The United Kingdom is falling apart.
Public trust has collapsed. Extremism is rising. And as the country turns toward a new brand of populist politics, former communications director Douglas Penrose finds himself pulled back into a world he thought he’d escaped for good.
But beneath the headlines, something far more dangerous is unfolding.
As media figures disappear, political alliances fracture, and a charismatic outsider edges closer to absolute power, Douglas is drawn into a web of manipulation reaching the highest levels of government. The deeper he digs, the more he begins to suspect that the chaos consuming the nation may not be accidental at all.
Part political thriller, part psychological drama, The Albion Mandate is a story about power, truth, sacrifice, and the terrifying question at the heart of every democracy:
What happens when people stop believing the system can save them?
Why I’m writing this book
The Albion Mandate is a project that began purely as a form of creative escapism. But as the world and the characters grew, I realised that there was a deeper story developing that I needed to tell.
Over the last decade, not only in the United Kingdom but across the globe, populist political forces have continued to rise. Some are on the brink of power. Others already have their feet firmly under the most powerful desks in the world.
Not only has politics become dominated by populists, it’s also become more surreal. Not just polarised, but performative. Public trust has completed eroded. Media ecosystems have fractured. Political identity has become deeply entrenched, tribal, and emotional.
The Albion Mandate explores these ideas and asks: where could all this lead?
Not through a manifesto. But through people.
I’m still writing the book, but hope to have it finished in the not too distant future. In the meantime, enjoy this little excerpt…it’s all I’m prepared to give you, for now.
An excerpt from The Albion Mandate
“You see, my dear. When we make promises, we keep them.”
Her eyes once again focused on the brown envelope, still unopened. She studied it intently, hoping to gleam something from its emptiness.
“Remember that, Iona”.
He stood up, groaning as he did. He brushed the imaginary lint off his black pinstripe suit trousers — this was Gareth Loughton, there’d never be a single fibre out of place.
“Good work today, kid. I’ll be in touch.”
He left Iona sitting motionless on the bench. She had no idea what to say. What to think. What to feel.
“Iona?” Gareth called back after her.
She looked up back at him. Dazed.
“Aren’t you going to say ‘thank you’?”
She felt sick. Yet, at the same time, she knew she had no choice.
“Thank you,” she replied. Softly. Almost as a whisper.