I'm guessing you know one of the sly, backstabbing, two-faced dogs  well.

I’m talking about the plotters.

The men and women of the Labour Party who have been meeting clandestinely over the past couple of months to plan their next steps after Jeremy Corbyn lost the general election.

Yes, them.

The folks who have been communicating special text-deleting apps and meeting in the backs of libraries and lowdown fish and chip shops. The ones who have been sitting closely together at tables with their hands covering their lips and checking the front door regularly.

The ones who have been returning home to their spouses and talking excitedly about how they’ve been promised this ministry and this portfolio and this deputyship.

You know the ones who have been saying that name, the unspeakable name, and whispering that “he who should not be named” is going to come back from the fold and lead them. You know, the ones who whisper Tony Blair's name the way some old time Christians used to whisper about John the Baptist turning up at the local river in a couple of months for a good baptising or two.

The ones who remind you of diehard Nazis who swear they saw the Fuhrer sneaking out of a secret tunnel in the bunker.

The ones who where promising to host parties with free drinks at their place once Jeremy C. got his face pummelled into the ground by Theresa.

Those guys.

What do you think they’re doing right now?

Do you think they’re calling “he who should not be named”?

Do you think he’s answering their calls?