The Diary of a Secret Tory MP by The Secret Tory

Author:The Secret Tory [Tory, The Secret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2022-08-23T19:28:10+00:00

Saturday, 19 March 2022

Woke up in bed next to Priti Patel. She was muttering into her phone: ‘Send a team round to pick me up. Now. I don’t care, wake them. I need exfiltrating.’

‘Morning, Priti,’ giggled Michael Gove and James Cleverly from the twin beds opposite.

‘Morning, Priti,’ groaned Stephen Crabb from the bath.

‘Is that the Home Secretary?’ asked one of the Lancaster University Young Conservatives who was drinking white Russians made with UHT from the tea service with Matt Hancock.

‘Yes, or as I like to call her, the Pritster,’ said Matt.

‘Nobody calls me that,’ snapped Priti, ‘least of all you, you shit Richard Hammond.’ She looked around. ‘Urgh. Why are there more people than beds in here?’

‘I was supposed to be top and tailing with the Crabbmeister but he keeps passing out in the bath,’ I said.

‘And the divorce is costing more than I expected,’ said Matt, ‘so I’m just sleeping on the floor.’

‘Ms Patel, is it true you once singlehandedly deported fifteen Eritreans?’ asked the other Young Conservative.

‘Sixteen,’ smirked Priti. She rolled over and I caught a glimpse of a back tattoo: FACE ME FACE DEATH in four-inch gothic lettering above a terrifying skull in a beret and a dagger dripping blood.

A knock on the door.

‘Everyone turn around.’

There was a flurry of getting-dressed activity followed by a door slam.

‘Get in there, Secret,’ squeaked Michael Gove.

‘Absolute lad,’ said Matt Hancock.

‘No way? Did you? Really?’ asked a put-out James Cleverly.

I had no idea. ‘One hundred per cent.’

‘You were both comatose when we came back,’ said one of the Young Conservatives.

‘Yeah, that’s because of all the fireworks,’ I said uncertainly.

She turned back to Matt. ‘So where do you get your black turtleneck pullovers from?’

His phone rang. She passed it to him: ‘Gina.’

‘Oh, sugar honey iced tea,’ said Matt. ‘She knows I need space to find myself. Why is she trying to contain me when I just want to fly free?’ He threw the phone under the bed.

‘OMG, did you just do that?’ asked the wide-eyed young woman.

‘Nobody puts Matt Hancock in the corner, Poppy,’ he replied with a daredevil air.

‘Saffy.’

‘Whatever.’ He casually ran his fingers around the collar of the polyester-mix pullover. ‘Jacamo, I’ve got a sponsorship deal.’

We made our way to breakfast at the Winter Gardens, thrillingly pepped up by David Davis using the breakfast sausages to demonstrate how he thinks the latest Irish border might work. Colleagues in various states of dishevelment – Mike Fabricant with his wig slightly off centre, Brandon Lewis with a black eye, Penny Mordaunt with two black eyes, Liz Truss with a rosy glow – gathered around the halogen as he explained the intricacies using anaemic tubes of offal.

David’s exposition was riveting, but I was feeling rather underslept so I made my way to trap two in the gents for a bit of me time.

The next thing I knew I was waking up to a call from The Saj saying Boris was on stage delivering the keynote speech. I’d been asleep for three hours.

I ran

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