Enough was enough. Things had gone too far. Something had to be done. For the last three days the Covid inquiry had been like an out-of-control therapy session. The permanently trashed Party Marty. The foul-mouthed career sociopath Dominic Cummings. The caring, sharing Helen MacNamara. All competing with one another to expose the corruption and incompetence at the heart of Boris Johnson’s government during the Covid crisis. All desperate to pin the blame on someone other than themselves. All third-rate desperadoes in their tragicomic worlds. This had to stop. Anyone who has worked in government for more than a few months knows that the whole purpose of a public inquiry is for the truth to remain buried. For the inquiry to conclude that it hadn’t really been able to conclude anything. Beyond a few bland, reassuring generalisations. So it was time to send in the professionals. Men for whom arse-covering is a life’s work. A noble profession. Men who would allow the waves to close over the gross dysfunction of government till there was barely a ripple left on the surface. The raison d’etre of any good apparatchik was that the chaos should neither be seen nor heard. Step forward Simon Stevens, the former chief executive officer of NHS England. Or Lord Stevens, as he is now. For reasons that would become clear over the next 90 minutes. Stevens was made a peer by Johnson when he stepped down in 2021, in the finest traditions of the upper chamber. Not for anything he had done. In truth he had merely done his job averagely. But because of what he had not done. What he would not do. You could trust Simon not to rock the boat. To keep stumm. After taking the oath, Stevens ran through his job description at NHS England. The inquiry counsel Andrew O’Connor KC looked baffled. He hadn’t understood a word. It appeared Stevens had been employed mostly to not do anything. His inactivity guaranteed him a performance-related bonus. Simple Simon looked delighted. His spell in the witness box was already going to plan. We then moved on to the substance. Or rather the lack of it. Had he been concerned that Johnson had never bothered to show up to a Cobra meeting? Or that no one could bring themselves to attend those chaired by Matt Hancock? Not at all. Everything had worked like clockwork. Boris was a certified halfwit so it would have just been an indulgence – an extravagance – for him to have taken any leading role. Equally, those in No 10 also knew Door Matt Hancock was a childlike fantasist so it would have been a waste of their time to turn up. So the Cobra meetings had just been performance art in which the end of the world had been depicted though interpretive dance. Which was a good thing. On we went. Did Stevens think that Johnson had oscillated and dithered. Stevens dithered. It wasn’t really for him to say. Though on balance he thought probably not. He couldn’t help it. He had been brought up to always see the best in everyone. So when Dom had called him a “useless fuckpig” he had assumed it was a term of endearment. Just pillow talk between two men who were serving their country bravely. And no he had never for a minute thought that repeated emails and WhatsApps between Dom and Door Matt saying it was time to remove that hopeless moron SS might in any way mean that they doubted his competence. Stevens was also adamant the NHS had never come close to breaking point. It was totally normal for doctors and nurses to work 72-hour shifts while dozens of patients lay dying in hospital car parks. Hell, he should know, he was the bloke who decimated the NHS workforce when Jeremy Hunt was health secretary. And all MacNamara’s criticisms of him had been totally unjustified. Of course he had taken her seriously when she pointed out that PPE equipment didn’t fit women. It was just that he hadn’t done anything about it. More than his job was worth. So everything had worked just perfectly within the NHS throughout. It turned out that Stevens was just the warmup act. The hors d’oeuvre. The real masterclass in time-wasting came from Christopher Wormald. The permanent secretary of the Department of Health and Social Care (DHSC). The king of the time wasters. Pen pusher extraordinaire. The man who had never come across a form that he didn’t want to fill out in triplicate. The Sir Humphrey for whom silence was the Pavlovian response to any question. Quickly followed by a stream of unconsciousness. Time and again, the lead counsel Hugo Keith KC had to beg him to listen to what he was saying. We started with Door Matt. Cummings and MacNamara had referred to him as a pathological liar. What did he think? Definitely not. In every invention there had been a kernel of truth. Something to believe in if you were extremely gullible. Or stupid. And he was both. If Matty was guilty of anything it was that he was sometimes over-optimistic. Mmm. Like imagining he wouldn’t get caught bullshitting and breaking the rules. Moving on. The former cabinet secretary Mark Sedwill had suggested the health department had not been prepared for the pandemic. Wormald spluttered. Incredulous. Indeed it was. He had ordered in extra boxes of paperclips to keep the additional briefing papers together. He had also made sure the toner had been replaced in the photocopier. So yes, it might have seemed that the DHSC had been preparing for a flu pandemic while the rest of the world was preparing for a coronavirus pandemic. And it might have looked like the department had shrugged its shoulders and was ready to let more than a million die before considering preventive test-and-trace measures. But appearances could be deceptive. He – the Great Chris, the Comptroller of Office Supplies – had made sure every document had been printed with the correct font. Comic relief. Even if all the briefing papers were out of date by the time they were published. Especially if the briefing papers were out of date by the time they were published. It was in the finest civil service traditions not to issue any document that could be construed as helpful. The sole purpose of the civil service was the perpetuation of the civil service. On and on this went, until Keith eventually gave up in despair. It was 50-50 whether he’d end up killing himself or Wormald. Imagine what it would be like working with Chris. A lifetime in the hell of a bureaucratic cul-de-sac. Where process trumps outcome every time. But he will get his reward. People pay good money for that kind of futility. Which is why he’s tipped to be the next cabinet secretary when Simon Case steps down. Make that Lord Wormald. Depraved New World by John Crace (Guardian Faber, £16.99). To support The Guardian and Observer, order your copy and save 18% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.