The meaning of Nadine Dorries

I was in the back of a cab with Nadine Dorries once. It was after some event where politicians and the press meet up to propagate their unhealthy relationships with one another at someone else’s expense, probably yours. I can’t remember exactly what it was. All I remember is this apparently perpetually furious woman ranting at me, a whirling bleached-blonde cloud of vituperation and contumely, with the vestigial tail of a scouse accent — like the bastard offspring of a semi-articulate Tasmanian Devil and the late Bessie Braddock MP.