My job application to be Nadine Dorries' daughter

I would like to be considered for the role of Nadine Dorries' other daughter.

Dear Sir/Madam,

I was excited to learn that Nadine Dorries employs her daughter on a salary of £30,000 to £34,999 as "senior secretary" - this according to the MPs' expenses for 2012/13 published on 12 September by the Independent Parliamentary Standards Authority.

I would like to offer my services as Nadine Dorries' other daughter.

I cannot think of a role that would help me stand out more in my future career. As Nadine Dorries herself retweeted yesterday:

To date I have had 27 years experience in a similar (daughter) role, working my way up from a starting salary of 50p a week. But for a while now I have been taking on outside work to supplement my earnings, which have become increasingly sparse and unpredictable. I believe I have all the key skills you are looking for.

Key Skills:

1. Being Nadine Dorries' daughter

Cards on the table here: I am not Nadine Dorries' daughter. However, I'd like to make the case that I am. Please don't stop reading!

Let me start by quoting Nadine Dorries herself, talking about her blog in 2010, after an MP standards watchdog criticised it for misleading constituents:

My blog is 70 per cent fiction and 30 per cent fact. It is written as a tool to enable my constituents to know me better and to reassure them of my commitment to Mid Bedfordshire.

As a living thing, I share at least 30 per cent genetic material with Nadine Dorries. If not more! This will reassure you of my commitment to being Nadine Dorries' daughter, both within Mid Bedfordshire and further afield.

2. Having been given birth to by Nadine Dorries

Ok, so I was not - technically -  given birth to by Nadine Dorries. But I don't think this is a serious problem! Indeed, to quote Nadine Dorries, talking about her blog in 2010:

I rely heavily on poetic licence and frequently replace one place name/event/fact with another.

In this spirit:

I was totally/ given birth to/ by Nadine Dorries/ What rhymes with Dorries?/ (Porridge)

3. Being biologically related to Nadine Dorries, in that she is my mother

If I am being completely honest: I am not in any way biologically related to Nadine Dorries, and she is not my mother.

OR IS SHE?

According to the Bedfordshire News in 2010, Nadine Dorries said she was prevented from telling the complete truth on her blog on police advice, in order to prevent unwanted attention, and to protect her staff and family.

What I'm saying is, things are not always as they seem. And sometimes, the truth is hidden for a reason.

4. Tweeting

According to the Mirror, Nadine Dorries' third daughter, Cassie, ran her mother's Twitter account during Nadine's spell in Australia  - for a £40,000 fee. For a similar reward package, I could also do this.

I hope to hear from you very soon,

Best wishes,

Martha Gill

Nadine Dorries. Photograph: Getty Images

Martha Gill writes the weekly Irrational Animals column. You can follow her on Twitter here: @Martha_Gill.

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Why Philip Green's fall should bring down the honours system – but won't

Sir Shifty may fall in disgrace, but our ridiculous system will endure. No matter what's happening in the rest of politics.

Sir Philip Green’s Efficiency Review (2010) is his Das Kapital and it is still, happily, online. You can, if you wish, smirk at his recommendations to the government, which were solicited by David Cameron, I imagine, because when he stood next to Green he looked not like a 17th-century woodcut but like a tall, handsome semi-aristocrat.

“There is no motivation to save money or to treat cash ‘as your own’,” Green grumbles, before complaining, “There are inconsistent commercial skills across departments.” I am weeping with laughter at the whole report. But I’m not one of those BHS employees watching their pension ­vanish as the hideous cushions, throws and bedspreads pile up on the Green family yacht Lionheart. I instantly rename the yacht 14-Day Return Policy No More.

The days when Green could write efficiency reviews for people to ignore are gone. It is said that he could lose his knighthood, because that would be exciting and pointless. If so, I hope the ceremony features the formal rending of a garment from the BHS sale bin – perhaps a torn sock will be flung at his head? The Queen will not be happy, because de-knighting makes the ancient system of patronage look as ridiculous as it really is. Do intercessors between man and God make mistakes? Would they raise a man the Daily Mail now calls “Sir Shifty”? (I checked whether there was a Sir Shifty among the knights of the Round Table who flogged the Holy Grail to a passing tinker. There was not.)

Lord Melbourne advised Queen Victoria not to attempt to make her husband, Albert, a king, for if the people knew that they could make kings, they might unmake them. Green will discover this in his tiny way. But the elites should not hide their baubles. One fallen knight will not destroy the system (and I cannot think that Green will take £571m from his Lionheart cushion budget to save his knighthood by replenishing the BHS pension fund, because a knighthood is, in essence, just a tiny Bentley Continental that you wear over your nipple). One fallen knight should destroy the system but it won’t, because human conceit and docility are without end. Green will be shunned. Nothing will change.

One might have hoped that the Brexit vote would have alerted Cameron to the abyss between the electorate and the elected. (Even Alastair Campbell, chomping against Brexit, seemed to forget that he was as complicit in the alienation of voters as anyone else: government by sofa, teeth and war.) The response was glib, even for Cameron, a man so glib that I sometimes think he is a reflection in a pond. Brexit hit him like someone caught in a mild shower without an umbrella. He hummed at the lesson that history dealt him; he hummed as he left his page. It was the hum of the alpha Etonian caught out in a mistake, yes, but it was still a bloody hum.

His next act was to increase pay-offs to favoured courtiers against civil service advice and at public expense; then, it was reported, he nominated his spin doctor Craig Oliver and his former spin doctor Gabby Bertin for peerages, because the upper house needs more PRs. He has learned nothing. I wish him a relaxed retirement in which he will, apparently, write his four-page memoir, David Cameron: My Struggle (sub-subtitle: Eton Mess?). I hope he does not attempt to deny “the prosciutto affair”, because there is no need. It was not true. It was too pure a metaphor.

So the honours system, an essential part of our alienating politics, alongside dodgy donors, duck houses and George Galloway, endures in its worst form as conventional politics fails. It is a donkey sanctuary for political friends and Bruce Forsyth. I am not suggesting that everyone who has been honoured is dreadful – some lollipop ladies deserve to be patronised with an OBE (when there is no E any more), I am sure, and the lords, some of whom are excellent, are the functional opposition now – but the system can no longer be defended by the mirth potential of watching politicians ponder what light-entertainment celebrities might swing a marginal before being posthumously accused of rape. We must find something better before the house burns down. Perhaps a robust parliamentary democracy?

The problem is best expressed by the existence of a specialist consultancy called Awards Intelligence, which engages in “VIP brand-building” by soliciting awards. It sells “awards plans” from £795, which I could well imagine Philip Green perusing as he bobs about aboard Lionheart, were it not too late. The Awards Intelligence website tells us so much, though obliviously, about the narcissism of modern politics that I am tempted to reproduce it in full. But I will merely report that it asks:

"Did you know that you can join the House of Lords on a part-time basis as an Independent Crossbench Peer or a political peer affiliated to one of the main politial parties – even if you have ongoing work, family or community commitments!"

The message from Awards Intelligence, which boasts of a 50 per cent success rate, is clear: the legislature is part-time, it exists to “instil trust, add credibility and provide a platform for you to have your say” – and it can’t always spell “political”.

Sir Shifty and Awards Intelligence do not constitute the worst crisis in the history of honours, dreadful though they are. During the First World War the royal German cousins were stripped of their garters, so that British soldiers would not have to kill men of higher rank. But it is time for the Queen to stop pinning toys on nipples. They are part of a political system sweeping us, swiftly, towards the night.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue