It’s the publishing sensation of the afternoon! Nadine Dorries’ tell-all book The Plot explains how, armed only with an iPhone, she went deep within the Tory Party to expose a huge conspiracy to control the destiny of the country. Now, for the second time, The Critic can bring you EXCLUSIVE extracts of the book everyone is calling this Christmas’s must-have firelighter.
“You’re a writer, Nadine. You must tell this story.” I was sitting sipping champagne in a crowded pub where, for reasons I won’t explain, my top secret contact who is definitely real had chosen to have an incredibly sensitive conversation.
“But why me?” I asked, sipping more of my champagne. “I’m just a bestselling romantic novelist, often compared to Catherine Cookson, someone whose heartwarming Lovely Lane series is currently on offer on Kindle Unlimited! What do I know of the murky world of politics?”
“Well, you were an MP for 18 years, and a Cabinet minister,” my contact reminded me, sipping her champagne. “And you’re probably destined for the House of Lords, unless sinister forces prevent you from taking your rightful place.”
I shuddered, despite the soft pink cushion I was sitting on. Could they do that? Were these people really that powerful? Little did I know how the Gordian knot of conspiracies had spread its way across Westminster like a giant blancmange. I sipped my champagne, and thought back to a Cabinet meeting a few months earlier.
I had been looking across the Cabinet table to where Michael Gove, evil oozing from his every pore, was taking notes, doubtless so that he could describe what people were doing around the Cabinet table in some future book. I cannot understand why anyone would do something like that, I wrote in my notebook.
Recalling that now, a terrifying thought crept into my mind. “Are you saying that Gove is behind all this?” I asked my contact, as I sipped my champagne.
She sipped her champagne. “You’ll have to find that out for yourself. I know the entire story, as does everyone else in Westminster, but for some reason we haven’t done anything or told anyone.”
“Couldn’t you tell me now?” I asked, sipping my champagne.
“No,” she replied, sipping her champagne. “For narrative purposes.”
My next trip was to see Boris Johnson, the greatest man who ever lived. We sat in his office, sipping tea. I was stunned by the way that he poured it without spilling. By the way he stood up and sat down. By the way he nodded and shook his head. Simply to be in the presence of this magnificent specimen was to lose control of myself. He was like the sculptor Michaelangelo’s David and the sculptor Rodin’s Thinker rolled into one.
“Boris,” I began, sipping my tea. “You remember when you became prime minister on 24 July 2019, after an eight-week contest in which an initial 10 candidates were whittled down by Conservative MPs to a final two, who were subject to a vote of party members, seeing you defeat Jeremy Hunt?”
He sighed and sipped his tea. “I do.”
He stared out across the silvery ribbon of the Thames river
He stared out across the silvery ribbon of the Thames river, which runs through London. “Nads, all I ever wanted was to serve. I never sought high office, all this —” he gestured manfully towards the Palace of Westminster, Britain’s historic Parliament. “It was thrust upon me. I would have been happy running a youth club, perhaps teaching netball.” Here a wistful glint came into his eye. “Or lacrosse.”
Boris gave his rock-hard buttocks a long, thoughtful, pensive, considered scratch and then sipped his tea. “I suppose, when you think about it, Dom was Judas to my Christ,” he mused, with typical modesty.
It was time for our chat to end. Boris grabbed a bunch of flowers, still wrapped in their tasteful Tesco cellophane, from behind his desk. “I expect you have to get back to Carrie,” I said. “Carrie?” he replied, his great mind clearly on higher things, like world peace and the secrets of cold fusion. “Yeah, sure, Carrie, if you like.”
On the pavement outside, I took my phone out and googled something Boris had just said. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star… Surely he was quoting someone or something. The answer came straight back: it was a nursery rhyme! Boris is the only person I have met in my life who has the ability to effortlessly insert a great rhyme into daily conversation, without missing a beat.
As I walked down Millbank, I thought back to the battle Boris had faced as prime minister. There had been days when he’d been forced to get by with only the unconditional support of The Mail, The Sun, The Express and The Telegraph. It was a miracle that he’d clung on as long as he had.
It was time to meet my next contact. To protect her identity, I had decided to give her a codename. I smiled to myself. I would use characters from James Bond films. Why not, after all? I was beginning to feel like a secret agent!
“The maddest thing was that they got him over parties,” The One He Shags At The Start Of Thunderball said, sipping her tea. “Boris hardly ever went to the parties. Expect for the ones he was photographed at. If he was photographed at them. Shall we just say he was photoshopped in? Let’s say that.”
I nodded, sipping my tea. “Who was behind it?”
“Have you heard of Red Throat?” She sipped her tea.
“Red Throat?” I sipped my tea.
“Red Throat.” She sipped her tea. “It was a nickname for a Labour leaker inside Number 10. It was taken from Deep Throat, the source for the Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who in 1974 brought down 37th President of the US Richard M Nixon (1913-1994) over the Watergate scandal.”
“Oh yes,” I sipped my tea. “I remember. Played by Hal Holbrook in the movie, though the line ‘Follow the money’ was invented for him by the screenwriter William Goldman.”
“Exactly.” She sipped her tea. “It’s all so ridiculous. You know Boris. He was pure energy. How could he break a promise? He’s not capable of it. He may be the most perfect man ever born.” For a moment we both sat in silence, contemplating this ideal of humanity. Then, as one, we sipped our tea.
“You mark my words,” she said, sipping her tea. “They’ll come for Raab next. It’ll be bullying, or something. And Nadhim, they’ll do him over taxes. Also, back Corach Rambler for the Grand National. And Man City for the FA Cup. Anything else? Oh yes, I wouldn’t book a holiday in Greece next summer: wildfires.” She poured some more tea, and sipped it.
“It’s all there. The pyramids. The execution of Charles I. The Lincoln assassination. The fall of Iain Duncan Smith. What’s remarkable is that no one has yet linked it all together.” I was realising this. For instance, I had recently learned that Dominic Cummings had run Vote Leave. Why had no journalists reported this?
I had one final contact to meet at the end of my book. I hoped she would explain everything for the final chapter.
“It goes deep, very deep,” The One He Shags In Space In Moonraker said, sipping her brandy. “You have to realise it goes back to the fall of Thatcher. The Movement installed John Major so that they could install William Hague so that they could install Iain Duncan Smith so that they could install Michael Howard so that they could install David Cameron so that they could install Theresa May so that they could install Boris so that they could install Liz Truss so that they could install Rishi Sunak so that they could install George Osborne so that they could install Kemi Badenoch. Once you understand that, it’s simple.”
Deep in thought, I sipped my tea.
Enjoying The Critic online? It's even better in print
Try five issues of Britain’s newest magazine for £10Subscribe