July 1994 TB called to say he wanted me to work for him. I told him I was earning a big-swinging-dick six-figure salary and didn't fancy a pay cut. He looked me in the eye. "I want you, Ali," he said. "I need a real man." "Prove it," I replied. TB lit a fire and stripped down to his blue and green boxers. "And the rest," I insisted as I stood naked before him. We wrestled fiercely for 30 minutes, our sweaty bodies entwined, before I managed to pin him down with an arm-lock. "OK," I smiled. "I'll take the job."
February 1995 Back in the office there was a panic on over clause 4. TB was worried Prescott might be having second thoughts and that New Labour might be finished before it had started. "Let me deal with it," I insisted. I grabbed JP by the throat, marched him outside to the dustbins and kneed him hard in the balls. "Now that I've got your attention," I snarled, "let's get one or two things straight, you fat northern fuck. The only reason you are deputy is to keep the proles on side. Play your cards right and you can have as many Jags as you want. Cause trouble and you'll wind up face down in the Humber. Got it?"
January 1996 Got wind that the News of the World had got some topless photos of Carole Caplin. "This c-c-could be a bit d-d-dammaging, c-c-couldn't it?" TB stammered. "I dunno," I swaggered. "She's got a great pair of threepennies." "Coo-er, I suppose she has," he sniggered. "You won't tell Cherie I said that, will you?"
May 1997 Felt a sense of post-natal depression. I've waited so long for this moment that finally becoming prime minister is almost an anti-climax. TB put his head round the door to remind me that he was in charge. "Just put the fucking coffee on," I sighed. Phone call from Princess Diana to tell me how much more she fancies me than TB. "He's such a wimp," she purred, "but you are all man." "Tell me something I don't know, darling," I replied. Fiona looked well pissed off, but who the fuck cares what she thinks?
December 1998 My sense that Peter Mandelson was a goner was in no way related to the fact that I had been relentlessly briefing against him over the Robinson loan. TB had loyally defended his former best friend for five nano-seconds before I made it clear either PM had to go or he did. PM left TB's office sobbing. "Take it like a man," I quipped, slapping his bum. He threw a gay punch at me and we parted on good terms.
November 1999 Relations between TB and that treacherous Scot Gordon Brown had never been better.
September 2000 I had begun to despair of the press in this country. Every day I had been going out of my way to tell those fuckwits in the lobby how brilliantly TB had been handling the fuel crisis and all they could write was that everything was going pear-shaped and that TB was losing control. Whatever happened to journalistic integrity?
July 2001 Shared a bath with TB. He was depressed despite my re-election. "Yer know," he sobbed, "my lord, my lord, why dost the country forsaketh me? We are losing the people's trust. Can't they understand? I only want to save the world." "Shut it, Messiah," I growled, "and piss off back down the tap end."
October 2002 Met up with George Bush in the gym. He was doing seven-minute miles. I set my running machine to 4-minute mile pace. "So how much did you use to drink?" I asked. "A couple of beers and a glass of wine," he replied. "Wimp," I chortled. "I used to knock back a couple of bottles of aftershave. That's how hard I am." GWB high-fived me, yelling, "You're the man. Last one to Baghdad is a pussy."
August 2003 Completely exonerated by Lord Hutton over ridiculous charges we suggested that Saddam had WMD and had plagiarised out-of-date intelligence for the dodgy dossier. TB summoned me to his office to say he had reached another critical "your job or mine" phase of his presidency. Could have sworn Cherie was cheering as I left No 10 for the last time.
To be cashed in on again later ...
The digested read, digested: Extracts from the Journal of Delusional Psychotherapy
