May Prince of Darkness Special

Peter Mandelson, Prince of Darkness, is sitting in front of one of those actor’s dressing room mirrors, with the bare lightbulbs around it. He’s examining his face in detail. He looks unhappy with what he sees. From his body language, his level of agitation is increasing.

MANDELSON: Terry. Terry, where are you. Terry! TERRY! TERRY!!!

Terry enters the room. He has a can of Fosters in one brawny hand, and some tickets in the other. From his lips dangles a huge dovetail joint, so big even Bob Marley may have baulked.

TERRY: (Singing) When it’s spring again, we’ll win again, against Benfica, in Amsterdam, oh, when…

MANDELSON: Terry, what’ve you got there?

TERRY: Tickets, boss. Europa League final tickets, flight tickets. (Singing again) Will it be Torres, Will it Frank, Will it be David Luiz? I hope it’s Frank, it’s Frank, I hope…

MANDELSON: (Through gritted teeth). No. Terry. What’s. That. In. Your. Mouth?

TERRY: (Puts down the can, drags on the joint, removes it and looks at it, as if for the first time). Trainin’ boss.

MANDELSON: Training?

TERRY: Trainin’. For Amsterdam, the pot centre of the universe. Don’t want to get there and then have any adverse reactions, do I?

MANDELSON: Terry, you never fail to surprise me.

TERRY: Thanks, boss.

MANDELSON: Not a good thing, Terry. Anyway, have you seen these, Terry? Have you seen these?

TERRY: Seen what, boss?

MANDELSON: These Terry. (Points to his eyes). These!

TERRY: Your eyes boss?

MANDELSON: Under the eyes, Terry. The bags. The bags have bags. I’m looking old, Terry. No wonder I don’t get on the telly any more. I’m developing a face for radio.

TERRY: But you don’t get on there much any more, either, boss.

MANDELSON: You’re not helping, Terry.

TERRY: (Takes an extravagant pull on the joint, puts the tickets down and takes an almighty swig of lager) sorry, boss. What can I do for you, anyway?

MANDELSON: In the absence of any confidence-boosting words, empty two sacks of leeches into the bath, liquidise three sheep placentas, and get me a bucket of those goldleaf skinflake things.

TERRY: Boss…

MANDELSON: And order more snake venom (picks up magazine).

TERRY: But boss…

MANDELSON: Get me some Preparation H, now! It says here Sandra Bullock uses it to reduce dark rings under her eyes…

TERRY: Boss, you ‘aint serious? You want to nick my Chalfont cream and rub it uner your eyes?

MANDELSON: Of course I do. Just look at Sandra and how wonderful, how glowing…

TERRY: And you want to jump into a bath of leeches?

MANDELSON: It’s the best detox for the skin there is.

TERRY: Really. And where’s the money coming from?

MANDELSON: Lets get me telly-ready, then the fees will start rolling in again. I’ll write another book about my comebackability, how I bounce back up from the canvas of the political boxing ring, time and time again, how I…

TERRY: Boss, boss. Have a toke on this (he hands Mandy the oversize joint).

MANDELSON: But Terry, smoking’s bad for the…

TERRY: Boss. Just one drag won’t hurt.

The Prince of Darkness drags, inhales and visibly relaxes.

MANDELSON: Terry, Terry, Terry. Why didn’t you give me this to try ages ago? I think we’ve found the answer. Liquidise some in with the placenta, and add some to the leeches. This stuff is the bee’s knees. How many tickets to the soccer do you have? I’ve not been to Amsterdam in ages.

TERRY: Soccer?

MANDELSON: Soccer.

TERRY: Sorry Boss, no spares, all spoken for. (Terry beats a hasty retreat, returning briefly to snatch back the joint).