In which I discover the Rt Hon Mr William Hague in my bedroom, and an enlightening conversation ensues

I got home yesterday somewhat earlier than usual to find Mr William Hague and a man from the GCHQ in my bedroom, rifling through my underwear drawer, inspecting the individual items carefully, and taking detailed notes. “What,” I exclaimed, somewhat startled, “the Right Honourable fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Mr Hague looked up from a pair of somewhat overworn M&S trunks and smiled soothingly at me. “We’re just checking your underwear drawer. There’s a lot of sexual perverts out there in society, and we don’t want them near our children. So we’re just looking for any signs of non-standard sexual orientation. It’s perfectly alright.”

“No it’s not!” I exclaimed, “It’s an infringement of my privacy and downright illegal.”

“Nonsense, nonsense,” Mr Hague cooed gently at me, as he ran his inquisitive fingers over the fibres of my alas far-too-rarely-used lucky date pants. “You see, you have worn each and every pair of these in a public place. So how could they possibly be considered private?”

“They might have been worn in a public place, but they were covered over by my trousers,” I countered angrily.

“But they have sometimes been seen by other people, yes?” Mr Hague continued, surreptitiously sniffing an elderly pair of socks. “Sometimes, as in the gym changing room, you have even shown yourself to be fairly indifferent as to who sees them. So, come now, how can you really claim that they are private?”

“Well even if I accept that, they are currently in a private place. You can’t just break into a private place because you claim the things contained therein are public.”

“Well, yes we can, actually.” Mr Hague here received an agreeing nod from the GCHQ spook, as he passed him a rather tasteless pair of emergency kecks. “You see, we decided long ago that it was quite okay to break into private arenas as long as the things we were looking for were, as we defined them, public. Of course, it was very important that this be secret. Because you see, in order to protect an open and free society, it is of vital importance that we be able to operate in total and utter secrecy. Otherwise people might not think that they were in an open and free society, which would rather undermine the grounds on which we were defending them. You see that, don’t you? I mean, if you were to be a naughty pervert, and you knew we were looking through your underwear drawer, you’d only go and keep your leathery items and lady-bras somewhere else, now wouldn’t you?”

“Has it not occurred to you that if I had such incriminating items, I might have the sense to keep them somewhere else anyway? Morality aside, are you not totally wasting your resources by going through each and every underwear drawer in the country, rather than applying a bit of brain power and understanding to the causes of sexual perversion, and attempting to stop that?”

“Oh my dear chap,” smiled Mr Hague, “if we were to do that then we might be at risk of eradicating, or at very least tightly containing, perverts. And then who would we have to point to as justification for us going through your underwear drawer? No, no. That wouldn’t do at all.”

At this point, the GCHQ man leant over and whispered in his ear.

“Ah,” Mr Hague went on, “although we have found nothing directly nefarious, nevertheless it would appear that you do not iron your underpants, and do not fold your socks in pairs. Unfortunately this is behaviour which, whilst not in itself naughty, is more common amongst those wicked perverts than it is in wider society, such as upright and proper Tory Housewives, whose underwear drawers we have no need to check: for we know that they are ironed, paired, and folded as true British Values require. So I’m afraid we will be installing a surreptitious camera in your drawer, and possibly elsewhere. But don’t worry. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. So this was all a big fuss over nothing, now wasn’t it?”

What could I say? Well, nothing. He had me there.

“Now you’ll have to excuse me,” Mr Hague said, ”I have to pop off to talk with Mr Cameron on selling arms to a despotic, extremist, misogynist, homophobic, human-rights-trampling, Wahhabist regime whom we count amongst our allies.”

I couldn’t help noticing he’d slipped a pair of my nicest Calvin Kleins into his pocket as he left.