Chapter Text
DoSAC offices
‘So, guys,’ Nicola sipped at her lemon zinger carefully (Robyn had looked so sour when she delivered it that Nicola suspected poison) and smiled unfriendlily at Ollie and Glen. ‘I have just been told that we - by which I mean I - have been granted an audience with the PM to discuss our flagship policies for this department. Each department is to take a turn in the spotlight, launching a raft of measures that will not only improve the country, but draw some attention away from the inevitable cockups and scandals. Soon it will be DoSAC’s glorious turn to be the policy spearhead as part of this masterplan to show the voters what a dynamic and thrusting government this is. As you’re both supposedly very bright, I expect you’ll have noticed the slight flaw with this plan. For us, I mean. Obviously it’s not up to us to discuss wider problems.’
‘Would that, er, be our lack of flagship policies?’
‘Yes, Ollie. Well done. Your parents must be very proud. We have no flagship policies. Or indeed any policies at all.’
‘Yes, we have no policies,’ Glenn intoned in a curious sing-song rhythm.
‘What the fuck ?’ Ollie’s high-pitched interruption made Nicola wish, not for the first time, that her lemon zinger was something stronger.
‘It’s ‘Yes, we have no bananas,’ but with ‘policies’ not ‘bananas’.’ Nicola could hear the quotation marks slipping into place. She had never quite worked out whether Glenn exaggerated them deliberately to irritate Ollie. ‘It’s a song . Jesus, you really think Radiohead invented music don’t you? Or Coldplay.’
‘It’s a song from the war, ’ Ollie jeered. ‘Jesus Christ, Glenn. I expect you actually remember your first banana? And then the first time someone told you it went in your mouth .’
‘So,’ Nicola interrupted with a demented determined cheerfulness, ‘to sum up: we have no policies. I have a policy discussion meeting with the PM. You are my policy advisors. Advise.’
‘What sort of policies are we talking here?’
‘I expect they need to fulfil the Tucker Three Criteria, as usual. One: short words the tabloids understand; two: cheap, preferably free; three: eye-catching.’
‘That’s not quite how Malcolm phrases it,’ Glenn pointed out. Nicola glared at him.
‘So, I’ve thought of the areas we could cover: global warming - always good, get lots of coverage in the Guardian and the Indy and none of the other departments will want it. We can make it very specific to social affairs and citizenship, which has the happy advantage that we don’t have to stop global warming.’
‘Healthy eating?’ Ollie suggested. ‘Been a while since we did that. Tie it in to delinquency, teenage depression or something. Kids slice their arms less when they’ve had a satsuma for breakfast, that sort of thing.’
Glenn nodded. ‘You do very well on the family stuff. Plays very well with the focus groups. Not satsumas, though. Tucker wouldn’t be pleased if we caused a national shortage.’
‘Is that not going to be a bit similar to Healthy Choices?’
Ollie pulled a face. ‘Minister. How to put this... No one fucking remembers Healthy Choices. I don’t remember Healthy Choices and I wrote most of it.’
‘But, actually, if you wanted something different, why not do something just for teenagers? They can vote at the next election, so the PM will be pleased. They have all sorts of problems - most of which will be cured by them growing up, which happens automatically - and they’re unfashionable.’
‘Surely that’s a bad thing.’
‘No,’ Ollie picked up the idea. ‘Because it looks like you’re doing it because you believe in it, not jumping on a bandwagon or chasing headlines or opinion polls.’
‘Even though we are. Excellent. So, a raft of measures for teenagers. What’s wrong with them? I mean, I’ve got one, but I’m here with you sad sacks so much all I know is they’re surgically attached to their hair straighteners and iphones and communicate in grunts or high-pitched squealing. Perhaps we could offer free translators?’
‘Drugs,’ Ollie pointed out excitedly, at the same time as Glenn said, ‘You let your daughter have an iphone .’
‘I think they can get their own drugs, Ollie.’ Nicola said repressively.
‘Their music’s shit. That must made them depressed,’ Glenn said.
‘They all get pregnant and drop out of school then split up with their boyfriends and get STDs.’
‘They make bad sexual choices, then,’ Nicola said slowly. ‘We could work with that. And clinics and sex ed are under Health and Education, so we won’t have to pay for any of that - just make them go the ones that are already there. Encourage them to make better, long-lasting relationships and if that’s not possible - which it’s probably not - to have safer sex.’ She paused. ‘We should run something similar in Westminster.’
Glenn snickered and Ollie flushed very slightly. ‘Now all we need is a name...’
~*~
Julius Nicholson’s office, Westminster
‘Julius! All right if I pop in for a wee chat?’
Julius, who had rather been looking forward to the Early Music Show on the iplayer and a Duchy Original or three, allowed a moment’s annoyance to flash across his face.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Would Baron Arnage of Baldington-Buggery be willing to grant me an audience, your worshipfulness, if it’s not too much fucking trouble .’
A carefully sculpted eyebrow raised. ‘And who craves an audience?’ Julius asked, smiling, fingers steepled in front of him like, Malcolm thought, an particularly flamboyant bishop.
‘I am Malcolm Tucker, Commander of the armies of Spin and Hades, Scourge of the backbenchers, babysitter to a bedwetting PM, friend to moronic ministers and I will have your shiny head cut off and mounted on my wall as a warning to other wankers who think they’re fucking amusing . In this world or the next, etc. Ok?’
Julius only smiled further. ‘Of course, Malcolm. Always a pleasure. Do come in.’ He buzzed through to his secretary and asked for coffee and biscuits. (Malcolm always looked so thin - Julius knew he cultivated the lean and hungry look, but there was no need... if it weren’t for the full head of iron grey hair, the man would look like a sad-eyed famine victim.)
‘So, Julius,’ Malcolm bared his teeth in a faint grin. ‘Today I’d like to talk about money. And don’t give me bollocks about ungentlemanly to discuss because, firstly - I know you spent a considerable amount of time advising rich cunts how to become richer and cuntier before you joined the revolution, and secondly - I don’t give a shit about gentlemanly behaviour. That just means giving the other fucker a chance to pick up his sword before you stamp his head in.’
‘Dear me, Malcolm - no appreciation for poor Lord Queensbury?’ Julius murmured, while he considered at what potential money-related issues Malcolm might be driving.
‘Wasn’t he the one who fucked over poor dear Oscar?’ Malcolm shot back, giving Julius a nasty look. Julius decided this would be one of those times he gracefully ceded victory to Malcolm.
‘What, precisely, is it about money that you wish to discuss?’
‘I have heard, through my impeccable sources, that the Opposition are about to become rather... unstuck’ - a nasty grin - ‘next week, when a paper is going to run an exclusive about the tax status of its donors. One donor in particular, who I understand has kept JB and his friends in tiaras and coke for some time. Now, here’s the thing, Julius - naturally, we’d like to go in hard on this, and twat the bastards for using offshore, non-dom, typical Tory banker cunts to fund their party. You know the type: buying influence, arms dealing, probably a wee bit of people trafficking on the quiet, all the usual fuckery. However, being a cautious and careful man, I would very much like to check a few things before we do that. No one wants a repeat of the last ‘donorgate’ fiasco-
‘There is, I understand, an unspoken rule about using donor scandals-’
‘Aye - because it’s usually mutually assured destruction. But we need this, Julius. JB is doing too fucking well. The polls are against us, Tom has to call an election at some point in the next six months as - strictly entre nous - the voters hate us. So we need this. Need to remind them that JB’s airy-fairy fucking Etonian fancypants new Tories are just the same old shites in nice new suits.’
‘If I might ask, Malcolm, where I come into this? Surely you’re not suggesting-’
‘I’m sure your personal fucking probity is above reproach - trust fund all onshore and invested in helping distressed unicorns and orphans and so forth.’
‘Mm, quite. Apart from the small detail that, as I have told you many times, I do not have a trust fund. Or rather, not in the form in which you use the term. I do have several trusts , but they are all quite above board.’
Malcolm waved aside these insignificant minutiae. ‘You know everyone, Julius. And you understand banks and nested accounts and offshore structured finance options and SPVs and all the rest of that FT Economist leader writer wank. If I get you a list of donors, would you be able to make a few discreet enquiries?’
Julius nodded slowly. ‘I’ll not be involved in anything illegal or underhand , Malcolm. But I can do a preliminary check to ascertain the status of certain persons. Put out a few feelers, as I believe the jargon has it.’ He paused for thought, just as the coffee arrived. Malcolm, as ever, looked at the pot like a vampire seeing a particularly pretty girl in a nightie. ‘Do you have a list of the highest Tory donors?’ Julius asked, trying to sound offhand. ‘I expect I went to school with half of them. While I’m making enquiries, I might as well...’
Malcolm’s grin widened into a genuine smile. ‘Julius! I’d kiss you if I wasn’t afraid baldness was contagious.’
Julius flushed gently and crammed a biscuit hastily into his mouth. Malcolm affected not to notice and turned the conversation to the latest plans to improve social mobility in deprived inner cities. Julius, watching him carefully, would have bet a not insignificant sum that Malcolm was genuinely interested and went so far as to forget he was talking to the feared head of Press&Comms rather than a more than usually intelligent colleague - and, though he hesitated to use the word - friend.
Malcolm, for his part, would chew off his tongue before he admitted how restful he found these little chats. Julius’s might be the fucking epitome of useless , made up, window-dressing 1 positions, and half his ideas were, of course, completely fucking unworkable in the current political climate, but there was something refreshing about talking to one of the few people who was a) competent (Julius could be left alone for several days and Malcolm would be reasonably confident that the government would still be standing) b) genuinely wanted to improve things and c) apparently completely unconcerned with his own advancement 2 .
Malcolm twitched his cuff minutely to check his watch. He had half an hour to his next appointment.
He helped himself to another biscuit while Julius beamed approvingly.
1
Julius being, if not the
only
, then the most prominent and certainly - in Malcolm’s opinion - the most
decorative
gay in Labour’s Westminster village
2
Nicola Murray had secured her allotment of Malcolm’s limited store of affection by scoring approx. 1.7 points on this test (definitely fulfilling one criteria and making some headway on each of the others) which was 1.7 more than any other Minister.
~*~
DoSAC offices
‘Let’s talk about sex-’
‘Especially for you...’
‘These are all just song lyrics . I know a policy has to have a zingy, eye-catching name, but does it have to include a tedious and reaching reference to popular culture?’
‘So what would you suggest, Minister? “A comprehensive review of the incidence of sexually transmitted disease among the 14-18 cohort, culminating in a raft of measures to improve mental and physical health”? Snappy.’
‘Thank you, Ollie. I’m just the Minister, I don’t have to think of these things. Names are your department, surely.’
‘Your sex is on fire,’ Ollie half-suggested, half-sung, before switching back to deadpan ‘- bad luck, that’s what chlamydia feels like. You should have used a condom.’
‘Well you’d know,’ Glenn remarked snidely.
‘Only because the only STD they’d invented when you last had sex was syphillis . I bet you call it VD as well.’
‘Sexual Healing,’ Nicola suggested with a snigger, breaking into the glaring contest between her two advisors.
‘Don’t blame it on the boogie-’
‘No, Glenn. Christ. Don’t ever say that again - it’s like hearing your dad wanking. And it has to be something at least slightly related to the policy and which Nicola can say on national TV without blushing or stuttering.’
There was a knock on the glass partition.
‘I do hate to interrupt your brainstorming, but has this been past the Treasury?’
‘Don’t lie, Terri. You enjoy interrupting-’
‘And it’s not a brainstorm, Nicholson says we can’t call it that anymore. We’re ideas streaming-
‘-pissing out a golden shower of ideas, preferably onto Nicholson’s shiny, wipe-clean head.’
‘You know,’ Nicola mused, ‘I’m starting to like this Nicholson , purely because you two seem to against him.’
‘Malcolm hates him-’ Ollie put in, helpfully.
‘Does he though?’ Glenn mused. ‘He hates him coming up with ideas and waltzing round like he owns the place. I wouldn’t say he hates Nicholson qua Nicholson, though. He saves that for the likes of, well, you .’
‘Possibly he just doesn’t trust Ministers not to implement a mad idea without telling him. But anyway , if we could shelve the exciting topic of Malcolm Tucker and his irrational thought processes for just a second . And I’m grateful for the ideas streaming.’ Nicola sounded anything but grateful. She sounded, as she so often did when dealing with Ollie and Glenn, like the disappointed headteacher of two terminally stupid pupils. ‘But to continue my first point, Terri, yes it had been cleared by the Treasury, and by the Cabinet Office. Double-ticked and costed. You should have been sent the paperwork.’
‘Very good, Minister.’ Terri decided that, in response to the Minister’s totally unnecessary tone, that she wouldn’t ask if this had been vetted by Malcolm Tucker. It wasn’t officially required to approve things with Malcolm, so there would be no professional repercussions (not for her , she thought gleefully) if they didn’t.
‘Lust for life,’ Ollie said, once Terri had gone.
There was a pause. ‘Actually, that’s not half bad,’ Glenn admitted grudgingly. Nicola nodded and made a little note.