In the afterlife, whether it’s beyond the pearly gates or behind some other gates more dark and sulphur-smelling, I sometimes wonder if there’s a place where all the disgraced former government ministers will eventually meet up and talk about what they did wrong.
“I endangered national security,” John Profumo will say, forlornly. “I traduced the British egg,” says Edwina Currie. “Sex,” says David Mellor. “Taxes,” says Nadhim Zahawi. “Perjury,” says Chris Huhne. “Take your pick,” says Peter Mandelson.
And then, perhaps, their eyes will turn to Dominic Raab. “I stood accused,” he may say, “of throwing three baby tomatoes from a Pret A Manger salad across a table and into a paper bag.”
Am I really going to do this? Oh God, I think
