The champagne arrives and I swap it for my gold card.

‘Here’s to Keir Hardie,’ I toast.

‘Keir isn’t testing well in focus groups,’ he says grimly.

‘How’s Johnny?’ I ask, aware that I am treating Tony Cannon like the boy at school who was interesting only because his sister was hot.

‘The supreme leader is in the peak of health.’

Johnny Todd is the closest thing to Hollywood that British politics has seen since, well, ever. Cannon is Johnny’s ambassador with the trade unions, trying to allay their fears that Todd’s programme to make them electable is a despicable attempt to turn Labour into a red-tinged Tory party. Some of my colleagues in the Lobby see Cannon as Todd’s useful idiot. More fool them. Cannon has acute political nous and he is part of the Labour movement in a way that Todd never could be. Theirs is a relationship based on mutual need.

What matters most about Cannon is that he knows pretty much everything that is happening inside his party. He is one of a small clique on this island at the fulcrum of knowledge. Some are bankers and corporate brokers, others are in the despised industry of PR; a handful are in politics. I’ve found and cultivated them. The innate snobbery of my journalistic colleagues – and indeed in the group that surrounds Todd – mean few take him seriously. When he leaks, no one suspects him. Perfect.

I grab a fistful of The Groucho’s stale Twiglets from the small bowl on the table and stuff them in my mouth, brushing my fingers together to remove the stickiness. ‘Much going on, Tony?’

He lowers his voice and leans across the table. ‘I’ve got a big scoop for you, Gil: there’s a bloody election coming. So yes, there’s a great deal going on.’

The election date hasn’t been announced. But the maximum five-year term for Parliament is almost up. Everyone who cares knows that the Prime Minister, Sir Peter Ramsey, will go to the country at the beginning of May.

‘Have you seen today’s Mail?’ he asks. Course. I read it at quarter to seven this morning, along with every other paper. Cannon pulls a battered copy out of his bag and spreads it open.

WHO’S IN CHARGE? says the headline. Below it, there’s a photograph of two men standing outside an office building. One is Todd. To his left, in a brown corduroy suit, is Dennis Kenilworth. Kenilworth has his muscular arm around Todd’s waist, like a wrestler’s clinch. Johnny is wearing his trademark grin, but here it is the forced smile of a prisoner in a hostage video.