Nadine Through The Looking Glass

Maybe time still moves forwards there, but the world in which Tory MP for mid-Narnia Nadine Dorries exists seems otherwise strangely contrary. When she brought forward her amendment to the Government’s health bill last week, even her co-sponsor Frank Field ended up telling her it wasn’t worth pursuing, yet she ploughed on and was defeated. But in her own mind she won.

Given free rein of the Dacreland bully pulpit today, Dorries has redefined the world in the retelling to justify every action she has taken, to paint all her adversaries as unhinged demons, and rail against a supposed conspiracy headed by the evil Evan Harris, whom she holds to be a conflation of Dr Frankenstein, Pol Pot, and Ernst Stavro Blofeld.

Maybe not that kind of blackmail

What’s more, there is blackmail at work: the dastardly Harris is manipulating the otherwise helpless Corporal Clegg, who in turn has Young Dave right where he wants him, wherever that is. Cameron, if only he could be freed from this terrible predicament, would follow Dorries and support her unequivocally, but Evan Harris has been stroking his white cat and all are doomed.

In this strange world, the thought does not enter that a debate given 90 minutes’ Parliamentary time would not be well served if the first speaker hogs a whole hour of it. Those who entertain such thoughts are part of the demonic and unhinged: they are frothing at the mouth. The thought that one of them was her co-sponsor is another not allowed to intrude into the world of Dorries.

The conspiracy was so wide ranging that the Guardian was in on it. MPs who are also doctors were permitted to contribute to the debate: this too was part of the forces of evil ranged against the fragrant Nadine. There had been conversations in tea rooms. Liberal Democrats had been permitted to speak in the debate and offer their own amendments: the conspiracy was coming together.

And then Nadine woke up, and found that the white cat was really a black kitten. And Evan Harris was nowhere to be seen. So maybe it had all been a dream. She returned to mid-Narnia and the world of kind local hacks offering softball interviews and thought of how she could outwit those dastardly Lib Dems. Maybe nice Mr Dacre would help her again. After all, tomorrow’s another day.

The end.