13 Safe hands and clean trousers

Jack wakes up in the middle of the night and sits bolt upright, like a mummy in one of those old black and white horror films. Disorientated and lathered with sweat, he wipes his forehead with the back of a trembling hand. It takes him a few moments to get his bearings, before realising - with barely a trace of relief - that he’s been dreaming. And it’s the same horrible, humiliating dream that’s been haunting him for weeks.

The woman who shares his bed is asleep on her back. This enables Jack, under cover of darkness, to conduct a discreet fingertip search of her erogenous zones. By a process akin to reading braille, he establishes beyond doubt that it’s his wife lying next to him, and not - as he had hoped - his mistress. So instead of transmuting his existential angst into naked lust, he just grunts and turns over. But sleep doesn’t come easily to a troubled man.

The dream itself is depressingly familiar. It’s the same one he’s had every night for weeks. He’s in TV studio, about to appear on one of the local magazine programmes. Primed with facts and figures, he’s ready to fire off a salvo of well-rehearsed soundbites: some guff about the need to fit our intercontinental missiles with bio-degradable warheads. Anything to keep those woolly-hatted tree-huggers at Greenpeace off his back. Suddenly, however, the interviewer departs from his prepared script. With a knowing wink to the camera, he launches into a very different preamble. "What kind of man introduces a live hamster into his lower intestine - via a tube inserted up his rectum - and then uses the poor animal's agonised death throes to provide him with a perverse kind of sexual pleasure? What kind of man? Well, a man like the next guest on my show. Please put your hands together and give a warm welcome to Milltown’s very own Tory councillor, ‘Junketing’ Jack Carrion..." That’s the moment when Jack wakes up, eyes wide with horror.

He could book a consultation with one of Milltown’s many dream interpreters. But what’s the point in forking out good money to be told what he already knows? Yes, Jack is weighed down with worries. It’s tough for a man who lists his hobbies in the register of councillors’ interests as "being a total bastard" and "watering the workers' beer", to come to terms with failure. For years the Tories had the reins of government - both national and local - firmly in their hands. Power seemed to be their birthright; they assumed it would go on forever. Jack and his fellow Tory councillors were routinely re-elected, at every time of asking, on an uncomplicated manifesto of family values, unmerited privilege and grinding the faces of the poor into the dirt. Then, suddenly, it all went pear-shaped. One minute the Tories were the government of choice; the next minute they have become nothing more than an irrelevant think-tank.

What really hurts is to see Labour ruling the roost with policies too right-wing even for hard-line Tories to endorse. While New Labour are abandoning their commitments and core values with breathtaking speed, the Tories have nothing to offer beyond a groundswell of apathy. What raises a smile for most Milltown folk makes Jack see red: the sight of Tory grandees insisting, between gritted teeth, what a visionary leader William Hague is. Or will be. One day. In truth the Conservatives are a party bleeding to death for lack of charisma, with a leader in William Hague whose job description amounts to little more than ‘keeping the seat warm’. A man who does the seemingly impossible job of making John Major look good.

The trouble is that we can all remember master William at the age of fourteen. As he gave a speech at the Tory conference, he was young, fearless and with no more sense than God gave geese. It must be galling for him now to realise he will never again know such triumph. But nobody - apart from the precocious Mr Hague - sets out to be a Tory. It’s like being a taxi driver or a hangman: just something that happens to people once they’ve tasted life’s bitter disappointment. Even solicitors and estate agents (generally regarded as bottom-feeding creatures in the cesspit of life) can offer a few reasons, however lame, about the validity of the work they do. But what can Tory councillors like Jack possibly say in his own defence?

Jack’s a Tory from central casting - true blue through and through - so he isn’t going to give up his seat on the council without a struggle. As the last Tory councillor in Milltown, he’ll do anything to remain in office. Anything. If buggering sheep was reckoned to be an advantageous career move, he'd be the first to pull on his wellies. Even if you discount the women in his life (something Jack seems to manage without too much trouble), his household is over-crowded: a menage a trois comprising Jack, the electorate and his own bloated ego.

What he can’t get used to is representing a beleaguered minority. The Tories weren’t in government, for God’s sake, they were government. For years he was an inescapable staple of council life - the chamber echoing with his loud, braying voice. He didn’t just give speeches, he gave performances; like Adolf Hitler he knew the value of a good floor-show.

His speciality was offering simplistic solutions to complex problems. Jack’s black and white politics didn’t include too many shades of grey. The death penalty for shopfitters? (“Don’t you mean shoplifters, Jack?” “Yes, them too...”). Alleviating poverty: “Let the meek look after the poor. That’s what the Bible says, isn’t it? It’s about time we gave those meek bastards something to think about.” Smacking children: “As the chairman of Families for Fascism, I have to say that a savage, vengeful beating never did me any harm.” The hunting debate: "If these animals weren't hunted, the delicate ecological balance would be upset. Tories are conservationists at heart. We love foxes. And the way we express our love for these fascinating animals is by hunting them down and killing them."

These days the other councillors regard him as a figure of fun, a colourful throwback to times that already seem part of Milltown’s history. They listen to his increasingly barmy ideas, politely, before enthusiastically ignoring them. If they’re feeling particularly charitable they’ll instigate an action plan, which is just fancy talk for ignoring him once again. In the little hothouse world of local politics, Jack has long been regarded as a safe pair of hands, a clean pair of trousers. But it’s only a matter of time before some of his more unsavoury practices are revealed to public scrutiny. As long as small rodents haunt his dreams, ‘Junketing’ Jack Carrion will be a worried man.

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