by Ben Elton
‘I mean, as I think I’ve made clear, I’m no stranger to mind altering substances but fook me, some o’ them Scottish estates, they live off ‘em. Scag on their Frosties in the morning, man! Trainspotting looks like a whitewash, a cover-up job. Edinburgh is a city under siege. The smack’eads and dealers are massing at the gates. It’s weird, that, like with most cities it’s the middle bit that’s the shitehole no-go area, and the outer suburbs are where you escape to when you’ve got a bit o’ dosh. You always hear them on the news goin’ on about the inner cities, don’t you? Like they was talkin’ ‘bout Dante’s In-fookin’—ferno. But wi’ Edinburgh it’s all inside out. The middle bit’s like somethin’ out of a Disney movie. You’ve got this amazing castle and loads of jumper shops and little restaurants in eighteenth-century alleyways wi’ twisting stairwells in the pavement that lead down to ancient basement bars wi’ curling brooms on the walls and three million types o’ single malt. Then a couple of miles up the road you’ve got downtown Sodom and Gomorrah! I’ll never forget when we done the Edinburgh Playhouse on the Pop Hero tour. I was new to fame then an’ only eighteen and bloody stupid wi’ it. I didn’t know much about drugs, see, I mean obviously there were Sandi the Wurzel with her coke up the arse, but most o’ my vast experience, my veneer of sophistication, ‘as come in the years since.
‘We did the gig, which I closed o’ course, and it was a total explanation, o’ course, an’ I was lathered on Tennents lager, o’ course, and there was fookin’ hundreds o’ fans at the stage door, o’ course, which I wasn’t so used to at the time, so it was all pretty intoxicating, an’ I was well up for a bit o’ naughtiness. I remember leanin’ out o’ the dressing room window throwin’ down messages to the kids, an’ I saw this gang o’ girls that I reckoned was a bit older than most of the fans, who were children basically for all their pierced belly buttons, so I got a couple of roadies, showed ‘em which girls I meant, an’ told them to go out an’ pull ‘em.
‘Well, the next thing I knew I was in a taxi wi’ four tough little Scottish birds wi’ white minis an’ bare goosepimpled legs, an’ I never saw one o’ them that didn’t have a fag on the go, even when later on I were shaggin’ ‘em. Honest.
‘So this taxi ride was about three miles, but it might as well ‘ave been to another planet. We gets out at this low-rise estate, like Hulme in Manchester, you know what I’m sayin’? Three five hundred-yard corridors on top of each other, hundreds of little front doors all graffiti’d up, piss-soaked staircases, fookin’ needles crunchin’ under your boots. I’ll tell you, gettin’ along that corridor was scary stuff, they were only a few foot wide so any old granny (or pop star wi’ four birds in tow) who wants to get along ‘em ‘as to squeeze past every single gang o’ lads that’s stood about waitin’ for somebody to punch. ‘Orrible. I were that glad when we finally got into one of the birds’ flat, crappy though it was.
‘It were her mum’s, but she was out so the five of us is just ‘having a party. Like I say, I were only eighteen and it was just great, the version of the night you always wanted to ‘ave wi’ the birds at school but never did. We was smokin’ pot an’ drinking Diamond White cider an’ the cable’s on MTV an’ there’s me on heavy rotation wi’ my first single. I mean what a buzz, man, me four fans, an’ I’m on the fookin’ telly! They love it! So suddenly it’s knickers off and ‘ow’s your father. All four of ‘em are at me! My first genuine orgy. I was literally in heaven.
‘Well, I don’t know how long we was at it, but we certainly wasn’t finished when the bird’s mum whose flat it was came ‘ome wi’ ‘er boyfriend. Honest, I’m ‘having it away in the livin’ room wi’ her daughter and her daughter’s mates an’ this woman walks in wi’ two portions o’ curry an’ chips an’ don’t bat an eyelid! Just starts goin’ on about truant officers! She’s sayin’ to her daughter that she’s gonna have to turn up a bit more at school just for show, else the social workers will be round and where’s she supposed to hide all the smack she’s dealing? Yes, all the smack she’s dealing.
‘An’ don’t forget the truant officer bit. Truant officers do not chase sixteen-year-olds. So I’m realizing that at least one o’ the birds in this orgy were underage. Fook me. I’m eighteen, remember. A year before I’d been Prince Charming at the Bradford Alhambra. I’d only done pot an’ booze up until Sandi an’ her biros up the arse, an’ suddenly I’m beginnin’ to feel a bit uneasy to say the least. The mum’s gone into the other room with the boyfriend (to jack up as I soon discover), an’ I’m on the sofa, trousers round me ankles, realizing that I may have fooked up somewhat. That instead o’ being in a nice bar at the Edinburgh Thistle Hotel chatting up dancing girls off the tour, I’m in a drug dealer’s house shaggin’ schoolgirls. Not good, particularly for someone as career-minded as me.
‘So I gets off the bird I’m on top of and asks them how old they are. I’d thought sixteen-seventeen when I pulled ‘em. Now I’m prayin’ for fifteen or sixteen. But no such luck, man. We are talkin’ twelve an’ thirteen! One of ‘em was twelve years old! They’re smokin’ pot, drinkin’ Diamond White and shaggin’, an’ my hostess is twelve years old.
‘ ‘My ma’s only twenty-seven now,’ the bird says. Which was a shock ‘cos I reckon she looked forty, but the thing was that that woman had had this girl when she were fifteen, an’ by the look o’ things the next generation would not be long in coming. Fook me, I ain’t no social worker, but even I can see that’s not a healthy situation. A grandma when you’re thirty — you’d wanna take drugs, wouldn’t you?
‘Well, anyway, never mind all that. What about me? I’m shitting it, that’s what. Just totally and utterly shitting it. I mean look, I am definitely not into givin’ it Gary Glitter. That is not me, right? I’d reckoned these birds was nearly my age. Anybody would ‘a done. They was faggin’, drinkin’, swearin’ an’ wandering round like they owned the bloody town. How was I supposed to know? But who’s gonna believe me when I’m front-paged for shagging jailbait? So it’s trousers up an’ head for the door…
‘Except the door’s locked!
‘Well, not just locked — locked and barred, from the inside, an’ I’m lookin’ at this door, an’ suddenly I realize it’s a sheet of fookin’ steel. A steel door, right? So I take a look behind the curtains, an’ every window is barred. Then I look at the stuff they’ve got and I’m thinking this level of security is not in order to stop people pinching their video.
‘ ‘There’s a lot o’ competition in our area,’ says this fookin’ twelve-year-old, who can see what I’m thinking. ‘Too much scag aboot the place. Everybody wants tae put everyone else oot o’ business.’
‘As if to illustrate the point there’s a sudden bangin’ at the door. An’ while my little illegal harem pull their knickers back on the boyfriend emerges from the bedroom, curry sauce round his mouth, a pinprick o’ blood dribbling down ‘is arm an’ a fookin’ machine gun in his ‘ands.
‘This is Edinburgh, right? Edinburgh in Britain, fourth-richest economy on earth, right? Not Beirut, not the Gaza Strip, not fooking Croatia, an’ I’m in a flat wi’ a man who carries a machine gun. Not only that but the mum comes out next wi’ a sawn-off! It’s Bonnie an’ fookin’ Clyde except this couple are about as sexy as a dog’s arse, sad drug-fooks the both of ‘em, but heavily armed sad drug-fooks.
‘Well, the knock at the door was just customers. Two women wanting to score. I didn’t see them — the whole thing got transacted through a little letterbox in the door, but I do remember hearin’ a baby crying.
‘Anyway, obviously I was lookin’ for ways to make my exit by this time, an’ I asks the girls if I can call a taxi. They just laughed at that, so I’m thinking that I’d better strike out on my own, but that’s no good either because the boyfriend and the ma have gone back in the bedroom and he’s got the keys to the steel door an’ the girls made it very clear to me he did not like to be disturbed.
‘ ‘They’ll be cooking up rocks o’ crack. Very profitable en
d o’ the business,’ says the girl. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have tae wait, Tommy.’
‘For a while after that I’m having all these paranoid suspicions that I’ve been set up, that I’m going to get blackmailed by these birds for having shagged ‘em, but then I realize that bearin’ in mind the nature of the business the mum was running they wouldn’t exactly be looking to provoke press and police attention. So then I starts to relax a bit. We have another spliff an’ another cider an’ I’m thinkin’, all right, I’ll stay all night. They’ll have to open up in the morning to get some milk or whatever and quite frankly I didn’t fancy wandering round that estate in the dark anyway. I mean, obviously I wasn’t going to get down to any more sex wi’ ‘em, fookin’ ‘ell that is so not me, although you won’t believe it, they tried! Honest, these little girls were tryin’ to get the party goin’ again, but no way, so instead I said I fancied a bit o’ smack.
‘Big mistake. Obviously.
‘I’d never had any before but t’be quite honest I were curious. Don’t forget I had to face the prospect o’ sitting up all night watching MTV wi’ three thirteen-year-olds an’ a twelve-year-old.
‘Well, two of ‘em didn’t bother with H — yet — but the other two says, ‘Fine, let’s have a wee pipe.’
‘An’ we did. Me an’ two schoolgirls sharing a smoke o’ heroin. T’be honest, it makes me shiver t’think of it. But we did it, an’ two of us mellowed out in a nice big easy chill, an’ one of us tried to look tough and sucked down most of the whole thing before realizing that they had fooked up big time.
That was me, of course. And as the vomit surged up and my mind and heart started to feel like they were shutting down I knew that I had overdone it a bit. Uncool or what?
‘I came round in casualty. The first thing I saw were a flash o’ light that turned out to be a camera. I’d been recognized an’ my first drug-related front page was already being written. They’d dumped me by some dustbins in the car park of their estate. I suppose I should think myself lucky they didn’t just shove me down the rubbish chute. Clearly having found themselves with a potentially dying pop star on their hands, their only agenda had been to get rid of me as quickly as possible. They took my money but not my cards, which was sensible. They were clearly not so fooked up that they couldn’t see that if I were found dead the following morning then hanging on to my credit cards would be a bad idea.
‘The bin men might have saved my life. I don’t know if that big smoke would have killed me, but unconscious in the dustbins of a sink estate is not a good place to be anyways, so I’ll always be grateful. My office still sends one of them a Christmas card.’
TEN DOWNING STREET
Peter had never been in the Cabinet room. The great ring of chairs around the huge shiny table, so often photographed occupied by earnest ministers, were empty now save for four. His, the Home Secretary’s, the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s and, at the centre of it all, the Prime Minister’s.
There was a phrase Samantha often used in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking…‘It doesn’t get any better than this.’
Peter always thought it rather an effective sentence, somewhat tainted now, of course, in the light of his discovery that she was either a frigid, father-obsessed emotional timebomb or else a sex mad, father-obsessed emotional timebomb. But nonetheless it was still a good phrase and as Peter sat facing a smiling Prime Minister he knew that, Aids scares and worryingly intense and unbalanced lovers aside, it certainly did not get much better than this.
Then the PM spoke. ‘Peter, I’ve asked you here today because I want you to do something very tough for me. Very tough indeed. I want you to drop your Private Member’s Bill.’
The coffee cup froze in Peter Paget’s hand. The smile fell from his lips with an almost audible thud. Such disappointment was unbearable. Had he been brought into these elevated surroundings merely to be lobbied once more to fall upon his sword?
The Prime Minister smiled. ‘No, we want you to bring your proposals into the fold, Peter. We want to put your bill into the next Queen’s Speech.’
Peter had been wrong a moment before. This had just got a very great deal better. ‘You…You mean make it policy?’
‘Yes, I do. What we’re proposing is the biggest, bravest, boldest shift in the social management of this country since the introduction of the Welfare State. If it works, this administration will be seen as one of the true greats, and it’s down to you, Peter. You are our weapon, you have the credibility, the insight, the experience and, if I’m honest, the wounds of battle to swing the country behind us. I’d like to invite you to join the Cabinet, Peter. I’m creating a new post, Minister for Drugs, and I want you to fill it.’
THE PAGET HOUSEHOLD, DALSTON
Peter Paget’s daughters had fought their way back from the local newsagent, a journey that required a police escort to get them up their own garden path.
‘Dad, it’s crazy, it’s berserk. There’re eight pages on you in the Telegraph.’
‘There’s fifteen in the Independent and twelve in the Guardian. Both leaders are claiming they thought of the whole idea first.’
‘Which is 50 not true. They were going for decriminalizing pot or whatever, as if that would do anything.’
‘It was you, Dad. You did this. You’ve electrified the sodding country!’
It was true. The announcement of Peter Paget’s new position and the speech he made that same evening in the house had caused a genuine sensation. A worldwide sensation. He was not only on the cover of every British newspaper, but many of the papers around the world had given him serious coverage too. What was more, so far at least, most of the coverage had been on the whole favourable. Not every editorial on the planet was backing wholesale legalization, but nobody was denying that this was a debate that was far too late in coming.
‘They’re calling you Churchillian, Daddy.’
‘Well, it was one hell of a speech…‘ Cathy was devouring the front-page quotes. ‘ ‘Life of the nation’…‘defence of the very values by which we live’…I must say, though, I thought the bit about it being May 1940 in the war against drugs was perhaps a teeny bit OTT. It did sort of invite the comparison with the Great Man.’
‘Of course it did,’ Peter replied happily. ‘I’m no fool.’
After the girls had disappeared to their respective rooms to begin the daily task of emailing and texting their friends, Angela and Peter Paget found themselves alone together, or as alone as any two people can be when their garden is full of journalists. They had scarcely had a private moment since the maelstrom of Peter’s needle prick had engulfed their lives.
‘It does seem incredible that you’ve come so far so quickly, Peter.’
‘Well, it’s all down to that ridiculous accident, I suppose. Absurd, really, as if that makes any difference.’
‘It’s not all down to that. People were beginning to think differently anyway. It’s the power of the argument. You’re right. That’s the point, and they can all see that.’
‘Well, I hope so. I certainly didn’t expect to gain a seat in Cabinet on the issue.’
‘Congratulations, Peter. It’s been a long time coming.’
‘All the sweeter, I suppose, to get it through campaigning for something that truly matters rather than for oiling and toadying about the place.’
‘Peter. Are you having an affair with Samantha?’
It was so sudden, so unexpected.
‘I…’
He had known Angela for twenty years. She was too sensitive, too clever, to ask such a question unless she knew.
‘I…I’ve had sex with her.’
She stared at him for a moment and then turned away. Turned away in what seemed, to Peter at least, like revulsion.
‘Oh dear. Oh dear, Peter. That’s a bit painful, I must say.’
‘I’m sorry, Angela…’
Angela’s body twitched in a manner that suggested she was not currently interested in apologies. ‘Ho
w long has this been…Oh God, I can’t believe I’m about to frame that pathetic sentence. It’s ridiculous.’
Silence.
‘Well, come on, then. Let’s get it over with. How long has it been going on?’
‘Not long. It’s over…I mean, it has to be over. It was just a silly thing. Sex — ’
‘Do you love her?’
‘No!’ That at least he knew was true. ‘No. It was sex, that’s all…a couple of times.’
‘A couple? A politician’s couple or an actual couple?’
‘Four. Four times.’ He plucked the figure from the air. He did not know how many times. Twenty? Thirty?
‘Do you want to know where? When? I’ll tell you.’
‘I’m going to ask you again, Peter. Do you love her?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ever?’
Good question. ‘I was…fond of her. She’s been very — ’
‘Yes, I know how fucking supportive she’s been. You’ve told me often enough.’
‘It was madness, Angela. I should have been stronger, but I wasn’t…We spent so much time together, we were working so hard — ’
‘Does she love you?’ Angela Paget had a lot of good questions.
‘I doubt it. Well, she’s fond of me as well, but no, not love. She knows I’m married, I’m unavailable — ’
‘Don’t be too bloody sure of that!’
‘Angela, please.’
‘Look, Peter, this is tough. Very, very tough. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with it, but I know that this can’t be about me at the moment. You may be about to be pronounced HIV positive, for Christ’s sake! Besides, everything you’ve worked for, everything we both believe in is finally beginning to happen. Why did you have to ruin it all?’
‘Angela, none of that matters. I love you…’
And he meant it. The sudden realization that he might be about to lose her had brought him hurtling back into the heart of his marriage.