Scene 1: Downing Street. Tony and Gordon are having one of their fabled private meetings. No secretaries, no notes.

Tony: Bush has got one. Putin's got one. John Howard's got one - and it's time I had one, too.

Gordon: A popular mandate?

Tony: My own private jet. The last summit I went to, I arrived in a hired rust bucket flying the Austrian colours. I can't travel the world under a foreign flag.

Gordon [aside]: I thought that was the entire basis of your foreign policy.

Tony: How much is left in the Administration Fund?

Gordon: Bugger all. It's being used to maintain all the grace-and-favour houses that no one in your cabinet will touch with a bargepole.

Tony: There must be a bit left - just for a couple of intercontinental runarounds.

Gordon: What? Two planes is it now?

Tony: Well, that's the idea. A decent-sized one pour moi and a little tiddler for less important people - like the royals. Have a look at this.

He shoves a copy of Subsonic Quarterly across the desk.

Gordon: A Boeing 737? No way.

Tony: Second-hand, Gordon. It's not too extravagant. Just a standard airliner, really. Couple of hundred seats. Top speed of 650mph. Perfect for me.

Gordon: Depending on how fast it can do a U-turn. Listen, Tony, you're forgetting something. There is an aviation industry in Europe, too.

Tony: There's an aviation racket in Europe. It's not quite the same thing. Anyway, I promised George Bush I'd buy American.

Scene 2: RAF Northolt. Parked on the runway is the new luxury Boeing 787 Dreamliner. The Blairs are being shown around by a Boeing salesman.

Cherie: It's so poky and small, Tony. Why can't we get one of those big new double-decker French thingies?

Tony: The A380? It's massive. It's got 300 seats.

Cherie: That'll do for my hair-and-make-up people.

Tony: On each floor!

Cherie: Great. Carole and me can be upstairs, doing our exercises, and everyone else can cram in on the lower deck. We might even be able to squeeze in an aerobics studio . . .

Tony: They cost hundreds of millions of dollars, darling.

Cherie: So? Get Lord Levy to hold a raffle. Winner gets a dukedom. It wouldn't be the first time.

She makes a call on her mobile.

Cherie [into mobile]: Carole? Does your feng shui expert do private jets?

Gordon arrives with Baby John.

Tony: Gordon - didn't expect to see you here.

Gordon: I promised John I'd let him have a go in the cockpit.

Tony: Er, Leo's messing about with the controls at the moment. I'll tell him to let John have a go.

Gordon: Is that a promise or a pledge?

Tony: A pledge.

Gordon: Hear that, John? Now you'll never get a turn.

Scene 3: The cockpit. Ten minutes later. Leo and John are strapped into the pilots' seats. Leo is still hogging the controls. Tony enters.

Leo: Neeeeerrrrrrrwwwwwww!!!! Watch me, Daddy. I'm flying!

Tony: Good, darling, but let John have a go.

Leo: Bombs away! Weeeeeeee . . . boom!!! Look at that, Dad. A direct hit on the orphanage!

Tony: Come on, Leo. It's John's turn now.

Leo: I don't like John. He's a silly baby.

John starts crying.

Tony: Please. We don't want to make Uncle Gordon cross.

Leo: I don't like Uncle Gordon.

Tony: [sotto]: Yes, well, you're not alone there.

Leo: He's a fat wanker!

Tony: Leo! Don't ever - ever - use language like that again. Bad boy! Where's Mummy? Cherie, we'll have to get rid of the nanny. You'll never guess what Leo just said . . .

Enter Cherie, speaking on her mobile to Carole.

Cherie [into mobile]: And guess who's arrived to have a nosy around the jet? The fat wanker!

Scene 4: Half an hour later. Tony, Cherie and Gordon are on the tarmac with the Boeing salesman.

Cherie: How quickly can you get it delivered?

Salesman: Sorry, ma'am, this is just a prototype. The Dreamliner isn't certified for service until the end of 2008.

Cherie: But my husband won't be . . . er . . . he won't be needing one then.

Gordon: But I will. I'll take two, thanks very much.

Tony: Oh will you? And what am I going to do in the meantime?

Gordon: Don't worry. I've got the perfect solution. Here she comes now.

A Soviet Ilyushin Il-86 airliner appears on the horizon belching thick, black smoke from its engines. It makes its final descent, skids across the tarmac, overshoots the runway and comes to a gentle halt next to a line of poplar trees. The pilot winds down his window and swigs from a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff.

Tony: What the hell's that?

Gordon: Blair Force One.

Tony: You're trying to kill me, aren't you?

Gordon: I'm just taking a leaf out of your book: better to give the people what they want than to do the right thing.