London’s calling. Or is it DMing?

As I stumble out of my Pret, with my morning transfusion of coffee, the mobile rings.

“Ben? It’s Alan.”

My literary agent. He’s the best — at least until I find another one.

“Listen, Alan — can’t this wait? I’m going to the studio to podcast with Rob and Nick.

(The News Dudes. Available on all good platforms.)

“Listen, Ben, I’ve tried to sell the novel but it’s just not working out.”

The All Butter Croissant turns to ashes in my mouth. Or diarrhea.

“What? But it’s gold Alan!”

“Ben, I’m just not sure the world is ready for a novel about an opinion commentator who is a dashing secret agent in his spare time.”

I ball up my Pain aux Raisins and toss it in the bin — even if, ironically, it’s very much pain I feel.

“What do I pay you for?”

“Right now? You’re not paying me mu—”

Slamming the phone down, I take a swig of coffee. God, I wish it was beer. (Yes, it’s that kind of morning.)

During the podcast, I’m so devastated I can hardly pay attention to the witty and iconoclastic discourse.

“Ben, I know we have strong disagreements over Brexit,” Rob says, “I think it was a predictable catastrophe and you think it’s worse than that?”

“Hmph. What? Yeah, I guess.”

Later, at the Spectator party, I talk with Jon, and Gavin, and Emily about the publishing situation.

“Why don’t you write another non-fiction book?” Jon asks.

Hrm. I’ve already written a few of those: Zoo Labour: The Bizarre History of the Blair Years, We Called Him Dave: The Rise and Fall of David Cameron and Oh, MY God? An Atheist’s Guide to Faith.

“What about?”

They look around themselves vaguely.

“London?”

“Too narrow.”

“Europe?”

“Too broad.”

“Britain?”

Britain? Yes. Britain! Perfect. I can write a book about Britain. After all, I must have written at least a hundred columns about the place so I basically have a book right there. I just need some sort of scene-setting introduction and then I can regurgitate everything I’ve ever said.

“Yes. Yes. Good idea. A book about Britain. How we came to be so divided. The war between truth and misinformation. Bloody Brexit! But now I need a funny title. How about Cruel Britannia?”

“Nick Cohen wrote a book called that.”

“So did Ian Cobain.”

Piss. I’m trying to be too clever. I need something more direct.

“What about just How They Broke Britain?” 

“James O’Brien has a book called that.”

He called a book that? Damn, it sounds like a subtitle at best.

“How about a novel featuring an opinion columnist who is a dashing secret agent in his spare time?” 

Emily raises an eyebrow as a waitress refills my glass.

“Are you absolutely sure you haven’t had enough of that?”

I stumble through Westminster, deep in thought. All the other journalists — well, all the other journalists who matter — have some kind of “state of the nation” book. Jon has one. Rob has one. Gavin has one. Who am I if I don’t have one as well?

Wine sloshes in my bladder. Where can you find a toilet in SW1 after midnight? Ah, well, I can’t see anybody. It won’t take more than a few seconds. I pull my zipper down, do the necessary fumbling and let fly.

As I piss, I look ahead and see Big Ben in front of me. The moon glints on the glass. Below it, the Palace of Westminster looms — great and dark, like the words that have been spoken within its walls.

Someone taps me on the back. A bolt of inspiration strikes.

“England’s Mean Unpleasant Land!” I shout.

“Excuse me, sir?”

It’s a police officer. Or a policeman. (Forgive me, I’ve been known to get a bit problematic after a few drinks.)

“England’s Mean Unpleasant Land!” I shout again, “How the Tories, Trump and TikTok Screwed Up Britain.”

“Yes. Well, I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” says the officer, frowning at me, “But you know you’re not supposed to be, er — to be doing that here. If you’ll come with me—”

“No,” I mumble, “You don’t understand. I need to go and write a book proposal.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have time to write a book proposal later, sir, but right now—”

I set off running, without so much as doing up my zip. There’s no time to waste. Already, I can sense Nick, and James, and Emily stealing my idea. The police officer shouts behind me as he gives chase, but you don’t get to be one of Britain’s foremost journalists by hanging around.

“FROM THE AUTHOR OF “ZOO LABOUR” AND “WE CALLED HIM DAVE” COMES THIS TRENCHANT ANALYSIS OF BREXIT, BORIS AND BRITISH IDENTITY. THIS UNFORGETTABLE PORTRAIT OF—” 

I can feel my manhood flopping as I run. I haven’t felt this alive since that affair with Jessica.

“JOIN BEN SIXSMITH AS HE REFLECTS ON HOW WE GOT HERE AND WHAT WE SHOULD DO ABOUT IT — IF THE WORLD DOESN’T CATCH FIRE FIRST.”

Here, in SW1, I am Icarus — arching upwards towards the Sunday Times Bestsellers List.