“I want ye,” I say to Tony, “to hit me as hard as ye can.”

We’re in the car park underneath the Home Office. Tony puts a hand over his mouth and looks around, nervously.

“Oh gosh,” he says. “Golly. Now, look. Come on, now. What if I hurt you? What would I say to Cherie?” I flex my fingers until my knuckles crack, and rock my head from side to side.

“The first rule of Fight Club,” I remind him, “is that ye dinnae talk about Fight Club.”

Tony swallows, nods, and bounces on the balls of his feet, clenching his smooth lassie’s hands intae soft, southern fists. “Wait,” he says, eventually. “Can’t you get rid of your driver? He’s putting me off.”

I nod at the lad, who is sitting on the bonnet of the car, picking his nails. “Beat it,” I say.

“Prosze bardzo, do widzenia,” he mutters, turning away.

“You’d think your driver would speak English,” remarks Tony.

“What do you expect?” I say. “The Home Office has a culture of inadequacy. It’s not fit for purpose.”

Then I knock him to the floor and slam his head against the tarmac.

TUESDAY

“Inadequate?” says the chairman of the Home Affairs Select Committee.

“Aye,” I say, picking at a fresh scab on my knuckles. “It’s a shambles. Not fit for purpose.”

The chairman frowns. “You don’t think it’s a bit odd for a Home Secretary to be publicly attacking the department he’s meant to be in charge of?”

“Do you want tae step outside?” I ask him, and that seems to settle things.

Later, when I get back to my office, I discover that my civil servants have left a kipper behind my radiator and planted cress in the carpet. I’m not surprised. If it’s a fight they want, that’s what they’ll get.

“Oi,” I say to a cleaner. “Youse. Get rid ay this.”

“¿Qué hacer con los pescados?” she says.

WEDNESDAY

Late for work. Daft, really. Because I’ve sacked my driver, I cannae remember which one the Home Office is. Seven jobs in seven years. It messes with the heid.

Eventually, I ask directions from a polis whae pulls us over for speeding down Whitehall.

“I’m going to have to give you a ticket,” he says, apologetically.

“It’s the car,” I point out. “It’s inadequate. It’s not fit for purpose.”

THURSDAY

Gordon picks up my tooth from the car park floor and bounces it up and down in the palm of his hand.

“I needed that,” he says. “I’ll tell ye, John, I’ve been trying tae fix up a Fight Club for years. But Alastair wouldnae let Tony do it himself. And I didnae want tae fight Alastair.”

I raise myself up on my elbows, licking the salty hole in my gum. “He bites,” I say.

A car park attendant hurries over and offers me a hand.

“I bet he does,” says Gordon.

On my feet now, I straighten my tie, as the attendant collects my jacket from a nearby gutter. “I nearly had ye,” I say. “It wisnae my fault. I just missed that punch. I hold my fist entirely responsible.”

“Is it inadequate?” asks Gordon, “and unfit for purpose?” “It is that,” I say, and nod at the car park attendant who saw the whole thing. “Ask him.”

“Quem?” says the attendant.

“Are you sure that all of these people have work permits?” says Gordon.

FRIDAY

I catch the chairman of the Home Affairs Select Committee in the lobby of the House of Commons. “The Home Secretary,” I tell him, “is inadequate and unfit for his purpose.”

“What?” says the chairman.

I roll my eyes. “It has come to my attention that the Home Office is overrun with illegal immigrants. And I hold John Reid responsible.”

“So you’re slamming yourself now?” says the chairman. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Let’s go down to the carpark,” I say, and grab him by the collar.

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