I never doubted you! Now, lets have sex Cleo Watsons Whips, digested by John Crace
The Guardian Its 11pm. The only things moving in the chamber of the House of Commons are the mice, who are shagging enthusiastically under the speakers chair. Out on the terrace of Strangers the preferred Westminster drinking hole for many MPs and their researchers are a group of young incels who wish they had the sexual charisma of an Andrew Bridgen. In her ground-floor office, Natasha Weaver, the secretary of state for the industrial economy, is speaking to a journalist on the phone about the latest gossip from cabinet. Behind her is her special adviser, with bulging trousers.
Youd better shove it in, she coos, romantically. I havent got much time.
Do I have to? says the spad.
Yup. Its in my contract that theres graphic sex on page four.
Outside, someone takes a photograph of her. He neednt have bothered, as it makes no difference to the plot.
At Chequers, Madeleine Ford, the prime minister, who may or may not be Theresa May, is planning the speech she will be giving to her MPs at the party she is holding for them later that day. She knows her days are numbered.
