LIFE as a double agent at Westminster, working on behalf of Nicola Sturgeon begins with a bang. I’m welcomed back into my old office at the Department of Social Affairs and put immediately to work.

I quickly brief the Prime Minister about my sojourn north of the Border and provide him with information that justifies the intelligence-gathering aspect of my original mission in Scotland. It’s clear that Boris has no inkling about my conversion to the cause of Scottish nationalism.

“So, what news of jockoland, Rupert,” asks Boris. “Are the natives still revolting?”

I tell him that underlying trends show the Scottish Tories actually did very well in the local council elections and that he is the most popular Tory Prime Minister in modern Scottish history.

Furthermore, the Scots have actually embraced austerity and wide anecdotal evidence suggests that they want to see a lot more of him in Scotland as an antidote to the sullen and irascible Sturgeon woman. He still refuses to take calls from Douglas Ross, whom he refers to as “Diana” and remains blissfully unaware of the low standing of the party in Scotland.


I SPEND most of the day getting acquainted with a sea of new faces in the warren of rooms at Downing Street. Many familiar characters have disappeared after being chosen to take the fall for the Partygate bacchanal. I meet my old chum, Harriett who just managed to hold on to her job at Trade and Industry by the skin of her teeth.

She suggests we meet after work the next day at our old watering-hole, Mercer & Wright’s on Leicester Square where we can be assured of privacy. She wants to tell me all the juicy stuff that was left out of Sue Gray’s report.


“IT’S been simply awful, Roopey,” she says as we embark on our fourth cucumber martini. “There were simply oodles of booze; most of it supplied by the Russian ambassador and a crew of Muscovite oligarch cut-throats who proceeded to fill their boots obtaining construction contracts from boozed-up ministers.

“I was caught snogging Sir V------ S-------, the one who’s married to one of Kate Middleton’s cousins and only escaped the chop when I threatened to tell Pippa Crerar about how cocaine was smuggled onto the premises disguised as pizza deliveries.

“And that’s not even the half of it. Someone high up at the admiralty had the bright idea of commandeering one of our nuclear submarines, which was in for repairs, and taking it on a booze cruise off the coast of Iceland for a few days over the bank holiday weekend. The PM thought this was a brilliant idea as, being underwater, it meant that we could make as much noise as we liked.

“Unfortunately, no-one had told the US Navy and as everyone was drunk we got dangerously close to one of their attack subs on a training exercises who proceeded to full battle stations and threatened to blow us out of the water.

“They thought we were Russians after the PM let one of the drunk oligarchs have a go at the on-board communication controls to phone a couple of his mistresses in exchange for him

agreeing to pay for the refurbishment of Carrie’s en-suite bathroom in Downing Street.

“In the end the request for volunteers to take the hit for the shambles was over-subscribed when it became known that the Government was willing to make substantial six-figure settlements to all those who had photographic evidence of the cocaine, the Russian mistresses and the fancy-dress party on board HMS Dreadlock with the missiles in the background.

“We also had to rely on the funny handshake brigade at the Met to ensure that the PM and some of the ministers escaped a few more fines and cautions.”


IT seems we have a Carrie problem. The PM’s wife hasn’t been seen anywhere since she held a Roman-themed fancy dress party in February to celebrate the completion of her refurbishment of the Downing Street living quarters.

Rumours are flying everywhere, especially as Boris has been turning up at cabinet meetings in the same suit he’s had on all week with all manner of curry stains. It looks like I need to have a chat with the boss to ascertain the whereabouts of his missus.


THERE’S another problem. A number of purchase orders have emerged for PPE equipment supplied by a bizarre assortment of dodgy companies that were only incorporated in the summer of 2020. They include the undertaker’s firm owned by one of Raab’s cousins for a consignment of shrouds made to look like hospital safety gowns. Even more alarmingly, one of them is for £500m from a Moscow-based polymer firm owned by one Nadia Pushkin, sister-in-law of Vladimir Putin’s new lover.