A perspiring Prime Minister called for coffee time at Number 10 North. My companion, Miss Blod, and I circulated, made small talk and nodded. There seemed little need for any great subterfuge, despite the fact that we had blagged our way in — listed as Number 14 and Number 14a — to a meeting of the surreptitious Group of Sixteen.
This had the air of a shadowy Wannsee Conference: a standing committee plotting to destroy Britain and the British people by kiboshing Reform through a massive propaganda-warfare effort.
But beyond the hubbub, there arose a faintly familiar Low Countries lisp.
Throughout the first half of the session, a tall, hangdog man sat behind a female figure covered in the Muslim tradition. He had the unmistakable air of the hen-pecked, and kept staring at us.
Now he approached.
In a voice far too loud, he announced, “Excuse me, are you supposed to be here?”
We are rumbled.
Up close, something Anglo-Dutch hovered about him, as though he were a Flemish artist’s portrait of a British courtier—part covered in mould after spending too long hanging in a Dutch East Indies rubber planter’s bamboo dining room.
I whispered to my companion, Miss Blod, “I’m sure I’ve…”
But before I could convey the substance of my suspicions, he was upon us.
“Worth? Is it you?” he asked from the corner of his mouth, in that familiar Netherlandish lisp.
Good God. I was right.
It was Nicholaas Clogg, an old sparring partner from a previous life (one almost as interesting than this), during my time in Singapore.
“Good God, Cloggers! What are you up to these days?”
“I was rather thinking the same about you, Worth. Haven’t seen you at any of our other meetings. Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?”
“My uniform is a disguise, Cloggy, you know that.” I tapped my nose. “Seconded to the Department of Departmental Affairs. Hush-hush. Careless talk and all that.”
I tapped my nose again.
“And yourself?”
“I’m addressed as Sir Nicholaas these days, or, better still, Number 11. We’re not supposed to shout out real names at the top of our voices. Must be discreet. Look what happened to Jerry Westerby.”
The late Honourable Gerald, unbeknownst to Clogg, was my Fleet Street source, one whose bullet-riddled remains, floating in a Hong Kong bay, had been reported by that morning’s BBC News.
“And Widders?” added Miss Blod, fishing for information.
But Clogg changed the subject.
“After Singers, I took a position at a social-media giant in Southern California. Dora pointed me in the right direction.”
For Mrs Clogg — or rather Lady Clogg — was the formidable, dusty-skinned Iberian Dora, once of The Explorer Bank on Raffles Quay, Marina Bay, Singapore, back when the trade winds took me to that diamond-shaped islet at the boily-hot end of the Malay Peninsula.
Before this present adventure, while Dora shuffled counters at the bank, her long-suffering husband had been involved in some capacity with the European mission to my old friend and mentor, Mr Lee.
“Then Dora explained that it would be better to transfer to London.”
“Busy?” I enquired.
Clogg was absolutely busy: using his corporate social-media contacts to help jail pub bores and teenagers, co-ordinate with the 77th, and block and shadow-ban.
“I don’t like to blow my own trumpet, but I’d say it’s me who got Mr Burnham up to 25% in the polls.”
Speaking of the casually dressed Devil with an engaging manner, the Prime Minister called us back to our desks to embark upon the second part of the session.
“Over coffee, lads and lasses, I couldn’t help but sort of realise that my colleague, treasured colleague, Miss Mahmood, doing a great job, has an awful lot of influence on this kind of — you might call it an all-embracing, underhand propaganda warfare kind of thing. Anyone else here from the Home Office?”
More than one.
We heard from various Numbers, including those in charge of neurolinguistic programming: a word-association game based upon endless repetition, and too much fun not to be turned into a participation exercise.
“Brexit?”
“Disaster!”
“Reform?”
“Racist!”
“North Sea oil?”
“Killing the planet!”
“Boats full of blacks?”
“Doctors, architects and engineers!”
“Inflation?”
“Mrs Truss wrecked the economy!”
A Chief Constable spoke next, keeper of the two-tier magnifying glass and blind eye.
“Labour donations?”
“Blind eye!”
“Reform donations?”
“Magnifying glass!”
“Angela’s taxes?”
“Blind eye!”
“Farage’s?”
“Microscope!”
“I like it, I like it,” interrupted an exuberant Prime Minister. “You guys are amazing.”
“Speaking of inflation,” he continued, “I must say, I’ve noticed there’s more than sixteen of you in the Group of Sixteen. Very Whitehall.”
His body language — open, smiling — suggested that the Prime Minister was expecting the light-hearted laughter of embarrassed recognition.
Instead, a concerned murmur went around the room. More than one member of the Group began pointing and counting on their fingers. We were well and truly rumbled now.
Mr Burnham put his hand beneath the table in front of him, as if to press a button. Sure enough, the doors opened. Two armed guards entered the room.
“Lads,” Mr Burnham addressed them, “bit of an issue here. Maybe do some checking.”
Miss Blod executed a clever plan.
She stood up and, in her bossiest voice, announced, “I’m Fourteen A, an assistant needed by Fourteen” — she held an open palm towards me — “who’s getting past it.”
Not so clever. Another chap stood up and said, quizzically, “Not so. I’m Fourteen.”
Not to worry. In for a penny. I rose, summoned all my inner Tony Curtis, raised a hand as if in solidarity with Kirk Douglas, and shouted, “I’m Number 14.”
Then, to my mild amazement, the wave did continue — but in an unexpected direction. The small Muslim lady with the face covering stood, lifted both arms and squealed, like a slave girl on the banks of a Salerno river all those centuries ago, “I’m Fourteen!”
So far, so good — or perhaps not. The herd was still unsure which way to run. Miss Blod and I tottered on a knife edge. Then an unlikely hero galloped to the rescue.
“Yea, yea, I love it, love it,” said Mr Burnham. “I appreciate a bit of humour, me.” Throwing his hands into the air, he yelled, “I’m Fourteen!”
At which point, no one in the propaganda-warfare industry dared contradict the new narrative. Within a second, the room was full of flailing arms and voices shouting:
“I’m Fourteen!”
“I’m Fourteen!”
“I’m Fourteen!”
Concealed by the chaos, Miss Blod squeezed my upper arm and tugged me towards an exit.
We bounced down the fire stairs, taking them two or three at a time, swinging ourselves around the landings until we reached the ground floor. There we stood, panting and gasping beside an alarmed door.
Push the bar, and we were outside in the fresh Manchester air—and even fresher Manchester drizzle. But the alarms would sound, gun totting security would swarm. What to do? Suddenly, we realised that although we stood still, the sound of footsteps continued. We turned.
The diminutive, veiled female from the conference room bounced in front of me and raised an arm. Habitually, I’m not one to hit a gal — especially not one who might have been trained in a Syrian camp and have a machine gun beneath her burkha.
But needs must and all that. Instinctively, I prepared to strike, but before I could land a blow, my adversary made two swift movements. One hand caught me by the wrist while the other pulled her face covering to one side.
“Good God, Miss Blod!” I exclaimed in absolute incredulity. “It’s…”
To be continued…
© Always Worth Saying 2026
