THE STORY SO FAR: I’M a sleeper for Boris Johnson working as a special adviser inside the Scottish Government. But I’ve gone full rogue for Nicola Sturgeon after discovering a dark secret at the heart of the UK cabinet. And the real, shocking truth about those Downing Street Christmas parties in 2020.


NICOLA messages me on the private number she uses when she needs me to do espionage work on her behalf. When she first approached me about undertaking missions at Downing Street she acknowledged I’d be going back to a dark place and that I’d never get credit for it. And that I’d be disavow if I was ever discovered.

“As the narrator in the hit 1960s western, Alias Smith and Jones, says: ‘Only you, me and the governor will know about it. It’ll be our little secret’.”

“I didn’t know you were a fan of westerns,” I tell her.

“Sure am, pardner. Now giddy-up and get on down to Westminster and see what you can find out.”

I fall asleep that night picturing the First Minister in faded leather chaps and tight black tunic laying down the law.


I ARRIVE at my old office in the bowels of 10 Downing Street. Though it’s only just gone 11am I receive a circular email inviting me to a working drinks meeting at 11am in the office of the Private Secretary.

When I arrive his table is groaning with bottles of champagne and an assortment of snacks that appear to be for decorative purposes only.

The Permanent Secretary says: “Operation Save Big Dog is now underway. If they can bring down him then we’re all for the high jump. I need absolute loyalty. Anyone found to be working for the other side will disappear very quickly without a trace.”

A chill runs down my spine. There have been some unexplained disappearances lately, including Toby at the DWP and Annabel at Defence after they’d got a bit squiffy at the Christmas night out and began shouting about the lockdown fancy dress ball we had under the big tent in the Rose Garden the previous July.

I recall that video recording of the Black Mass in the garden of Number 10 and the terror on the faces of the two poor blighters who were to be the night’s human sacrifices.

There’s been a high turnover of Special Advisers in the last year or so. But their lives are cheap and when most of the senior constabulary and half of the newspaper barons are also Satanists you can be assured that no questions will be asked.


I’M summoned to meet Boris, who wants to know about my adventures in Scotland and what intelligence I could glean about the SNP. Of course, he doesn’t know about my conversion to the Nationalist cause and so I contrive an elaborate fiction to fob him off.

“They’re in a state of chaos, Prime Minister,” I tell him. “And they have their own lockdown secrets to worry about.” At this, I tap my nose theatrically.

“There was a Zoom Scrabble party where Patrick Harvey was seen sharing a bottle of Buckfast with a person unknown in the background. And John Swinney turned up in a denim shirt and no tie. Mike Russell also mis-gendered one of Sturgeon’s Spads and is facing a full disciplinary.”

“It’s hardly what you would call an orgy,” the Prime Minister replied with a snigger.

“Ah, but in civic Scotland these are all capital offences. I’m also working on a theory that their missing £600k of party funds was actually spent on a racehorse owned by a gambling syndicate based in the Irish Republic that Peter Murrell was assured would make millions for the SNP in due course. Neither the horse or the syndicate have been seen since.”

“Ah, great news. Well, keep me informed, old chap. We’re having a three-hour strategy meeting in the war-room tomorrow with drinks and nibbles. I’d like you to come along.

“We’re also saying a champagne farewell to Ted, our long-serving janitor at Central Office.”


WE have a problem. Nicola messages me to tell me my presence is required urgently in Edinburgh. The news is worse than I could have imagined. Peter Murrell has gone missing. He was last seen two weeks ago at a race meeting in Leopardstown, County Dublin as a guest of the notorious Durty Nellie horse-racing syndicate.

Yesterday, a package was received at Bute House containing a single tartan sock from Ormond & Turnbull, the perjink gentleman’s hosiery emporium on the Royal Mile. The toes had been cut off. It came with a note. “Deposit £600k in the following account by noon tomorrow or it’ll be Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye!”

Nicola is distraught: “We need that money for the refurb of party headquarters.”