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Hello, Little Baby.

Oh, I can't believe you looked at me when you said that. I'm going to feel cold inside.

Sorry, I know we made a promise to each other. It's the last time. Or is it?

So, Matt, it's fair to say that in the last two or three decades, this country is seen as fair share of political sleaze.

Yes, I'd say that along with financial services, sleaze is probably one of our specialist subjects.

Yes, indeed. But it wasn't the same. Back in 1963, politicians were completely beyond reproach.

I've got a feeling that's where it's changed.

21st of March 1963, Mayfair. Jack Prifumo forces his eyes open. His wife is shaking him.

Jack, wake up. Someone from the Chief Whips offices here.

To be clear, this isn't what a Christine's pals.

Still groggy, he sits up in bed, rubs his eyes. Looks at the clock. It's 2 a.m. He took a pill earlier to help him sleep.

He's still struggling to process his wife's words. He says they have a car waiting to take you to the commons. What's going on, Jack?

Jack's conscious enough to know that visits from government officials at this hour don't happen without a good reason.

His old army instincts take over. He forces himself up. I need a clean shirt.

The government car speeds through a deserted central London to Westminster.

Jack hopes whatever business this is can be quickly taken care of. But when he enters the room, it's clear. It's serious.

Jack is greeted by the Chief Whip, Prifumo's solicitor, the leader of the house and the government's PR advisor.

The Chief Whip Martin Redmain turns to Jack, a grave expression on his face.

It's about Christine Keeler.

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