It’s 11pm. The only things moving in the chamber of the House of Commons are the mice, who are shagging enthusiastically under the speaker’s chair. Out on the terrace of Strangers’ – the preferred Westminster drinking hole for many MPs and their researchers – are a group of young incels who wish they had the sexual charisma of an Andrew Bridgen. In her ground-floor office, Natasha Weaver, the secretary of state for the industrial economy, is speaking to a journalist on the phone about the latest gossip from cabinet. Behind her is her special adviser, with bulging trousers. “You’d better…