Union Jack had been invited to the bash in spite of a lifetime of playing the professional Yorkshireman born, bred and buttered up by everyone after a political favour. Some say he got the invitation out of respect for his exalted office as elected General Secretary of our recently amalgamated dog’s dinner of a union; others, because his attitude to women and ethnic minorities made him a natural candidate for adoption to the Celtic fringe. While there, he demonstrated a third qualification for membership by drinking the lion’s share of a bottle of Black Bush.

Gordon, meanwhile was conducting a scientific comparison of as wide a range of Scotch and Irish whiskeys as she could get her hands on. Eye witnesses say she was more than holding her own under attack from several Fleet Street hacks who berated her for abandoning Her Majesty’s Gutter Press just so she could sit in the sun in California teaching journalism to Yanks. (New readers unfamiliar with Gordon’s background should ask any newspaper journalist with more than five years’ Fleet Street experience for the “cashed in, sold out” version and any former member of the Equality Committee of the dearly departed Journalists’ Union for the “paid her dues, deserved the break” version.)

Strangely, given their past history, informed opinion (i.e. one step up from gossip, two up from rumour, three up from innuendo) reveals that Union Jack and Gay Gordon had a reconciliation at the Celtic thrash. Conference Chronicle spies tell me that the pair were seen in a huddle after Union Jack sprang unexpectedly to Gay Gordon’s defence when one of her ex-colleagues began to question her nerve.

“She might have less judgement than a Lancashire batsman, but tha’ cannot call her for lack of bottle,” he reputedly said angrily. “Any lass that’ll stand up to me’s got more nerve than you bunch of jessies.” Union Jack then launched into one of his familiar rants against the self-seeking fat cats of Fleet Street and their craven capitulation over free collective bargaining. When the revellers awoke from the coma this induced, Union Jack and Gay Gordon were heard arranging to meet to discuss unknown matters.

Two hours later, Union Jack lay dead. As we go to press, Gordon is “helping police with their inquiries.” A fiver says she’s being about as helpful as a Trappist monk.

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