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 needing a quiet word; a quiet word that won’t make the morning papers.
Tonight that someone was already three gins and several single-use vapes deep.
She plonked herself onto her usual stool, fourth gin in hand, and gave George the look. He’d seen it before. It usually meant trouble.
“You’ll never guess who I met the other day, George,” she said, voice thick with the elocution only state comprehensives can provide. “Andy Burnham. Proper sit-down in Manchester, just me and him.”
She took a long swig before continuing.
“He’s proper pissed off. Says Keir’s turned the party into a right bloody graveyard – all process, no pulse. Red wall’s falling apart faster than one of his own regeneration jobs. So we had a proper chat. Tony and Gordon style. A pact, George, the real deal.”
“Lord help us” uttered George, sotto voce.
She leaned across the bar, eyes sparkling with pure mischief.
“He goes first, I follow. Or maybe the other way round – we’re still arguing about who gets to stick the knife in. But the deal’s simple: one of us finishes Keir off like a Ukrainian, then hands over. Nice and clean. None of this loyalty rubbish to a fella who’s polling somewhere between Liz Truss on a bad day and Jeremy Corbyn on a good one.”
George finished polishing his glass, picked up a lemon and started slicing it.
“That’s it, George – cut, cut, cut” she cackled. That’s all Keir knows these days. Cut this, cut that! The man’s obsessed.”
George muttered dryly, “He’s had plenty of practice lately.”
“Mind you, with Andy it’ll be different. Burnham… he’s going to burn ’em all! Burn ’em! Eh, that’s quite funny that is.” She laughed, delighted with herself.
George gave a small grunt. “Fiery talk from the Deputy.”
“Keir’s already trying to buy me off anyway,” she went on. “Offered me a nice little Cabinet job to shut me up. A safe Labour seat, he says. What’s that these days – any chair that’s survived Diane Abbott?!”
She took another generous gulp.
“Keir’s finished anyway. Bloke’s got the appeal of a parking ticket, and the authority of a supply teacher. Even the unions are looking at him like yesterday’s cold chips.”
George murmured, “They’ve got sharp teeth when they’re hungry.”
She dropped her voice, dripping contempt. “Andy reckons he can save us. Handsome, talks proper northern, voters still love him – at least, according to him. But between you and me, George, he’s all mouth and no trousers. Still… useful.”
“Then you’ve got Wes Streeting thinking he’s the next Tony Blair, and Millipede desperately trying to get his boots on. Pathetic, the lot of ’em.”
She let out a short, dirty laugh.
“Funny in’t it? After fourteen years telling everyone the Tories were useless, we’ve ended up with a leader who makes them look half decent. Keir’s greatest achievement? Making the whole country miss Rishi Sunak.”
She drained her glass and shoved it forward. George started pouring the next one, then held his hand out for the usual tip.
She waved him away with a cheeky grin. “We need that money, George. We need that money!”
George raised an eyebrow. “Still?”
“At least while I’m 40 grand in hock to HMRC!”
“But this is the bit I love,” she said, suddenly serious. “The game’s wide open. Soft left’s waking up. Unions are getting twitchy. And Keir knows it – that’s why he’s dangling jobs like dog treats. The poor sod’s bricking it.”
George passed another generous measure across the bar. She raised the fresh gin in a mock toast.
“So here we are. Burnham and me. A proper modern Granary.”
“Granita.” George corrected her.
“Right! Except this one’s being carved up in Manchester, not Islington. History repeating itself: first as tragedy, then as a desperate bloody scramble before 2029.”
Angela Rayner flashed a sharp, wolfish smile.
“Someone’s got to do the job.”
Then she laughed at herself, loud and unashamed. “Even if it is the Ginger Growler doing it!”
George allowed himself the smallest smirk.
“Same again in ten minutes… Ginger Growler?”
Rayner grinned, completely unfazed.
“You know me too well, George.”
Frank Haviland is the author of Banalysis: The Lie Destroying the West and The Frank Report Substack.
If you enjoy The New Conservative and would like to support our work, please consider buying us a coffee – it would really help to keep us going. Thank you!
