The Bruiser is mollified. Todd waits while he screws in a new lens and takes instruction on the best pose to strike. ‘Look towards the camera, Mr Todd. Give us a wink, please.’ He obliges, then sits down. The snappers crouch, Tudor takes the lectern.

Neville Tudor is a whale, with a mop of black hair and the baritone of a Welsh male-voice chorister (his Who’s Who hobby). His mission is to prove as heresy that only the Tories can be trusted to manage the economy. Like a Methodist preacher, his fire-and-brimstone sermons from the stump are on the virtues of what he calls – with a massive rolling ‘r’ – ‘fiscal rrrrectitude.’ He and Todd are the double act at the heart of the Party. Todd is in a long line of upper-middle class ‘natural’ leaders of this country. He would not look out of place among the Tories. Tudor is the son of schoolteachers and the grandson of miners, educated at Llandudno state schools and Cardiff University. He personifies the UK’s post-war social mobility, and is rooted in the Labour movement in a way that public-school Todd is not. Tudor doesn’t have to reach out to the brothers, he is one of them, like my tax-story source, Cannon. But there is a difference. Cannon is Todd’s loyal servant; he will never publicly disagree with him. Tudor does not, and will not, accept that Todd is the boss.

‘Welcome to the most important general election of our age,’ Tudor booms. ‘Eighteen years of Tory misrule coming to an end. The people of Britain deserve better. Better than a Conservative party that puts up VAT because they can’t balance the books. Better than leaving schools to crrrrumble, and NHS waiting lists to rrrrise and rrrrise. Better than a prime minister and his crrrronies taking money from hardworking families to reward fat cat friends.’ Tudor grips the lectern as if he’s about to lift it up and slam it down.

‘In less than six weeks from today we will wake up from this nightmare and Modern Labour will start the work of building the Modern Britain we all deserve.’ The logo on the screen behind the stage now dissolves into a video clip. A nurse called June in a Manchester hospital talks about how funding cuts have devastated the National Health Service’s ability to provide top-class free universal healthcare. She herself has suffered. After finding a lump in her breast, she waited months for a mammogram, and weeks more to see a specialist. By the time they discovered the cancer it had spread too far. The film finishes with a shot of her in the park with her eight- and nine-year-old girls and the implication they will soon be without a mother.