GoodvEvil @ Devilindrag 1m
Dees v Hawks 25 May 1974. What was Oppn Leader @DannySlattsMP doing that night when the Demons hit the deck? #Auspol
This is posted almost immediately after Vaughan leaves the room.
I’ve always feared that one day someone would ask this question—perhaps not this cryptic crossword version of it—just as I’ve always known that any sudden end to my political career would come as a direct consequence of the answer.
I rarely look at my Twitter feed. I leave that to Errol and Eddie. I don’t have time and they don’t trust me anyway. They know how easy it’d be for me to sip and tweet after a shit day with the colleagues, a bad Newsnight and a bottle of red.
The cyber world is a sewer for me, crammed with nutters, moral amoebas and vicious trolls. They are either obsessive fans or deeply dangerous haters, wishing me either a swift, seamless ride to the prime ministership or dead progeny and arse cancer.
But Eddie ensured this morning that the Devil and I became mutual followers. And now she’s showing me the latest tweet on her iPad. The Devil has tweeted just twice and follows only one person—me—and already he has two thousand three hundred followers and more by the minute.
It’s got to be an insider. A Tory staffer maybe. Or one of the many treacherous bastards on my side who hates me—no end of options there. We’ve got pictures of most of the Tory staffers on the inside of the stationery cupboard in the press office. Eddie had everyone—including me—memorise their faces and who they work for, in case we come across them socially. But nobody stood out in the church this morning just before the Devil’s first tweet.
Tom? Tom knows the answer to the Devil’s question. My best mate Tom. Tom with his iPad in the confessional. Charles—Chisel—whoever he is, has stoked my paranoia about Tom and his old man, as was his intention, but I can’t afford to indulge this sort of battiness because if I can’t trust Tom, then who? Only Eddie. Eddie—gorgeous, lonely but invulnerable, unfalteringly loyal, closed book, steady Eddie, who is hovering over my shoulder while I read the troll’s work. I close Twitter.
So, she demands again, are you going to tell me what on earth Vaughan Charles is talking about or do I have to guess—like I do about everything else?
Jesus, Eddie—calm down. Is it that time of the month already?
I didn’t really think that one through before I said it, as evidenced by the tears that now stream down her face. I walk over and open my arms, ready to comfort her. But Eddie throws her hands up in front of her chest, palms facing me defensively.
Don’t you dare try to touch me, you arsehole, she says. Have you no idea at all just how cruel you can be—how utterly inappropriate—when it comes to the people around you? It’s like you just don’t think anyone else has feelings—as if you think you can just say whatever pops into your head and it doesn’t matter who you hurt along the way. Oh, it’s fine for you with your insecurities and fucking panic attacks and palpitations and stuttering to need propping up and indulging by everyone in your orbit. We all know about that stuff and make allowances and tiptoe around you so you’re okay. You just think the world revolves around you. It’s no wonder you’re in so much trouble and people have such difficulty being loyal to you. You make it so damned hard—so hard, Danny. So just try to shut the fuck up for a while and maybe think about what you’re doing and who you’re hurting. No. God—I’m so angry. I’m going for a walk, Danny. And I may never come back. Try to sort this shit out, why don’t you, while I’m gone.
She walks out, slamming the door behind her.
Naturally I feel guilty now, but I know she’ll be back. She always returns to me. With the wrinkly husband away all the time, the step kids grown up and not too many friends that I know of, I’m really the only thing she’s got in her life.
And the bottom line is that she’s really just like me when it comes to the importance of winning. Yes. She’ll be back.
Errol bursts in as she leaves, his iPad open.
Who’s Devilindrag? he demands.
How should I know? That’s what I pay you for, right?
I’m not the CIA, Slatts.
Well that’s stating the bleeding obvious, Errol. Why don’t you talk to Eddie? She understands Twitter. We’ve just been kicking this around. But I wouldn’t have a clue.
So what’s this guy talking about—25 May 1974? What happened?
No idea, I say, now fuck off out of here, please, and give me some peace.
It was the first time I’d lied since Saturday.