon as you see the opening credits, drink. Then keep doing it until the mid-2030s.

• Marina Hyde is a Guardian columnist