High Society

We have been aware for some time that the National Johnson isn't much of a details man, preferring to confine his attentions to the big picture and let his servants deal with the fiddly bits. This insouciance appears to have reaped unfortunate dividends, thanks to the great man's failure to install his favourite as head of the National Crime Agency. Lacking appropriate managerial guidance, agents of the NCA have apparently impounded a significant portion of the entertainment for the forthcoming party celebrating the holy matrimony between the National Johnson and the bearer of his most recently acknowledged offspring. With taxpayer-funded venues now out of bounds, the rah-and-regurgitate has been relocated to the humbler abode of Lord Bamford, a Party donor and chair of the Muslim disposal vehicle manufacturing firm JCB. Rather than allowing the revels to take place inside his eighteenth-century mansion, Bamford has set up a large white-powder-coloured tent in the grounds; which, given the quality of Johnson's friends and the likelihood of breakage, spillage, pilferage and digestive misadventure, seems a most foresighted precaution.