In a quiet corner of the Strangers’ Bar, the lights are low, the mood lower, and the glasses significantly cleaner than the members’ consciences. George, the bartender, knows better than to ask questions. He just pours.
Most nights it’s half-empty – a few lobbyists nursing grievances, the odd backbencher hiding from the whip, and the occasional special adviser pretending they’re not about to be sacked. But every so often, someone important staggers in looking like they’ve just gone twelve rounds with Andrew Neil.
Tonight, it was him.
He dropped onto his usual stool at the shadowed end of the bar and exhaled heavily.
“Usual?” George asked, reaching for the Prosecco.
“Large Scotch,” he replied testily. “Keep them coming.”
George poured and slid the glass across.
The usually pursed lips parted as he downed the drink in one.
“I’m just trying to fix the foundations, George,” he began, staring into the empty glass. “After fourteen years of Tory chaos, the British people elected me to deliver change. Integrity. Service. Whiter than white. The adults, finally, back in the room.”
George gave a small nod. “So they keep telling me. Same again?”
A curt nod.
This time, he took a more measured sip. “You saw the Mandelson business?”
“I saw,” George said quietly.
“I told Parliament due process had been followed. Turns out he failed vetting some while back.” A small shrug. “I acted in good faith. Mostly. Someone had to carry the can.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Olly Robbins?”
“Decent man. You know I always take responsibility for my staff. But needs must when you’re fixing the foundations.”
George eyed the empty glass.
“Don’t stand on ceremony George, keep them coming.”
George obliged.
“They’re saying I’m proroguing Parliament next week just to dodge PMQs over the whole mess,” he continued, loosening his tie. “Officially, it’s perfectly normal procedure.”
George polished a glass. “And unofficially?”
He gave a bitter half-smile. “Unofficially… yes, it does get us out of some very awkward questions. The public elected me to get on with the job of national renewal, not to stand there every week being grilled.”
George topped him up without comment. “Handy.”
Four scotches in, the voice was starting to thicken.
“Has Labour got a paedophile problem, George?”
George waited.
“No problem at all,” he said, waving his hand. “We welcome people from all walks of life.”
He leaned in, smirking. “Muslim-only housing? Well… where else are they going to commit the rapes? Sorry – ‘contribute to our communities’. You can’t expect integration if you don’t give them the space they need, can you?”
George gave the smallest of nods. “Practical.”
They both eyed the empty glass, but George knew better than to be asked again.
“And the French,” he went on, laughing bitterly. “Another £662 million. Half a billion upfront. After all the previous bribes failed. Honestly, you’d think they didn’t want to stop the boats!” He shook his head. “I know it looks bad,” he slurred, “but if you knew what Emmanuel knows about me… bribery would be the least of your concerns.”
He drained the remnants.
George obliged with yet another generous measure. “Still calling it pragmatic delivery?”
“It’s all pragmatic delivery as part of national renewal,” he slurred. “The British people want the boats stopped… and we’re doing a passable impression of trying.”
George asked softly, “Regrets?”
“I regret that the public keeps noticing how bad things actually are,” he said, eyes glassy. “Twenty-one months in and my numbers are worse than Liz Truss – and she had the blob trying to take her out, not propping her up!” He sighed. “The foundations I’m supposed to be fixing might as well be held together with Angela Rayner’s knicker elastic and Diane Abbott’s wig glue.”
George raised an eyebrow. “Resignation?”
The man stared at the empty glass for a long moment, then gave a tired, honest laugh.
“The British people elected me to do a difficult job after fourteen years of Tory failure,” he said. “They didn’t elect me to walk away just because things are going completely tits up.”
He paused, then added almost wistfully:
“You know me George, I’m usually a ‘bottoms up’ kind of man. Though God knows, some mornings the idea has a certain… appeal.”
The empty glass slid forward again.
“Same again, George.”
George poured.
Because in the Strangers’ Bar, when a Prime Minister starts telling the truth, you don’t interrupt him.
You just keep pouring.
Frank Haviland is the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West and The Frank Report Substack.
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Brilliant. You could do a few more chapters, I’m sure it would sell well.