Scene 1: A private suite in Downing Street. Leo is racing back and forth across the carpet in his battery-operated toy Ferrari - a Christmas present from Uncle Silvio personally delivered by David Mills. Cherie is thumbing through Heat, trying to decide which celebrity's hairstyle to copy for the local elections.
Cherie: How about something short and cropped like Sharon Stone?
Tony: Mm. You sure you want to go blonde?
Cherie: Why not?
Tony: You'll have John Prescott all over you.
Cherie: God! I hadn't thought
of that!
Tony: Just stick with the usual
Ozzy Osbourne fright wig. At election time it pays to look as ghastly as the voters.
Enter a busty blonde, mid-forties, red leather trousers.
Tony: Hello. Can I interest you in an honour?
Blonde: You what?
Tony: I can do you an MBE for five hundred quid. I'll take a deposit now and we can settle up after the election.
Blonde: I'm here to cut Cherie's hair.
Tony: Oh. In that case you can afford a damehood.
Cherie: Leave her alone, Tony. [To the hairdresser] Come in, love. Do you think you could make me look like Cat Deeley?
Hairdresser [pulling a face]: How big's yer budget?
Scene 2: A corridor in No 10. Gordon is chuckling over the Daily Mail headline "Blair in meltdown". Tony spots him.
Tony: Ah, Gordon. Something in the paper made you smile?
Gordon [hastily turning to the financial section]: Er, yes, I, er . . . Russia's endogenous growth predictions are just in and, er, the ripple effect is bound to create a . . . well, you wouldn't understand. But it's very good news.
Tony: Nothing to do with Black Wednesday, then?
Gordon: Oh, Tony. Really. You disappoint me. We're in this together, sharing the same destiny, like two balloonists.
Tony: Yes, but with only one parachute.
Enter Prescott from an adjoining room. Unshaven. Badly crumpled suit.
Prescott: Eh up, boys. What's happening?
Tony: Only the bloody local elections! What are you doing here, John? You're supposed to be oop north pitching for the chav vote.
Prescott: On me way, Tony. I just need a quick shave.
Tony: And a new suit. Christ, John, you look like a homeless person.
Prescott: Ay, well, the wife locked me out last night so I had to sleep in one of me slags. Er, I mean Jags.
Tony: Well, smarten up and get over to the battle bus.
Tony turns on his heel and strides off. Prescott and Gordon watch him go.
Prescott: Fooking yuppie. When are you going to stick the knife in?
Gordon: Won't be long, comrade.
Prescott: One more scandal ought to do it.
Gordon: Just what I was thinking. By the way, have you seen Cherie's new hairdresser?
Prescott: Eh?
Gordon: Go and take a look. You two might get on.
Scene 3: A private suite in Downing Street. Cherie having her hair cut. Enter Prescott.
Prescott: Hi, Cherie, I was wondering . . . Flippin' 'eck!
Prescott's jaw drops to his chest. He rubs his hands, adjusts his tie and glides purposefully across the room like a tugboat.
Prescott: Hello, luv. How y'doing?
Hairdresser: All right.
Prescott: Just wondered if I could get me hands on some of your stiffening products.
Cherie: For God's sake, John. She's working.
Prescott [aside]: That's never stopped me. [To Hairdresser]: For the wife, like. She don't like it when her hair gets blown about.
Hairdresser: You're in luck. I'm an expert when it comes to blowing and stiffening.
Cherie [burying her head in her hands]: Oh God.
Prescott: Champion. P'raps we could discuss it - while I take you for a ride around the block. D'you fancy the Mark II or the XJS?
Hairdresser: Ooh. You're a bit flash.
Prescott [planting a fat paw on her bottom]: They don't call me Tony's lightning conductor for nothing.
Scene 4: Gordon tiptoes into the nursery in the apartment above No 10. Baby John is asleep in Sarah's lap.
Gordon: You're not going to believe this. Prezza's having it off with Cherie's new hairdresser. Imagine if the press get hold of it!
Sarah: I'm not making any more phone calls tonight. It'll wake John.
Gordon: Well I can't do it. They'll accuse me of stabbing Blair in the back.
Sarah: They won't know it's you - the cabinet's full of disloyal Scots.
Gordon: True enough, but the rumble in my chest'll give me away. These rolling Gaelic tones are known the length and breadth of Fleet Street.
Sarah: Well, put on a cockney accent, then.
Gordon: Ah. Good idea.
Gordon goes into his office and dials a number. He clears his throat and adopts an East End drawl, loosely based on a five-minute visit to a boxing club in Bethnal Green in 1983.
Gordon: Is vat ve Doily Mirrah?
Journalist: Yes.
Gordon: Ahem, er, right. Hallew squire. Stone me, yew'll nevah guess what's bin gewin on in Dahning Street, mate.
Journalist: Good to hear from
you again, Gordon. Fire away.
