Connor McCabe

As seen in the New Statesman ‘Right, how about…’ The Prime Minister’s face is a mask of sweat. ‘How about… 1p off the price of every Freddo… if you… ehhh… if you do… do at least ten hours of community work a month?’ Preparations for the Budget are down to the wire. The PM’s people had called me for a comms debrief with Andy and the Chancellor ahead of the statement to the House. But when I arrive at No. 11, it quickly becomes apparent that I would be getting much more than I’d bargained for.

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.

As seen in the New Statesman ‘A garlic naan for every curreh, and a sofa for every telleh,’ says the new Prime Minister, concluding his first address in front of No. 10. That’s it? He hasn’t said very much at all. Ending homelessness, and a ‘Ten Year Plan’, the details of which will only be revealed later. I’ve got to file first thing tomorrow, and I can’t spread this across 3,000 words. Time to make use of The System: my foolproof formula for an ‘Ideas Essay’ when I’m up against it.