The meaning of Nadine Dorries

I was in the back of a cab with Nadine Dorries once. It was after some event where politicians and the press meet up to propagate their unhealthy relationships with one another at someone else’s expense, probably yours. I can’t remember exactly what it was. All I remember is this apparently perpetually furious woman ranting at me, a whirling bleached-blonde cloud of vituperation and contumely, with the vestigial tail of a scouse accent — like the bastard offspring of a semi-articulate Tasmanian Devil and the late Bessie Braddock MP. Simon Hoggart was with us too and he just sort of merged imperceptibly with the taxi seat and became invisible. He did not engage. I tried turning on the charm, but being quite charmless myself, this did not work. I can’t even remember what she was so cross about; something, everything, everyone. I quite liked her for it, to tell you the truth, this implacable rage.