I've been re-watching my Thick of It box set recently and was inspired by a throw away line by Emma to write this. If you can figure out the scene/line then massive geek points to you. I acknowledge the absolute genius of the Thick of It writers and actors and take absolutely no credit for anything here as it all belongs to them even if it's not up to their high standards. I'm definitely not making any money from this, otherwise I wouldn't be working for minimum wage that's for sure . . .
Peter Mannion stared at the screen in front of him and scrunched up his face. God he wished he'd picked up his other pair of glasses. How was he supposed to know the difference between the varifocals and the bifocals? That was Phil's job, along with inside leg measurements and the dates of his doctor's appointments.
"Phil, how the hell does this thing work?"
He stabbed repeatedly at the buttons on the arm rest.
"Hang on," his junior aid muttered.
"Phil!" He hissed, attempting to put as much snarl as possible into his words and not alert the young air hostess who strode down the aisle checking seatbelts.
"One second . . . SHIT! So close!"
Phil's head was down and thumbs moving at lightning pace over the buttons of some square, black, handheld device that Peter didn't recognise as any blackberry he'd ever come across. On the screen, several brightly coloured and malformed animals belched fire and ice at one another.
"You won't get much out of him, that's the latest Pokemon game."
Peter glanced across the aisle at Emma who had a copy of the Economist open and was seated next to Stewart Pearson who appeared to be comatose with his headphones in.
"Poke . . ? You know what, I really don't care." He jabbed the buttons again.
"You have to wait until the seatbelt sign goes off. Don't you fly all the time?" Emma asked.
"Yes, but normally I've taken two fucking valium and am as dead to the world as Stewart there," he grumbled, finally giving up on the buttons. "It's the only way to cope with my wife's incessant, panicked babbling."
"Right," Emma said slowly and went back to Bagehot.
"I don't even understand why I'm here, missing my wife's birthday no less. She hates me already. It's like you're trying to ruin my life," Peter moaned.
"Because you can't be seen in public at the moment. And, since that Paxman interview you're considered completely toxic. So, until you've completed your radioactive half life you're staying clear of GB press," Emma responded without looking up.
Peter winced and shuffled irritably in his seat, attempting forlornly to loosen the seat belt Phil had previously done up for him. Phil continued to squeak and grimace at his block of plastic.
"If you'd let me do a follow up interview I could set all this right, settle the storm clouds. What the fuck is a twitter storm any way?" he asked with malice dripping from every syllable.
Emma sighed as if she'd answered this question a million times before.
"It's silly season, Peter, they'll jump on anything, beat you down and then hang you up in the tabloids for any little stutter or mumble. And they'll certainly jump all over something like 'what is a twitter storm?'"
"Yes, 'technophobe dinosaur brands new media a mess,'" Stewart chipped in, removing one headphone.
"Oh great, the goateed guru of all things gratuitously . . ." Peter groped around for another word, "shit, has awoken."
Stewart gave him a sarcastic smile and smoothed down the front of his floral patterned button up.
"This is damage control, Peter, of the kind usually undertaken by hot shot forest fire crews. Any way, you'll feel perfectly at home, surrounded by all the wealth and greed and horrible, life altering errors."
"Very funny, Stewart," Peter spat and gave Phil a shove sideways as the floppy haired younger man yelled "woohoo!" and punched the air next to his face.
"Aah yes, Vegas, the sink hole of dreams," Emma murmured and Stewart flattened her Economist with one hand.
"It's a blue sky thinking convention run for Conservative Americans. You know people actually like the C word over there. You could, in fact will, learn a lot."
This last line was uttered with something of a threatening edge to Stewart's voice.
"Yeah, and there's a James Bond convention on," Phil chipped in, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen. "The ladies are going to go wild for a genuine British accent. I am going to clean up in Vegas!"
Emma rolled her eyes.
"Only vomit from one too many martinis. Which will be, one."
"There will be zero vomiting and no hooking up with the natives. This is a scandal free zone. I am not handling any scandling when there."
"Scandling isn't even a fucking word, Stewart," Peter shot back only to receive a kick in his chair and a red, round face topped with a bob appeared over the top of his seat.
"Excuse me, Mister, that's quite enough swears around sensitive ears," a shrill southern American accent grated in his ear.
"Aah, aah, yes I apologise Madam, to you and err, your lovely son," Peter stumbled and the woman finally retreated, satisfied. Next to her a small child began crying.
"God help me," Peter groaned.