As seen in the New Statesman
I t’s a quarter to midnight on a hot July evening when the text from Andy Burnham comes through: ‘Guess who just messaged me. Susie Wiles. Trump’s chief of fookin’ staff. Get over here right now, Connyboy.’ I murmur an apology to Aditi, asleep beside me, and slip off. I had been advising Burnham on comms in an informal capacity since last year, and this looked to be my biggest assignment yet. In an age of fracturing global order, geopolitics can hinge on a single WhatsApp.
I arrive at ‘Camp Burnham’, the suite in the Heathrow Radisson Blu where Andy is preparing for government. Usually the place is a bustle of aides and petitioners, but tonight it is empty but for Andy sprawled on an immense pile of supermarket snacks and empty beer cans like a dragon atop its hoard. The Coronation Street omnibus is playing on the television.
‘Click the link,’ I say, stroking my chin. ‘You’ve got to show you’re a person they can do business with’
‘Hullo,’ Burnham calls from across the cavernous room, holding out half a sausage roll. ‘No thanks, I’ve already eaten,’ I say. Burnham is watching me carefully. Then the roll drops from his hand, falling to the floor. There are a few seconds of pregnant silence. Andy’s gaze remains fixed on me. ‘Aren’t you gonna pick that up, lad?’ he asks, with a grin that does not reach his eyes. More silence. I relent, picking up the discarded roll and placing it on the table.
His jollity seems to return: ‘Right, switch off Corrie and come take a look at this.’ As I reach for the remote I see Andy watching the screen intently. ‘God, Deirdre Barlow, I’d love to sling one up her.’ His head turns with speed to face me. ‘Don’t put that in yer copy,’ he winks.
He gets out the text from Susie Wiles. ‘Hi [/NAME] Andy. Could you vote for me to become Political Staffer of the Year? It would mean a lot. Click this link to vote: vzbxcm.ru.’
‘So, clever clogs, what am I to make of that?’ says Andy. ‘Well,’ I begin, ‘this is just another example of the Trump administration’s transactional approach to world affairs. Let’s face it – Washington has been allowing us all to live rent-free in an America-backed liberal international order. And now that rent is due.’
‘So what should I reply?’ asks Andy. ‘Click the link, I’d say,’ I reply, stroking my chin. ‘You’ve got to show you’re a person they can do business with.’ Andy obliges, but we are redirected to a popup ad. A 3D leprechaun dances a jig next to a spinning roulette. ‘What’s this about then, uni boy?’ I watch the leprechaun gambolling across the screen. A veiled comment on Andy’s Irish heritage? There is a muscular Protestantism to the Trump administration, but also a traditionalist Catholic strain as well. What did Wiles mean by this?
My thoughts are interrupted by another text from her. ‘I’m giving back to the community,’ it reads. ‘All Ethereum sent to the address below will be sent back doubled! If you send $1,000 in the next 15 minutes I will send back $2,000.’ I spend a few moments absorbing this missive. ‘The Trump administration sees itself as a disruptor,’ I say, ‘not least in the world of currency. To its members, fiat money is just another pillar of “Woke” orthodoxy. I’d send $5,000 to show we’re serious.’
Andy chuckles. ‘Well, good thing I came up on the scratchies yesterday. Lemme just find that ticket, gimme a sec lad…’ The PM-in-waiting dives into the pile of snack wrappers.
I glance at my watch – nearly 4 a.m. I think of the morning nursery run, so I stand up and make for the door. Andy whirls round. ‘Where do you think you’re going, lad?’ He drinks deeply from a hitherto unseen hip flask. I freeze, hand on the doorknob. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ He tosses me the sausage roll from before. ‘Eat up, Conneh. We’re in for a long night.’
Comments