Gordon keeps his eye on milk production and presents Tony with a hymn book, before getting a surprise in return
Scene 1: Downing Street, the Browns’ kitchen. Baby Fraser is asleep in his crib. Sarah is sterilising bottles. Gordon broods at the table, glancing occasionally at his watch.
Gordon: Darling, can I ask you something?
Sarah: Of course.
Gordon: And be honest. I mean, totally blunt. Do you think I’m . . . God! What are you doing?
Sarah: What’s wrong?
Gordon: Don’t take out the bottles yet. They’ve only been in the steriliser for two minutes 46 seconds. They need three minutes!
Sarah: Sorry.
He leaps up and inspects a bottle full of formula.
Gordon: There's barely 155 millilitres in this. It should be 160!
Sarah: OK, OK, I'll redo the bottles and top this one up.
Gordon: Thanks, darling. I'm sorry. I just want to make sure he's getting enough milk.
Sarah: Of course he is. So - what did you want to ask me?
Gordon: Er, do you think I'm a control freak?
Scene 2: The Blairs' flat. Cherie is in the lotus position. Tony and Leo are messing about with toys.
Leo: Let's play Famous Faces!!
Tony: Quietly, darling. Mummy's meditating.
Leo: What's muddytaking?
Tony: Er, sort of daydreaming and feeling smug about it.
Cherie: I heard that.
Tony picks up a white football.
Tony: OK, let's start with a plain round ball. Then we draw a big fat frowny face on it. Black hair. Dodgy eye. Broody jowls. Then we add a bit of Tricky Dicky stubble. And we're finished. Who's that?
Leo: Uncle Gordon.
Tony: Very good. Now the next bit's dangerous, so we have to be careful.
Tony takes out a steel pen.
Leo: Can I do it this time?
Tony: All right.
Leo stabs in the pen and Gordon's face explodes.
Cherie: Christ! What the hell's going on?
Leo: Again, Daddy. Again!
Tony: I'm afraid we've run out of footballs. [To himself] I wonder if they'll let me do that on Blue Peter?
Scene 3: No 10, the Prime Minister's Office. Tony has nothing to do and is playing patience under his desk. Gordon appears in the doorway. Tony spots him but pretends to be pondering important documents.
Tony: Tricky. Tricky.
Gordon: Er, Tony?
Tony: Very Tricky.
Gordon: It's me.
Tony: Very Tricky indeed. Oh, hello Dicky . . . Gordon, I mean, I was thinking of someone else.
Gordon: Huh.
He hoists a gruff smile.
Gordon: Peace offering. [He passes Tony a hymn book.] For Songs of Praise.
Tony [facetiously]: Great. Cheers.
Gordon: Whatever you do, don't choose No 295. It's about Jesus forgiving Judas.
Tony scowls and flips hastily through the book.
Tony: Don't worry, I'm choosing, ah, No 137, about the greedy tax collector who burns in hell.
Gordon: Well, that can't be me. I don't believe in life after death. Talking of which, how is the legacy tour?
Tony: As it happens, I'm looking forward to it enormously.
Gordon: Not as much as I am. Must be hard, of course. So much to fit in. Bankrupt hospitals to visit, half-filled universities to tour. And no doubt you'll be shaking hands with the victims of 7/7.
Tony [edgily]: Yeah. Thanks for the advice, Gordon. Er, allow me to reciprocate. Did you know the PM's Office has a secret cupboard?
Gordon: No . . .
Tony crosses to the bust of Attlee and twists the nose through 90 degrees. A panel slides open, revealing a small enclosure.
Tony: Big enough for a couple of tape recorders, eh? Could be "tricky" fitting them both in, but I'm sure you'll manage.
Gordon: Brilliant, Tony. And so spontaneous.
Tony: Was there anything else?
Gordon: Yes, actually. I thought I'd offer you the chance to seal our 20-year friendship by signing my nomination papers for the leadership.
Tony: You thought that, did you? Well, here's my answer. Fat frigging chance.
Gordon: I see. Thanks. A perfect opening line for my memoirs.
Tony frowns, realising he's made an error. He gets a brainwave.
Tony: Oh, all right, Gordon, let's not quarrel. I'll do it.
Gordon: Really?
Tony: On one condition. That you sign my papers, too.
Gordon: What? Yours?
Tony: Yes, you said everyone should be free to stand. And we can't have a party of all the talents without the most talented party member of all time.
Gordon: Are you winding me up?
Tony: As if I would.
Gordon: You can't do this to me. Not again!
Tony: No, you did it to me. My personal ratings have been booming since the curry-house coup . . . for which I thank you.
Gordon: But you swore that you wouldn't stand for a fourth election.
Tony [improvising]: Yes, well, I'll do a Duke of Wellington. Bag myself a peerage and lead the country from the Lords.
Gordon: I don't believe this! Treachery!!! Treachery!!!
A huge crash shakes No 10 as the bust of Attlee hurtles into Tony's wall mirror.
Tony: Poor Gordie. You really ought to control that temper of yours.
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