Chapter Text
Award ceremonies - never one of Malcolm's favourite ways to waste an evening. In theory, they were purely occasions to get a bit of good publicity, which meant, contrary to the wisdom of Yazz and the fucking Plastic Population, the only way was down. All Malcolm could do all night was just fucking mingle, and wait to see which of his charges inevitably shat themselves in public.
Hopefully at least not fucking literally, though after over ten years in this job he put nothing past them.
Worse, tonight's event was swanky, emphasis wanky, enough to require him to wear a dinner jacket and fend off waiters trying to offer him champagne and shitty little vol-au-vents that were probably fucking quail's liver or something. The crowning turd on the shit sundae of the night was set to be Julius Baldilocks Nicholson receiving a special award for his services to the gay community. Which Malcolm couldn't even make the natural jokes about, surrounded as he was by hacks clamouring for a chance to declare the government's commitment to equality the hollow sham everyone knew it was.
"Not at Number Ten with the prime minister, Malcolm?" Angela Heaney asked him as he made the rounds.
"Yeah, well, he's a big kid now. Knows how to change his Pull-Ups without my assistance." Just about the only fucking thing that he could do without Malcolm's assistance, but that was neither here nor fucking there.
She smiled knowingly at him over her champagne flute. "There are rumours he's been holding late-night strategy sessions about this possible leadership challenge from Dan Miller. Is the PM starting to get a bit nervous?"
"Dan Miller?" He made sure to hit just the right note of cheerful incredulity. "Not sure where you heard that one, darling. The only thing the PM's strategising about is how to beat him in their regular squash games. Bit of healthy friendly fucking competition, yeah?" And so even Dan Miller would agree, if he didn't want Malcolm to rip his insides out and turn him into a human fucking glove puppet.
"Oh, yeah," Angela said as she took another sip of champagne. Not the slightest bit convinced, which wasn't his problem. He didn't give a micro-shit what she really believed, only what she had the evidence to print.
Their attention was drawn back to the ceremony as the big bald fuck took the stage, with a show of modesty that was about as convincing as Fatty's claims that he was going to start walking to work. Malcolm dedicated a small fraction of his brain to sifting through the platitudes. Greatly honoured, giving something back, blushing from my shiny bellend of a head to my expensively pedicured toes, et cetera. Equality, diversity, representation... Christ, Malcolm should have made bingo cards. He looked around, hoping that someone would bring the snacks out. That would get the fucker wrapping up faster than a nun caught out sunbathing on a nudist beach.
Un-fucking-fortunately, Julius was clearly enjoying having the spotlight bouncing off his shiny head. He just kept going and going, like that fucking bunny, whatever it was called. Not Durex, that was condoms. Duralex? Duracell. Malcolm spent a few depressing minutes contemplating when he'd last had enough time to waste watching TV to have actually seen any adverts.
For that matter, when was the last time that he'd needed to pick up condoms?
...Wait a fucking minute. He mentally rewound the last few lines of Julius's speech. Uplift and Enhance? Fucking Uplift and Enhance? Two wanktastic keywords that should not have been in there. That policy was Dan Miller's ugly baby. Had the slimy bald fuck turned traitor on them, or was it just that, as usual, he had all the political instincts of a dead lemming?
Worse, Malcolm wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Angela Heaney turned back to face him as Julius finally ambled off the stage. "Isn't Uplift and Enhance Dan Miller's initiative?" she asked.
For a bird who'd once had the unfathomable lapse in taste to shag Oliver Wankstain Reeder, she could be annoyingly perceptive at times.
Malcolm gave her his best shark-toothed grin. "Yeah, well, that reference would be in the nature of a naughty little private joke. I mean, we're obviously not going to launch that as a serious policy, yeah? Sounds like a fucking advert for support underwear." His eyes fixed, laser-focused, on His Baldiness, where he was threatening to start unsupervised conversations. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I just need to have a wee word with Julius about not telling jokes in front of people with absolutely no sense of humour."
He strode over to take Julius by the arm without breaking his stride. "'Scuse me. Sorry, sorry. Just need to give Julius my personal congratulations," he purred to the event organisers, already dragging him away from the crowd. Everyone around them who recognised Malcolm edged away from his razorblade smile.
Julius, of course, had no such fucking sense of self-preservation.
"Malcolm!" he protested as Malcolm bundled him backstage. "I was just about to sample the celebratory pastries."
"I'll buy you a fucking pastry if it stops the seditious bullshit dripping from your Eton-educated gob," he said. Taking no chances with the risk of lurking hacks, he kept right on going through the backstage area and herded Julius out of a fire exit. It should technically have set off an alarm, but some enterprising member of the hotel staff had propped the door open so that they could nip out the back for a fag. God bless Her Majesty's Government's flawless fucking attention to event security.
"Well, firstly, Malcolm, I went to Charterhouse, as you're very well aware," Julius corrected prissily.
"Yeah, yeah. All of you fucking talk like you've got someone's bollocks in your mouth - and in your case they're apparently Dan Miller's!" Malcolm turned to glare at him as they stopped in the back alley behind the hotel. It smelled of bins and piss, no doubt a helpful cliché metaphor for any bottom-feeding hacks trying to wring a story out of tonight's awards. Assuming they weren't already hot on the scoop of Julius deciding to deep-throat Dan Miller.
"Oh, really, this is ridiculous." Julius smoothed his dinner jacket down. "I may not like Miller's faction any more than you do, Malcolm, but we cannot let this kind of tribalism rule the day. Disregarding perfectly good policy initiatives because of where they originate would be, as they say, throwing the baby out with the bathwater."
"What kind of fucking rose-petal bathwater world do you think we live in?" Malcolm said incredulously. "This government's fucking wilting like a ninety-year-old running low on Viagra and you're out there playing fluffer for Dan fucking Miller."
There was a crash from somewhere off in the kitchens behind them, and Malcolm spun back to stare warily at the building. This wasn't a conversation they should be having out here, or indeed fucking anywhere, but apparently Julius needed the most elementary principles of politics explained, like 'do not stab your own party leader in the back until Malcolm says so'.
Julius shook his head sadly. "You're completely paranoid, Malcolm," he said.
Malcolm narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, well, the only people who say that are the fuckers who are out to get me." And far too many of them were in the hotel behind them for his comfort. He started walking, heading out of the alley. "Come on. I want a wee word with you. I'll buy you that fucking pastry, yeah?"
A small price to pay if it would keep Julius away from talking to any journalists.
#
It had taken Angela a certain amount of persuasion to drag her photographer companion away from the awards banquet. Especially once it became clear Malcolm Tucker had left the building.
"Look, would you rather keep taking photos of Z-list junior staffers we're not going to use in the paper unless they get drunk and drive home, or would you rather have a chance at an actual news story?" she said as they headed out through the fire exit.
"I'd rather be in the swanky hotel where there's free food and champagne," said Colin, one of nature's press photographers. He trailed disconsolately after her. "Look, they're not here. They've probably fucked off down the pub. Where I could be right now if you're not going to let me go back to the hotel."
"You didn't see Malcolm," she said. "He dragged Nicholson out of there pretty fast after that Uplift and Enhance business." She had enough to build a story on right there, but a photo of two of the PM's closest advisers in clear discord over Miller would make it that much stronger.
Assuming they could fucking find them. She looked around as they reached the exit from the alley, but saw no sign of the gangland execution taking place.
"Are you sure they even came this way?" Colin sauntered after her with no semblance of haste.
"Well, they couldn't have gone anywhere else!" Could they? She'd been so sure... Argh!
"Nicholson's probably giving him a blowjob behind a skip somewhere," he said.
"Well, if you can get a photo of that, Adam will probably give you a blowjob behind a skip," she said. She checked the map that she'd been emailed on her phone for inspiration. Ah! "There's a coffee place near here that Nicholson's known to frequent." Not that it meant much with as big a foodie as Nicholson, but it was their only lead. "Let's check it out."
"All right, but you're buying me a coffee afterwards," Colin said.
Angela had never been in this particular coffee shop, but she did have some idea of what Julius Nicholson considered a reasonable drinks budget. "I'll buy you one at McDonald's on the way back," she said.
Colin contemplated this counteroffer a moment.
"Deal," he said.
#
Predictably, what Julius had called 'a quite delightful little coffee house' was what Malcolm would call pretentious wank. He ignored the menu and ordered a large black coffee, on the theory that they had limited options to serve it in a way that would offend him to the depths of what remained of his scarred soul.
Julius tutted over the amount of caffeine, because of course he was going back home to sleep soundly in his bed after having thoroughly fucked the rest of Malcolm's night. "You really ought to try their range of specialty hot chocolate drinks," he said.
"No, because I'm not fucking five," Malcolm told him. And if he slightly envied the mountain of marshmallows spilling out of Julius's mug, that was between him and the ugly fake plastic plant he was sitting next to.
The place was thankfully quiet at this time of night, but he'd taken a seat in the window to be as far from the counter as possible. The odds of either of them being recognised weren't high, but unfortunately if ever there was a place likely to be infested by the kind of Guardian-reading wankers who fancied themselves as political bloggers, this was it.
"Now, are you sure I can't tempt you to sample the baked goods?" Julius said. He gestured with the pastry in his hand. "These éclairs are positively decadent."
"I don't know how you're not the size of fucking Fatty, the amount you put away," Malcolm said. He was almost envious of Julius's indefatigable ability to eat for pleasure whatever the surrounding political atmosphere. Malcolm had long since relegated food to the role of necessary fuel. He lived on a diet of sugar, caffeine, and whatever was spicy or acidic enough to shock him back awake.
"Healthy living, Malcolm!" Julius said heartily. He gave a rather delicate grimace. "And I do wish that you would refrain from using these derogatory nicknames. It does set entirely the wrong tone."
"What, fucking realistic?" he said. "Fatty knows he's fucking fat - which is one better than you, because you don't know that you're fucking demented. What the fuck were you thinking?"
The frequency of the word 'fuck' coming from their table drew a disapproving look from a well-dressed older woman a few tables away. Malcolm gave her his widest, cheeriest grin, which encouraged her to hastily turn her gaze elsewhere and start hurrying to finish her cheesecake.
And to think some people had the fucking nerve to suggest that Malcolm wasn't a people person.
Julius, sadly, had always been impervious to even his deadliest glare. "I explained my reasons to you quite clearly, Malcolm," he said. "In any case, I hardly see that there's much to be gained in relitigating the matter. What's done is done. So how about we turn our collective brainpower to strategising on more useful matters, hmm?"
So far as Malcolm was concerned, nothing was done until it was reported to be done. And even fucking then it could still be retracted. He envisioned some late-night rewriting of tomorrow's headlines in his future, but for now, he just needed to keep Julius talking until all the hacks had given up and left the hotel.
Luckily, that wasn't exactly a challenge. Just having cornered a victim who wasn't making efforts to escape was more than enough to keep him going half the night. Plying him with baked goods whenever he threatened to pause felt almost like cheating.
"Oh, crikey," Julius said, when he finally thought to check his watch. "We've missed the entire remainder of the awards bash!"
"Oh, have we really?" Malcolm said, peeling his chin off the hand it had long been resting on. "Doesn't time fucking fly?"
To his surprise, he honestly hadn't minded the interlude. There was something vaguely soothing about listening to Julius talk wank for the best part of an hour - like one of those meditation CDs of whalesong and shite that people were always suggesting he should listen to for the sake of his blood pressure. Except the fucking whales could probably give him more sensible input on how to run the government.
"Well, at any rate, this has been quite a fruitful chinwag," Julius said as he stood up. "We really ought to do this more often."
"Yeah, I'll pencil you in the next time I need a fucking nap," he said.
"Yes, yes, Malcolm, very droll." But there was a tolerant warmth to his smile that made Malcolm a wee bit uncomfortable. He suspected that Julius was quite a lonely man - which was one fucking glass house that he couldn't afford to throw too many stones towards. Not that Malcolm couldn't have had countless fucking friends, of course, but all his life had room for were working relationships, and those were always doomed to end in tears when the shit hit.
Julius was certainly far from the fucking worst that Malcolm had to deal with on the job. Complete fucking pillock, of course, but even that was part of what made him surprisingly easy to tolerate. Came back every time with undiminished certainty that his latest mad idea would surely be the one to win Malcolm over, like one of those bald eggy toys that always wobbled their way back upright.
"Weebles," Malcolm said as they left the coffee shop.
"Sorry, what was that?" Julius turned back.
Malcolm waved him off. Christ, he needed some sleep, and he wasn't about to get it any time soon. "Right. You fuck off," he said. "I'm away back to the office."
"You know, you're no good to anyone, Malcolm, if you're not properly rested," Julius said piously.
"Julius, I haven't been fucking rested since 1993," he said. In fact, right now he felt like that had been the last time that he'd slept at all. "If this all goes tits up, expect to see me loom outside your fucking door at bumfuck o'clock in the morning."
"Well, I have to say I'm not entirely sure quite when that is, Malcolm, but nonetheless I look forward to it." He all but chortled at his own wit.
"Don't try to be fucking funny, Julius," Malcolm advised. He was almost as bad at that as he was at setting realistic political goals.
So why Malcolm found he was smiling as he walked away was a complete fucking mystery to him.
#
Back at the Daily Mail offices, Angela awaited Adam's judgement as he peered at the screen over her shoulder.
"Right," he said. "So we have Nicholson apparently using his acceptance speech to throw out a statement of support for Dan Miller, whereupon Malcolm drags him outside to deliver a vicious bollocking for failing to tow the party line... and eat cream cakes." He looked around the newsroom for Colin, who'd long since fucked off. "Seriously, you couldn't get one picture where it would be possible to crop the éclair out? They look like they're having a fucking tea party."
She had to admit it wasn't quite the aura of menace she'd hoped for. "Well, it is Julius Nicholson," she said. "I don't think we've ever managed a single candid shot of him where he's not holding some kind of food." That, and she was pretty sure Colin had been vastly more interested in the coffee shop's menu than capturing the narrative she was trying to convey.
"Yeah, you'd think he'd be fatter," Adam said. "Maybe he's got bulimia." This possibility caused him to brighten briefly, but it soon soured back into a grimace as he perused the rest of the photos. "These are fucking useless. You can't even see Malcolm in half of them because of that fucking... banana tree, or whatever it is."
"I think it's a Yucca," she said.
Her botanical input was not appreciated.
"And look at this one. You'd almost think they actually fucking liked each other."
Colin had indeed outdone himself in capturing Nicholson gesturing theatrically with his éclair, while Malcolm, chin resting on his hand, looked wearily amused, and not even in the viciously gleeful way that presaged someone getting their lungs ripped out. Angela peered at it in fascination. "Wow. That's the first photo I've seen of Malcolm that doesn't look like it belongs in a reconstruction on Crimewatch." A humanising glimpse of The Real Malcolm Tucker that would have been very impressive if it resembled in any way the actual assignment Colin had been given.
Adam settled on another picture where Nicholson was pontificating and Malcolm looking more irritated. "Looks like this is the best we're going to do." But he still shook his head unhappily. "Not sure we're going to be able to go with the bollocking angle. There's not enough here to be worth the amount of shit Malcolm's going to spray in our faces over it."
Which left her only with the implications of Nicholson going to bat for Miller. Still better than a straightforward awards ceremony write-up, but disappointingly thin. And she was out the price of a McDonald's coffee and box of chicken nuggets for Colin. At least he was almost as cheap a date as Ollie.
"We could see what Malcolm's got to say," Adam suggested.
They could also voluntarily go and kick a hornets' nest, but why? "He's not going to give us a quote."
"I know, I just like trying to ruin his sleep half as often as he ruins mine," he said.
#
Malcolm rubbed his eyes, reconsidered the advisability of doing that while eating fucking citrus fruit, and debated calling it a night. There was maddeningly little further damage control to be done on Uplift and Enhance without fanning the flames of the story he was trying to smother. Keeping quiet and hoping that things went away on their own had always been his least favourite tactic.
A more superstitious man might believe it was the very thought of heading home that triggered his BlackBerry to ring, but really he knew it was just the fact that the calls never fucking stopped.
Adam Wankface Kenyon at the Mail, no doubt calling at Heaney's instigation. She was like one of those little yappy fucking terriers that just kept on haranguing the big dogs with no regard for the fact they were small enough to get pissed on. He assumed it was in the spirit of vengeance for having once had to sleep with Ollie Reeder, in which case, all right, fair e-fucking-nough.
He raised his phone to his ear. "If you were after the escort agency, you've called the wrong fucking number," he said.
"Malcolm. Hope I didn't wake you," Adam said with cheerful malice.
"Nah, you're just interrupting my nightly bedtime wank."
If only. Few were the days when he still got home with the time and energy to make even that modest ambition a reality.
"Heard you were having cream cakes with Julius Nicholson," Adam said. Malcolm devoutly hoped that was meant to be a subject change and not a fucking euphemism. "Must be a blow to the PM to have him break ranks and come out in support of Dan Miller."
Malcolm glowered. That bitch Heaney must have followed him and seen them together. How much did she have? Not enough, or the Mail wouldn't be fishing.
"Dan Miller?" he said with a carefree laugh. "Fucking rubbish. If Julius Nicholson could get any closer to the PM, they'd both be fucking arrested for public indecency. The only thing he came out in support of tonight is the LGBT community, and that shouldn't be news, even if your paper is reporting from the Dark Ages." And that might well just work as his angle...
"Then why drag him out immediately after he mentioned Dan Miller's initiative in his speech?" Adam said.
"That was for a private celebration, because the two of us are close fucking personal friends." Bless Julius and his insatiable appetite for pastry for making this steaming plate of hot bollocks sound even halfway plausible.
"Oh, come on, Malcolm-"
But Malcolm steamrolled over him. "This is fucking homophobia, is what it is," he said. "You're scraping around for any made-up story you can find to avoid reporting on the actual fucking message of the..." Christ, what had that pile of tired old wank been called, "...Value in Diversity Awards. Julius Nicholson was being honoured tonight for his tireless efforts to keep the LGBT community at the heart of everything that this government does." Mainly by attempting to insert the highly specific part of the gay community that was Julius himself into every fucking policy decision going, but technically that did still tick the box.
"You are trying to minimise that relationship and stir up imaginary divisions between Julius and the PM that are not fucking there," Malcolm said. "Be sure that I will reign vengeance down on you like cold piss if you go to press with this unsubstantiated bollocks. So let me tell you what you're going to fucking do instead. You are going to write up a lovely review of how well the awards went for the government, complete with a puff piece about Julius Nicholson and everything he's done for the gay community. A poof piece, if you will."
"That's really fucking sensitive, Malcolm," Adam said.
"Oi! Gay rights have always been a cause very near and fucking dear to my heart, okay?" he said sharply. And he wasn't taking even a whiff of shit on that from someone who worked for the Daily Heil.
There was a welcome sigh of defeat on the other end of the phone. "Always lovely talking to you, Malcolm," Adam said wearily.
"Ta-ta for now," Malcolm said, and hung up.
Right. Now to get out of here and try to make it back home before something else came up to thoroughly strangle this brief note of optimism about tomorrow's papers.
#
Angela looked up as Adam came out of his office. She hadn't been able to hear Malcolm's end of the conversation, but it had been easy enough to fill in from Adam's facial expressions and the indistinct buzz of Scottish-accented fury.
"So... what's the story now?" she asked.
Adam stood hunched with his hands stuffed in his pockets as he contemplated a moment. "Well, fine," he said. "If Malcolm wants us to run with him and Julius Nicholson going out for coffee and cake to celebrate gay rights for strictly personal reasons, that's exactly what we're going to do. Let's go back to that picture of Malcolm smiling..."
#