Margaret devises a new policy for Iraq, Gordon practises his big clunking fist on John, while Cherie is told that they don't do God on board the world's favourite airline
Scene 1: The Cabinet Room. Tony has called in the joint chiefs of staff. They sit, pens poised, as Margaret Beckett enters pushing a wheelbarrow containing a 12-volume work entitled Iraq Survey Group – Report by James Baker.
Tony: Hi, Margaret. How are you?
Beckett: Knackered. Took me all night.
Tony: Well, thanks for wading through it all. So, gentlemen, the Foreign Secretary is going to talk us through the main themes and initiatives in the report. Fire away.
She stands up and clears her throat.
Beckett: Scram.
She sits down. An awkward silence.
Tony: Scram? Er, that's it?
Beckett: In a nutshell.
Tony: Hang on. Baker spent months consulting the world's most brilliant experts on Iraq . . . and, er, George Bush. He must have something more to say than scram.
Beckett: Like what? "It's a disaster." You took the words out of his mouth there, Prime Minister.
Scene 2: The Treasury. John Reid is presenting a Home Office briefing on new prisons. Gordon studies a brochure entitled Cut Price Custody: a fresh approach for 21st-century Britain by Dr John Reid
Reid: On page four, you'll see an encampment of yurts in the middle of Exmoor, for low-risk offenders. And opposite, we can make use of this superbly austere cave system in the Pennines.
Gordon: Cheap! I like it .
Reid: Meanwhile, rapists and murderers can look forward to the vintage accommodation shown on page five.
Gordon turns to a picture of decommissioned US warships rusting off the coast of Hartlepool.
Gordon: Mmm. But they're full of toxic waste.
Reid: I know. Isn't it terrific.
Gordon: What if they sink?
Reid: Oh, they are sinking. I'd be more worried if they didn't sink. And finally, for child abusers, turn to page seven. Tah-dah!
Gordon: Is this the Arctic?
Reid: A walrus colony just off Shetland. The perfect image for my hardline sentencing policy: frost-bitten paedophiles living off seal blubber. I can't wait to announce it in the Mail on Sunday.
Gordon: Thank you, John. [Tears up the brochure] Nice ideas but they're unworkable, I'm afraid.
Reid: What?
Gordon: We need to ensure that new prison places have minimum standards: a library, a wine cellar, a sauna and a heated pool.
Reid: Eh? That's not in the Human Rights Act.
Gordon: No, but it's the least we can do for Tony and Michael Levy. Oh, and a tennis court. Go back to the drawing board.
Reid: Listen, I spent weeks working on this.
Gordon: So what? Live with it.
Gordon thumps the table impressively.
Gordon: It's the "big clunking fist'" of my new regime. And there's plenty more where that came from.
Reid: Hang on a sec. That wasn't you. Tony meant me.
Gordon: He meant me.
Reid: All right, fatso, you may be big and you're certainly clunking. But the fact is I'm going to deliver the knockout blow.
Gordon rises.
Gordon: I knew it would come to this. Stephen! Bring in the gloves.
Stephen Timms comes skipping through the door wearing a dinner jacket and a bow tie. He has two sets of boxing gloves. Gordon puts on a pair. Timms pushes back the furniture and stands in the middle of the room.
Timms: In the blue corner, we have Gordon Brown. And in the even bluer corner, we have John Reid. Gentlemen, I want a good clean fight and . . . er, John, aren't you putting on your gloves?
Gordon: Ah, he's scared. Talks tough, but when it comes to it . . . hey!
Reid picks up a paperweight and clubs Brown over the head. Brown falls, unconscious.
Timms: That wasn't fair.
Reid: Oh dear. Naughty me.
Timms: You're disqualified. I declare the winner by default is . . .
Reid clubs Timms over the head. Timms falls on top of Gordon. Reid marches out.
Reid: Pansies.
Scene 3: Heathrow. The BA First Class lounge. Cherie is departing on her farewell speaking tour. Leo sits beside her. His England baseball cap is on back to front. A stewardess comes past.
Stewardess: Would you mind hiding your cross, Mrs Blair.
Cherie: It's only tiny. It hasn't even got a Jesus on it.
Stewardess: New policy, I'm afraid.
Cherie: OK, OK.
Stewardess: And your son will have to remove his yarmulke.
Cherie: What?
Stewardess: Yes, please.
Cherie: That? It's a baseball cap. David Beckham gave it to him
Stewardess: Baseball cap schmaseball cap. It may cause offence to other passengers.
Cherie: Oh, all right. Anyway, shouldn't we be in the air by now?
Stewardess: Awaiting orders from head office.
Scene 4: BA Head Office. Chief executive Willie Walsh has called in the head of operations, Geoff Baxter.
Walsh: It's blatant religious symbolism, I'm afraid. We'll have to change the entire fleet.
Baxter: I don't get it.
Walsh: Look at the planes. They're cross-shaped.
Baxter: Oh my God.
Walsh: Cancel all flights. Now! And don't say "God".
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