(Phil's looking up Tara Strachan's bio on his cell phone.)
Here, uh, "Tara Strachan, LSE, Harvard, author of Strapped: Why We're in Debt to Each Other, Small is Bountiful, Expert in micro-financing and community credit guilds." God, that sounds dreary.
Bloody hell, that's all Fourth Sector stuff! I mean, why have they kept me out here like a stray dog?
And why are they keeping Mannion out of it? This is-this is government business!
(Phil suddenly realizes that Adam and Fergus are working on a policy behind Peter's back. Phil runs to Fergus's office.)
Right, that's enough. Stop, stop, stop! I demand an explanation.
Sorry, Phil, we're busy. Maybe come back in, I don't know, 2017?
As Peter's representative, it's as though you lied to him. That's not good, probably illegal.
If you want to see something probably illegal, pass me that fucking stapler over there!
Er, listen, is there a problem with me being here?
Not at all.
Yes, you're not supposed to be here, the minister is unaware that you're here, so I'm gonna have to ask you to leave.
Oh right, so she's a security risk? Oh no no no! I'd forgotten: you're not allowed within 50 feet of most women.
How do you explain this, then? (waves his arm in and out of Adam's personal space) I'm within 50 feet of you. Hahaha. You're a woman.
Oh, brilliant. That is really good.
(They stop bickering when they hear Glenn)
(offscreen) FUCK! TICKLE'S DEAD!
Oh shit...!
Jesus...!
(Phil, Fergus and Adam run to the TV, where Glenn is watching BBC News)
Oh God, he's killed himself, suicide. He used a car exhaust.
Hey, classic: the Bohemian Rhapsody of suicide.
Oh, Phil, for fuck's sake!
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