(Amidst all the chaos swirling after the announcement of the PM's surprise resignation, Ollie's cell phone rings. It's Angela Heaney.)
(answering his phone) Angela, hello.
I am tickety-fuckety-boo, thank you very much.
Tickety-fuckety-boo. It's just something that Ben says.
Are you and Ben Swain big buds, then?
Well, you know...Just, could you...
(Ollie has to get away from Glenn, because Glenn is talking to Hugh on his cell phone.)
(to Angela) Hang on just a second...
(Ollie walks away from the action...and then resumes his conversation with Angela.)
(in a quieter voice) Things are just a little bit fluid here and Glenn's not really a big Ben fan. Ben Swain obviously, not the clock. Well, it's not the clock, is it? It's the bell that's called Big Ben.
So go on, tell me: Who else is running?
(in the men's toilets) Well, no one. No one's gonna stand against Tom now, surely, it's going to be unopposed. (Starts using the urinal) They'll be rebranding him as we speak, I would imagine: new hair, Ted Baker teeth, all the modern trappings of your political leader –
Er no, that's the flush of the automatic urinals, it's a gentlemen's lavatory.
I don't want to talk to you while you're holding your penis.
Well, that's not what you used to say, Angela.
No, well – actually it is precisely what you used to say.
(Meanwhile, at the Daily Mail's headquarters, Adam Kenyon, the editor-in-chief at the mail, is discussing the news of who's standing for leadership with Angela.)
Right, Ollie's our source on this, is he? Ollie Reeder? Shallow Throat? Brilliant.
Yeah, I know you don't rate him.
You can say that again. Ollie Reeder is, to quote Robert F. Kennedy, a complete fucking spazmaloid. Plus you know how Geoff Holhurst photographs: it looks like his body's in the foreground and his head is really really far away, he looks fucking weird. Just something solid, all right? Otherwise our front page is gonna be an interview with Janet Street-Porter on why she hasn't been asked to be Prime Minister and a giant fucking Sudoku.
(Downstairs at Number 10, Malcolm has an awkward run-in with Cliff Lawton.)
Elvis! Sorry, sorry. Cliff, Cliff. Where are you off to?
I'm actually off to, uh, to see an old colleague, you know, from the old days, from, uh...before you asked me to resign.
Oh, lovely, lovely. Well, look, I'd love to stop and chat to you, but you know, I'd rather have Type 2 diabetes.
(As Malcolm enters his office, he finds, to his surprise -- or is it dismay? -- Geoff Holhurst. Geoff stands up to greet Malcolm.)
Right. Hi, Geoff, don't stand.
GGeoff
Oh. (Geoff sits back down)
No, no, I mean, "Don't stand against Tom." Now do you see what I did there? I was both being funny and also deadly serious.
GGeoff
Yeah, now where did you hear that, Malcolm? I'm not standing.
Never mind where I heard it from. The thing is, Geoff... (Malcolm sits down in his chair) You're gonna waste everybody's time.
GGeoff
I'm not standing, Malcolm. I'm just trying to start a debate, you know, a policy debate, about the future direction of the party and of the government.
Because first, you've got no credentials. I mean, you're so back bench you've actually fucking fallen off. You're out by the fucking bins where I put you.
GGeoff
Hello? Are you listening to me? I'm not standing.
Secondly, I'm gonna tell the Mirror about all the drinking.
GGeoff
(laughing) I'm not drinking.
And thirdly, I'm gonna tell the Mail about the affair. And fourthly, you've got a tiny head.
GGeoff
(offended) No I haven't!
Yes you have. It's out of proportion, everybody mentions it.
See? You're shaking it, and I can hardly see it move. Are you shaking it now? Are you shaking it now? I can't tell.
GGeoff
I'm not standing, okay? My head is the right size, all right?
It is very petite. So you're not standing...
Right? You will not stand against Tom.
GGeoff
I've said. I've bloody said.
Okay, thank you, Geoff. Let's go. Arriva-fucking-derci. (Geoff gets up from his chair, and he and Malcolm shake hands.) Let's have lunch sometime, yeah? We'll have a tete-a-tiny-tete.
GGeoff
(leaving the office) Jesus...
(And now, Nick Hanway, a government press relations officer, is entering his way into Malcolm's office.)
(seeing Nick enter) Oh, Nice Nutter Nick!
(standing up again) Just, you know, putting out a fire.
Definitely out. Pissed out. Steam and cinders, pal. Does Tom know you're here?
So how's the rebrand going?
Okay, we've, um, booked him for a photo op on Tuesday. He's taking the family to a Harvester.
(chuckling) Oh, Jesus Christ, really?
(jokingly as a reporter) "Have you been to a Harvester before, Prime Minister?" (and now as Tom) "No, in fact, I've never actually been outside the fucking house with my family before."
Anyway, um, look...do you know the name of the bod who's booked to go on Today in the morning?
Yeah, we just found out. So -- you know who it is?
Well, of course I know. I mean, there's nothing that you know that I don't know. I'm Dr. Fucking Know.
Is this, are you...Are you testing me now? Is it, 'cause I mean, I could test you. I mean, we could have a big match or testostethon. I mean, how do I know that you've got the fucking name, anyway?
Because Hugo at Today told us.
(A bit of a pause...)
So what name have you got?
(Another hide-and-seek pause...)
Oh, okay, so you do know.
Look, um, Tom's announcing his team in the morning, and I've just got to stop Dan Miller announcing his team two hours before we announce ours, so...if you want to get on the bus, that's...
That is my mission? You, Mr. Nutty Bar, have given me a task? Jesus Christ, who the fuck does Tom think he is?
The next Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Malcolm.
(And with that cool, steely-eyed shot, Nick gets ready to leave Malcolm's office...but Malcolm isn't done with Nick yet.)
Nick. (beat) Tell the mighty fucking Tom that his transition will be as smooth as a Brazilian's fuckh--
(But just before Malcolm can finish his comeback retort to Nick, Jamie enters the office from out of nowhere and interrupts the party.)
(to Malcolm and Nick) Oh! Trinny and Susannah! Well I'm sorry to burst into your little fucking boutique, but you've got a fight on your hands. That's all I'm saying. I'm backing a rival candidate, (to Malcolm) so fuck you, (to Nick) and fuck you and your Nutter coronation 'cause it ain't happening.
So you're backing Dan Miller, are you?
No, I'm not backing Dan Miller! Don't you fucking ever ask me a question again!
Oh aye, Fatty, yeah, wee Spider-Man pyjamas, fucking idiot. From now on, it's a proper fight: it's a pub fight, Motherwell rules, and Tom is gonna get a pint glass in his fucking eye, and a pool cue up his arse, and another pool cue in his other fucking eye!
Oh, what, Mr Baby New Potato Head? Fuck off.
(Jamie is backing Cliff Lawton for leadership. And now, Jamie and Cliff are traveling in a car, discussing strategy.)
Um, I don't...I don't know what you mean. What?
Okay, no, I'm not a horse.
You've got a pretty fucking horsey face -- and a bit of a horsey wife. Are you a fucking horse? Are you?
Okay, leaving the wife aside...
I can categorically say that I am not a horse.
Exactly, you are not a fucking horse. You are no horse, and you are not a stalking horse. You are the real thing.
(nodding in agreement) Oh, right.
And we are going to ram you up Tom's are so hard that he has to shit out of his lying mouth.
It's not a very nice image, really, is it? (beat) But it's very motivating.
Malcolm (to Robyn): You are going to bury this Watford arseache tonight, OK? 'Cause tomorrow morning, from broadsheets to wank rags, I want page one, two and three to be a profile of Tom looking like a fucking political colossus, you know: Tom meeting the Pope, Tom in an NHS hospital chatting to little, baldie kiddies. I want pages four and five to be a timeline of the last few years in British politics with me at the centre, looking fucking indispensable, and fucking benign. And I want page six to be fucking – Israel or some bullshit, not a fucking DOSAC, DIPSHIT, LEGACY-DISTRACTING COCK-UP!
Right, um, Jamie. Look, I just have to say at this point that I do find him just a little bit frightening.
Relax, he has never hit anyone. Or at least, anyone he has hit has never had the balls to take it to a superior. (Robyn still looks terrified) It's a fucking joke. It's a joke, OK? The man is a professional, you will be fine.
Actually, Malcolm? We still have no word on Dan Miller. I mean, he's gone dark, he's not answering his phone –
Maybe he's in a hotel with his own huddle. Ring around, try and find him.
What, ring every hotel in London and ask if Dan Miller's booked in?
Yeah! Although he could be using an assumed name.
So you want me to ring round every hotel in London, and ask if anyone, of any name, has booked in?
Well it will keep you busy, you know, you need to keep the mind active at your age.
OK, the line is: wildcat walkout, we'll be talking to the unions, it's too early to comment. Off the record: er, union Neanderthals with brains the size of children's bogies couldn't take the heat of Hugh Abbot's ring-stinging, shit-hot, public sector reforms, but he's flying back like Harrison Ford with a big whip in one hand and a skinny latte in the other and he's gonna whip six shades of shit out of them and save the world, OK?
Nobody gives a shit if you got shafted by Malcolm.
I will never, ever forgive him for what he did to me.
Jesus, this isn't EastEnders! This is politics! We're all in the same plague pit, Cliff, there's no clean hands!
(Jamie's cell phone rings)
(answering the phone) Yeah?
Jamie! What's that sort of droning noise in the background, then?
Look, okay, here's a more positive approach, right, I'll try this. (reads from his speech)
It's a kind of boring, kind of low sort of droning, boring, kind of miserable whining, boring kind of, sort of boring noise going on?
Yeah, well, you've got it wrong, yeah?
Cliff fucking Lawton. Hey, nice. Was the Cillit Bang guy not available?
... To put it simply, I'm back!
Fuck off! You're a busted flush! You're not gonna be Prime Minister, you're not gonna be anything, so fuck off.
This is your thing, isn't it? Everything has to be an absolute, everything has to be black and white! You know: 'I love you, fuck off!' There are lots of shades of grey, you know!
Oh, I know that, I'm looking at fifteen of them right now. See you later, no-mark.
You've got this bullshit Watford story covered, yeah?
You and I will have a little discussion later.
Yeah. I think Watford will get bumped by the fact that we're about to hand the nuclear codes to a guy who, every now and then, loses it so bad he needs satnav to find his own nipples.
What are you talking about?
Well, I just thought it was fair to let everyone know about the Tom rumours, you know. How the guy that's about to become Prime Minister chugs antidepressants like they're fucking Smints. How the Black Dog humps his leg and shits in his duvet every four months; I think that will bump the Watford walkout.
You've gone fucking psycho son, fucking psycho! (leaves) TWAT!
(answering his mobile) Hello.
Well, they don't have a plan.
Okay, well perhaps you should give them one.
Well, yes, fantastic, actually, Malc, because obviously I have a very suitable one tattooed on the underside of my scrotum, so why don't we use that –
Shut it, you're using up all the minutes on my 'talk till you get head cancer' tariff!
I'm not leaving it to you, eh? You couldn't organise a bum-rape in a barracks.
What we're having here is a secret conversation, and I'm hoping that this time you can keep the fucking secret, because normally you're about as secure as a hymen in a South London comprehensive.
Yep, well done: that's offensive on a number of levels in a very concise way.
They've ditched Ballentine.
What the fuck is wrong with these people? I mean, what is this, potential leader speed dating? Right, who is standing?
Adam Kenyon (to another journalist working on a Ballentine story): Well, ditch that for a starter, get rid of her, I can't stand her fucking face.
You know, I think you should eat something.
Oh right, yeah! Eat something, that'd be right, wouldn't it? You know what, our coverage so far has either been wrong or guesswork, which was wrong. So all we have now is a story-shaped hole!
Seriously, your blood sugar's low.
Makes you very irritable.
No, what makes me very irritable, Angela, is having no fucking stories and having to fill an entire newspaper with just fucking prepositions!
