He just wasn’t British enough. You can’t proclaim your prowess at rumpy pumpy for all the world to hear about. Any reference to anything remotely of that nature must be kept as quiet and coded as possible. Every now and then when you’re rendered thoroughly insensible by drink you might be allowed the odd boast to a prostitute who just happens to be in your company. However, creating a title for yourself that not only details your carnal activities but actually grants you royal status is several bridges and an entire river too far.
Miraculously, for whatever blackmail related reason, he’s been allowed to remain firmly in the picture. We can’t name him of course for reasons of taste and imaginary injunctions but I’m relatively certain that if I did you’d know who he is. Obviously he’s got something incredibly juicy on someone really rather high up. Well, that was the status quo until rather recently.
He was nothing more than a figure head, a lightning rod for their anger and a chance to show that they were not messing around. It was an exercise in message sending rather than anything especially personal. Tory rebels found that the easiest way to get attention for their cause (I don’t know what it was, it’s all politics, you lose track of the endless pointless feuds after a little while) was to get rid of the king of the orgies and see who kicked up the biggest fuss.
Once the king of the orgies falls you know that the king of the swingers and the sultan of bedtime fun are going to start quaking in their diamond studded shoes. The former was slain because of politics so what’s going to stop them coming after the other assorted royalty of bedroom antics? It’s a very scary prospect indeed.