Scene 1: Tony is in his office at No 10 on the phone to the editor of the Daily Mail.

Tony: No, Paul, I don't accept that our knife culture is a disgrace. Many of these weapons are expensive Far Eastern imports and their popularity is a tribute to our economic dynamism. What's more, waiting times for stab victims are being reduced. Under the Tories you had to wait ages to have your face sewn back together.

Thanks to us, there are dedicated teams of surgeons stitching up slashed Britons around the clock. The recent knife amnesty yielded tons of scrap metal that has been sold to India to boost its economic growth, which shows our commitment to recycling. So, however you look at it, knives are a new Labour success - which you keep turning into a crisis for a cheap headline. Poor journalism. Anyway, got to go. I'll see you at Chequers this weekend. Ciao.

He puts the phone down.

Tony: Bloody knife crime. Ruining my reputation.

He picks up a letter opener and hurls it across the room. It slams deep into the frame of the door. A secretary stands meekly beneath it.

Tony [to secretary]: Perfect aim, as ever. Now, get me Alan Johnson.

A few moments later . . .

Tony: Hi, Alan. How's the suntan?

Alan: Not as good as yours.

Tony: You know, apart from Euan there's no one in the world I like chatting to more. Now, here's a thought. I need a new knife tsar to spearhead a crackdown on illegal weapons and I wondered if there's anyone you could rec . . .

Alan: The answer's yes.

Tony: I'd like you to draft me a really tough new bill. And when John Reid messes up at the Home Office - won't be long now - you can slip into his jackboots and take the law through parliament.

Alan: Love you, Tony.

Tony: Sorry?

Alan: Love to, I mean. Love to do it.

Scene 2: Tony is at his desk. There's a knock at the door.

Tony: Come in, Al. Got the first draft?

Enter Gordon Brown.

Gordon: Hello, Tony. Still hanging around the office?

Tony: Ah, hello, Gordon. I was waiting for er, someone else. An unexpected pleasure. So, which departmental budget have you come to slash today?

Gordon: Oh, no, it's a personal matter, actually. I came to offer my sincere commiserations on England's tragic early exit from . . . er . . . excuse me . . . [He bursts into uncontrollable giggles.]

Tony: Mmm. Thanks.

Gordon: It must have been unbearable watching your never-say-die heroes getting their arses kicked by a poverty-stricken nation of wine-soaked olive-pickers with a per capita income 30 per cent lower than the EU average. How could you bear to sit through it?

Tony: Leo and Euan forced me to. I missed an award-winning Rolling Stones documentary on Saga TV. Bloody annoying.

Gordon: Yes, well it's the end of the line now isn't it.

Tony: Hardly. Mick and Keith have still got their own hips.

Gordon: No, for Sven, I mean. And for Beckham, too. Did you see his resignation speech? Very dignified. "I've been honoured to lead my country for years - but the time has come to hand over to a new captain." Food for thought there.

Tony: Right. We should offer Becks a gong. We've been trying to for years, but the poor sap's under the impression the damn things are handed out for nothing - and until he stumps up half a mill or so he won't get a bog-cleaner's OBE.

Gordon: No, I don't mean honours, Tony. I'm talking about the "orderly transition" you keep banging on about. Beckham's given you the blueprint. The press absolutely loved it. Isn't it time you "did a Beckham"?

Tony: What, hand over to another Englishman? Not a bad idea. In fact, here comes a candidate now.

Enter Alan Johnson, carrying a fat wad of documents.

Alan: Hi, Gordon.

Gordon: Oh, it's you. Well, bad luck about England being so crap in the football.

Alan: Bad luck about Andrew Murray being so crap on the tennis court. I thought you Scots never buckled under pressure.

Gordon [glowering malevolently]: We'll be back next year.

Scene 3: The following day. Tony is on the phone to the editor of the Daily Mail - again.

Tony: No, I'm talking about exciting new emergency measures. A nationwide Blade-Busting Task Force that'll enjoy automatic powers of entry without reference to magistrates and all that search warrant rubbish. Anyone in possession of a blade more than six inches long will be subject to a minimum tariff of ten years. [Beat.] What do you mean, too soft?

Scene 4: Gordon's flat. The Scots mafia have assembled in secret to eat a celebratory cake. An anti-England song has been written out in icing sugar on the top. They're all dressed in Ronaldo shirts. Gordon strikes up the chorus.

Gordon [sings]: Forty years since '66/Ing-er-land are a bunch of pricks/Pass the whisky, pour the beers/Drink to another 40 years.

He produces a bread knife to cut the cake, but just then the door bursts open and the Blade-Busting Task Force rushes in, accompanied by Quentin Letts and a Daily Mail photographer. Gordon is carted off in handcuffs.

Quentin Letts: Chancellor? How do you feel?

Gordon: Knifed in the back.