from his wife. ‘I will do it as soon as humanly possible,’ he said.
‘See that you do.’ The woman rang off without saying goodbye.
: 8 :
‘So if I understand correctly,’ Morag said. ‘Brant is using the Scotland results to circle his wagons, to try to derail a leadership challenge.’ She marched unhappily along the corridor. Morag despised people who made walking down a hallway together into a meeting. There was a special place in hell for this one in particular.
‘Well, more or less, yes,’ Delphine Barrett said. To be fair to her, Morag understood the long-time media advisor to the opposition leader was recently out of a job. Delphine would no doubt be working her remaining contacts and trying to secure a new position before security confiscated her ID cards. But with the shite-to-info ratio of her blather tipping firmly towards shite, Morag thought, it was no wonder Brant let her go.
‘The concern here is whether Brant’s likely to get support from the backbench, and whether someone – say, myself, would head a challenge. Is that right?’ Morag said. Last year’s election that followed the referendum had been a disaster, and she was the only MP her party had left in Scotland.
‘That’s the long and short of it.’ Delphine, in a tight pencil skirt, struggled to keep up as Morag and Arjun strode down the corridor. ‘The way I interpret the polls . . .’
Morag sighed. She wasn’t ready to be drawn either way on the topic. But there was also an opportunity to be had by someone. Lionel Brant was considered dead wood both by the public and his own party. He should have done the right thing and stepped down after the disastrous general election result, but he hadn’t. The most credible challengers – his Shadow Chancellor, and several longer-serving MPs – had all woken up the day after the poll to find themselves voted out of office. It was no secret that Brant had got the job in the first place because it was his turn, not because of an aptitude for leadership. The wrong man in the right place at the right time, as one cruel columnist put it.
While Delphine nattered on Morag thought about what she still had to get through today: two consultations, an energy committee review, and a debrief on what was likely to happen to the Scotland Bill in Lords.
They were at her office door. Arjun put his hand on the knob, an obvious cue to shove off that Delphine ignored. ‘Well?’ Morag asked. ‘What do you have, Delphine? I don’t need the full dark arts treatment, a little shade will do.’
‘There is this photo from an orchard wassailing event in his constituency at the weekend—’
‘Wassailing? God, how fucking grim.’ Morag rolled her eyes. Grim was her new word. Mondays were grim. Not quite as grim as that body in the mortuary back in Cameron Bridge, but not a pretty sight.
‘It’s all about the margins right now,’ Delphine said, and produced a printout from her folder. ‘An online poll last Tuesday predicted his seat might be at risk if the momentum is with the protest parties. This blackface gaffe is the toehold you need, Morag. Strike while the iron is hot and all of that.’
‘Blackface? Brant blacked up?’ Morag was surprised. Surely even a clot-faced public schoolboy like Brant knew better than to be caught smearing shoe polish on himself.
‘Not him, a group of dancers he was photographed with.’ Delphine jabbed at the printout. ‘Morris dancers.’
‘Is that a thing they do?’
‘Apparently it is.’
‘Trending on Twitter?’
‘Third in UK, top in London for about an hour.’
‘Any columnists on it?’
‘ Telegraph has a strong piece hitting the hypocrisy angle. Otherwise no.’
‘Print, or online only?’
Delphine smiled apologetically. ‘Online only.’
Morag considered the picture while her fingers drummed the door frame. ‘No, not good enough,’ she said. Delphine and her bloody Internet polls. ‘Middle England loves its twee pish.
‘See that you do.’ The woman rang off without saying goodbye.
: 8 :
‘So if I understand correctly,’ Morag said. ‘Brant is using the Scotland results to circle his wagons, to try to derail a leadership challenge.’ She marched unhappily along the corridor. Morag despised people who made walking down a hallway together into a meeting. There was a special place in hell for this one in particular.
‘Well, more or less, yes,’ Delphine Barrett said. To be fair to her, Morag understood the long-time media advisor to the opposition leader was recently out of a job. Delphine would no doubt be working her remaining contacts and trying to secure a new position before security confiscated her ID cards. But with the shite-to-info ratio of her blather tipping firmly towards shite, Morag thought, it was no wonder Brant let her go.
‘The concern here is whether Brant’s likely to get support from the backbench, and whether someone – say, myself, would head a challenge. Is that right?’ Morag said. Last year’s election that followed the referendum had been a disaster, and she was the only MP her party had left in Scotland.
‘That’s the long and short of it.’ Delphine, in a tight pencil skirt, struggled to keep up as Morag and Arjun strode down the corridor. ‘The way I interpret the polls . . .’
Morag sighed. She wasn’t ready to be drawn either way on the topic. But there was also an opportunity to be had by someone. Lionel Brant was considered dead wood both by the public and his own party. He should have done the right thing and stepped down after the disastrous general election result, but he hadn’t. The most credible challengers – his Shadow Chancellor, and several longer-serving MPs – had all woken up the day after the poll to find themselves voted out of office. It was no secret that Brant had got the job in the first place because it was his turn, not because of an aptitude for leadership. The wrong man in the right place at the right time, as one cruel columnist put it.
While Delphine nattered on Morag thought about what she still had to get through today: two consultations, an energy committee review, and a debrief on what was likely to happen to the Scotland Bill in Lords.
They were at her office door. Arjun put his hand on the knob, an obvious cue to shove off that Delphine ignored. ‘Well?’ Morag asked. ‘What do you have, Delphine? I don’t need the full dark arts treatment, a little shade will do.’
‘There is this photo from an orchard wassailing event in his constituency at the weekend—’
‘Wassailing? God, how fucking grim.’ Morag rolled her eyes. Grim was her new word. Mondays were grim. Not quite as grim as that body in the mortuary back in Cameron Bridge, but not a pretty sight.
‘It’s all about the margins right now,’ Delphine said, and produced a printout from her folder. ‘An online poll last Tuesday predicted his seat might be at risk if the momentum is with the protest parties. This blackface gaffe is the toehold you need, Morag. Strike while the iron is hot and all of that.’
‘Blackface? Brant blacked up?’ Morag was surprised. Surely even a clot-faced public schoolboy like Brant knew better than to be caught smearing shoe polish on himself.
‘Not him, a group of dancers he was photographed with.’ Delphine jabbed at the printout. ‘Morris dancers.’
‘Is that a thing they do?’
‘Apparently it is.’
‘Trending on Twitter?’
‘Third in UK, top in London for about an hour.’
‘Any columnists on it?’
‘ Telegraph has a strong piece hitting the hypocrisy angle. Otherwise no.’
‘Print, or online only?’
Delphine smiled apologetically. ‘Online only.’
Morag considered the picture while her fingers drummed the door frame. ‘No, not good enough,’ she said. Delphine and her bloody Internet polls. ‘Middle England loves its twee pish.
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