*Peter stares at the ceiling, bored out of his mind. The expenses story has been satisfactorially steered away from John, and now he has nothing to do. He tugs at the restrainst again, no luck.*
Scout's honour. He dragged me off the wagon and I am now firmly back on it - 'clearing up self-inflicted fiascos for idiots' hasn't been in my job description for years, and I'm very happy with that state of affairs, thanks very much.
*He side-eyes Peter sternly.*
You're more trouble than you're worth. I should have made it a double Kitkat.
I have seen the Guardian and, more importantly, I have been online. As far as I could tell, nobody has so far had anything to say about you, but I imagine you're about to tell me otherwise.
He and Molly bickered over who got the most comfortable spot on the sofa at first, but he seems to be settling in. I think he misses you, though. He spends a lot of time lying in a little mopey puddle by the door. If we take him for a walk or feed him he'll brighten up, but as soon as we stop paying attention to him he's waiting by the door again.
No, no. I mean, there's that business with the flats, but I'm not in Round II. But- look, Andy and Jim and I talked it over when Round I broke and we were specifically instructed not to call you guys, but I've seen our line on this and it's not good enough. The Government can't run the story because they're in it too, but the papers aren't going to let it go. We can't just palm them off on IPSA. What should we do?
And do you have any idea what's going on with Peter Mandelson? His voicemail says it's full, and when I rung around everyone said they haven't seen him since Conference. You may be the last person to have seen him alive.
If you are really that desperate for guidance, then I'll tell you what you should do. Number one. You should stop digging yourselves holes for the press to bury you alive in. If you're going to be a thieving bastard, be subtle about it, yes? Number two. You should stop fucking turning to me. I've already done more than my share of shit-shovelling this weekend. It's a Sunday and I'm retired and if you ask me about this a second time, even within this phone call, that constitutes harassment. Do I make myself understood?
As for Peter, nobody's ever had any idea what's going on with him. ... Why do you want to know?
*It might be easier, Alastair figures, to put Chris through to Peter and have him deal with this than to be obstructive for the sake of it.*
It's not our fault! They changed the rules on us with no warning; now everyone's mortgage is underwater. The train fares were pure stupidity, I'll grant you. You'd have to ask Ed Balls why he thought that was good value for money.
And you should ask him! You're not that retired; you blogged about politics just this morning. We both know you'll come back for the next election. You're not going to just sit back and watch Tom cock everything up. You could save yourself a lot of trouble two years from now if you apply a tourniquet now. ...That doesn't count as me asking you for advice, by the way- that's me giving it.
I wanted to know about Peter because I expected you to tell me to "stop fucking turning to you"! Whereas Peter will do anything if you suck up to him enough. And this is kind of an emergency.
You're giving me advice to give you advice, Bryant. What did I just say about subtlety?
Anyway, who gave you permission to give me fucking advice in the first place? I will call on you for advice when I need someone to help me present the persona of a sexually frustrated tosspot, and not before! This won't make a difference the election, they think you're all corrupt as sin anyway. It'll come down to the state of the economy and you bloody know it, you just want your own skin saving.
True. Well... give me a moment.
*He places a hand over the receiver and glances at Peter.*
My skin's fine. They've got half the Shadow Cabinet in their sights now. No one is going to bother with little old me.
But that doesn't mean I want to spend the next six months ignoring tweets about my rental arrangements! And there's that Corby by-election in a few weeks, too. This is a bad time for this story to break.
Oh, I don't ask on behalf of myself. Ed Balls casts quite a large shadow.
But it would help the party quite a lot if you could save our Shadow Cabinet from themselves. Or from Tom, more to the point. The Eds want to do everything themselves but our media operation simply isn't up to your standard. We're in desperate need of your expertise, Peter.
The party has decided that I am to be put out to pasture. Should Mr Miliband change his mind, then of course I shall leap to the party's defence; but at present it would simply undermine him were I to make any sort of return and I am far too loyal to our democratically elected leader to do any such thing.
The party decided no such thing. The party didn't even decide on Mr. Miliband, as far as that goes. I'm sure he appreciates your loyalty, but I'm equally sure you can think of times when one of our glorious leaders got a silly notion into his head and needed a discreet nudge in the right direction. You don't have to make a dramatic return to the political stage, just tell me what we should do!
I promise I won't tell anyone I spoke to you. Please? Please help, Peter. We really need you.
No, Chris. I'm not going to go behind Ed's back on this. Besides, at some point you need to start sorting these things out on your own without running to either Alastair or myself.
*He pinches the bridge of his nose. Chris clearly isn't going to listen to either him or Alastair on the subject of their retirement.*
One moment, Chris.
*He covers the mouthpiece and holds the phone out to Fiona.*
Bryant's requesting Alastair and I un-retire and dig him out of his expenses-related PR hole.
Oi, Bryant! Here's some PR advice for you- if you're going post naked photographs of yourself on the internet, buy better pants! And don't claim them on your fucking expenses!
Alastair is RETIRED. And the reason he is retired is because when he isn't retired, dickwads like you- well, mostly like Tony, but also like you- keep calling him on a Sunday to sort out messes that any six year old would have been bright enough not to get into in the first place.
There's a simple solution to your problem. Stop trying to line your pockets and do your fucking job. Until you figure that one out, no amount of spin is going to save you. Now FUCK OFF.
*Ending a call on a mobile lacks the visceral impact of slamming a phone down on the receiver, but Fiona still experiences a little surge of righteous satisfaction as she clicks the button. She's feeling slightly better about the papers now. Not as good as she'd feel if she had a parliamentary Labour Party that weren't all complete shits, but slightly better. She smiles ruefully at Alastair.*
Maybe I should let you stand for Burnley after all.
*Meanwhile, Peter has managed to lift Jack up and onto the bed spread. The dog is wary, but unlike last time doesn't seem inclined to bolt. Peter tickles him under the chin, cooing quietly in that semi-intelligible creole that unites all pet owners; only half paying attention to the others in the room.*
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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*He side-eyes Peter sternly.*
You're more trouble than you're worth. I should have made it a double Kitkat.
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Do let me know once you've finished, I want to check if the butter's melted in that mouth of yours.
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I'll hold you to that, darling.
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*He takes out his phone and reflexively answers it without more than a cursory glance at the caller ID.*
Yeah, who or what is it?
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Have you seen the papers today?
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I have seen the Guardian and, more importantly, I have been online. As far as I could tell, nobody has so far had anything to say about you, but I imagine you're about to tell me otherwise.
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So, has Jack behaved himself?
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Poor boy.
Well.
Hopefully he'll be able to go home soon. I'm sure he's just missing his favourite chew toy.
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No, no. I mean, there's that business with the flats, but I'm not in Round II. But- look, Andy and Jim and I talked it over when Round I broke and we were specifically instructed not to call you guys, but I've seen our line on this and it's not good enough. The Government can't run the story because they're in it too, but the papers aren't going to let it go. We can't just palm them off on IPSA. What should we do?
And do you have any idea what's going on with Peter Mandelson? His voicemail says it's full, and when I rung around everyone said they haven't seen him since Conference. You may be the last person to have seen him alive.
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Oh, for fuck's sake. I don't...
*He turns away from Fiona, lowering his voice.*
If you are really that desperate for guidance, then I'll tell you what you should do. Number one. You should stop digging yourselves holes for the press to bury you alive in. If you're going to be a thieving bastard, be subtle about it, yes? Number two. You should stop fucking turning to me. I've already done more than my share of shit-shovelling this weekend. It's a Sunday and I'm retired and if you ask me about this a second time, even within this phone call, that constitutes harassment. Do I make myself understood?
As for Peter, nobody's ever had any idea what's going on with him. ... Why do you want to know?
*It might be easier, Alastair figures, to put Chris through to Peter and have him deal with this than to be obstructive for the sake of it.*
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And you should ask him! You're not that retired; you blogged about politics just this morning. We both know you'll come back for the next election. You're not going to just sit back and watch Tom cock everything up. You could save yourself a lot of trouble two years from now if you apply a tourniquet now. ...That doesn't count as me asking you for advice, by the way- that's me giving it.
I wanted to know about Peter because I expected you to tell me to "stop fucking turning to you"! Whereas Peter will do anything if you suck up to him enough. And this is kind of an emergency.
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Anyway, who gave you permission to give me fucking advice in the first place? I will call on you for advice when I need someone to help me present the persona of a sexually frustrated tosspot, and not before! This won't make a difference the election, they think you're all corrupt as sin anyway. It'll come down to the state of the economy and you bloody know it, you just want your own skin saving.
True. Well... give me a moment.
*He places a hand over the receiver and glances at Peter.*
Oi. It's for you.
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But that doesn't mean I want to spend the next six months ignoring tweets about my rental arrangements! And there's that Corby by-election in a few weeks, too. This is a bad time for this story to break.
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Bryant. Hello.
I assume from the timing and recipient of your call that you require some assistance at keeping your shenanigans out of the media spotlight.
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But it would help the party quite a lot if you could save our Shadow Cabinet from themselves. Or from Tom, more to the point. The Eds want to do everything themselves but our media operation simply isn't up to your standard. We're in desperate need of your expertise, Peter.
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I suggest you look elsewhere.
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The party decided no such thing. The party didn't even decide on Mr. Miliband, as far as that goes. I'm sure he appreciates your loyalty, but I'm equally sure you can think of times when one of our glorious leaders got a silly notion into his head and needed a discreet nudge in the right direction. You don't have to make a dramatic return to the political stage, just tell me what we should do!
I promise I won't tell anyone I spoke to you. Please? Please help, Peter. We really need you.
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*He pinches the bridge of his nose. Chris clearly isn't going to listen to either him or Alastair on the subject of their retirement.*
One moment, Chris.
*He covers the mouthpiece and holds the phone out to Fiona.*
Bryant's requesting Alastair and I un-retire and dig him out of his expenses-related PR hole.
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*Fiona rips it out of Peter's hand.*
Oi, Bryant! Here's some PR advice for you- if you're going post naked photographs of yourself on the internet, buy better pants! And don't claim them on your fucking expenses!
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Okay, one, I didn't. Two, obviously if I was wearing pants it wasn't a naked photo.
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There's a simple solution to your problem. Stop trying to line your pockets and do your fucking job. Until you figure that one out, no amount of spin is going to save you. Now FUCK OFF.
*Ending a call on a mobile lacks the visceral impact of slamming a phone down on the receiver, but Fiona still experiences a little surge of righteous satisfaction as she clicks the button. She's feeling slightly better about the papers now. Not as good as she'd feel if she had a parliamentary Labour Party that weren't all complete shits, but slightly better. She smiles ruefully at Alastair.*
Maybe I should let you stand for Burnley after all.
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Who are you and what have you done with Fiona Millar?
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