Friends of mine in Dorset live near a family called Priddle. This has inspired ribaldry. The Priddles' neighbours insist that they only inserted the 'r' a few years ago in order to posh themselves up. Thus far, the inhabitants of Piddington, no 'r', have refused to succumb to embarrassment and their name seems to have joined forces with 'Passport to Pimlico'.

At the time, that delightful film was an oasis of cheerfulness amidst the drabness of still-prevalent wartime - and indeed post-war - austerity. It was described as 'Conservative, but mildly anarchic.' That seemed a fair summary of much of the British character, then and for many years since. So the saga of Piddington might well be regarded as merely a charming entertainment.

Yet anyone tempted to believe that should beware. There are deeper currents under the surface, and those who smile complacently at Piddington might find that their smiles are repaid with snarls.

There is a basic question, which I remember asking in print about twenty years ago. I forget what prompted me but I recall saying that this matter could well move, from seminar rooms in universities to the street. It is encapsulated in a simple sentence. Why do we obey the law?

There is one obvious answer. Failure to do so could land us in trouble. Yet a society in which law-abiding habits have to be constantly reinforced by fear would not be a happy one. Carlyle wrote that 'anarchy plus the constable' is no basis for civilisation. Any wise Tory would agree.

So let us consider civilisation. A late spring day in the English countryside. A handsome village, adorned by beautiful trees and a fine church. The bellringers are practising, revelling in spreading joy. On the green, the cricketers are also revelling, albeit in a more raucous fashion. The village skipper has just hit a four. Ringers and players are both earning refreshment, and there is the pub just next to the green, ready to welcome them. Locals insist that there is no finer pint in all England. Time to quicken one's pace and test that claim.

I might be accused of confusing civilisation with sentimentality but would plead not guilty. It is all very well for those who have a strong religious faith, but the rest of us need palliatives to help us to endure Pascal's tragic last act. Although with humour, the arts, books and above all love, sentimentality is one such. The village which I have described might be imaginary, but there are others like it, which Eliot would have recognised. 'History is now and England.'

Alas, however, that is not the whole picture. Within living memory, that history has not always been benign. In my Tolkien-esque village, watching the cricket in the sunshine, the oldest living inhabitants still remember the days of their childhood, when the village green had been ploughed up to grow vegetables, while Spitfires from the local airbase fought duels to throw back the Luftwaffe. The RAF did not always win. Young men from the village had marched off cheerfully to the war. Not all of them came back. On the war memorial, their names are etched in glorious memory. In several houses, their names were etched in grief. As long as she had the strength, the skipper's grandmother would often be seen on a bench by the memorial. She would bring flowers in honour of her eldest son. 'One of the finest men in the battalion' his C.O. had written. The posthumous Military Medal confirmed that judgment. 'I hope this will bring you some comfort' said the Lord-Lieutenant when he made the presentation. She had nodded, determined to look brave. But medals cannot cure a mother's heartache. That young man died for civilisation. He fell so that his descendants could play cricket, drink beer and not become slave labourers. His and so many others' sacrifices meant that for long periods, most of his fellow-countrymen would be able to enjoy the luxury of forgetting the best two-word description of the human condition: original sin.

That almost infinitely wise, gentle and thoughtful philosopher Michael Oakeshott told us that 'Civilisation is only a collective dream'. To prevent that dream from becoming a nightmare we must sleep on a sound bed of order, as Hobbes would have agreed. But that order is not only a matter for the constabulary. In a civilised country, government and its powers must ultimately rely on consent and even respect. People may grumble, often constantly. After a general election, many supporters of the defeated party will feel like going into internal exile. But democracy soldiers on - as long as consent is its handmaiden.

In Britain today, that is in jeopardy. Throughout the land, millions of people have come to an increasingly angry conclusion. That nothing works. The government - all governments - spend a vast amount of money - for what? As God has given us our moat, we should be able to control our shores. Why are we failing? Anarchy plus the constable: many shop-keepers experience the anarchy on a daily basis, so where is the constable? Although there is far too much sociologese, it may be that the level of wokery in our police-forces has been exaggerated, but until the chief constables act to deal with the thieving toe-rags who are spreading anarchy in the shopping-centres, anger will grow.

Not everything is wrong. Michael Gove's school reforms have brought great benefits. There was no better education secretary in English history. The Scots and Welsh did not benefit: a terrible example of social self-harm. It seems that mesdames Phillipson and Powell now want to catch up with - or rather down with - Scotland and Wales. England beware. There are excellent hospitals. I was most impressed by St Thomas's in London. If only its best practice could be unified throughout the country, and the failure elsewhere is caused by lack of leadership, not lack of resources. A nurse is now languishing in prison, facing a life sentence for dreadful crimes. But an increasing number of experts, legal and professional, are convinced that Lucy Letby is the victim of a monstrous injustice, and of a failing hospital.

It is not about cash. The government is now spending at a rate of £50,000 a year on every household in the land. For that money, one might have thought that we could pay for enough warplanes and soldiers, for warships which did not have to spend long periods in dry dock, for hospitals worthy of the name: for police officers who are proud and successful thief-takers.

Instead, we are subsidising a million youngsters who are not in employment, education or training: Neets. This is habituating them to a life of idleness, and undermining the nation's finances.

As we stand, the country is over-taxed, over-borrowed, over-spending on all the wrong things and full of discontent about the state of the public services. Apropos self-harm, the current government's energy policy is a classic example. We are imposing cripplingly high energy costs on British businesses, yet ministers claim to be in favour of economic growth. That makes absolutely no sense at all.

We are also facing an alarming military position on the frontiers of NATO, there is instability throughout the world and there could be more bad news to come. A disturbing number of serious economic commentators now think that we could be facing a financial crisis on the scale of 1976, when the Labour government had to go begging to the IMF. The fear is that these days, the collapse might be too big for the IMF to solve.

If that were to happen, the level of public anger would be impossible to over-estimate. Well beyond Piddington, millions of voters on the verge of despair have come to believe that we are governed by politicians who are just not up to the job and who seem incapable of acting in the national interest. There may be an explanation for this. Some of them may not care about the national interest.

That is not true of Mr Burnham. He has another difficulty. He appears to be unable to get his head around the gravity of the problem. Fiscal policy is in a mess. Welfare policy is a disgrace. Small boats are still arriving in large numbers. Mr Putin is more threatening than ever. So what does Andy Burnham propose? Bring back the bus conductor.

What else have we got? Nigel Farage is an exceedingly gifted fund-raiser. He is a good communicator and has many good instincts. But Prime Minister? Come off it.

That leaves Kemi. She has four essential related qualities. She is intellectually serious, she is not deterred by political mountaineering, she knows that the country which she loves is in a mess - and she believes that the people of this country have the steel and the determination to fight their way out of the mess. All they need is fighting leadership.

We shall see.