It’s 11pm. The only things moving in the chamber of the House of Commons are the mice, who are shagging enthusiastically under the speaker’s 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.
“You’d better shove it in,” she coos, romantically. “I haven’t got much time.”
