SCENE: Daily Mail Editorial Meeting. Editor-in-chief Paul Dacre is at his desk, face shiny with sweat, his emotions swinging between rage and self-pity. Various senior staff are standing in front of him. They look frightened and defeated. Amongst them is Peter Oborne, political columnist and biographer of Burnley-born Alastair Campbell, the Tony Blair spin doctor who has been the target of much Mail vitriol.
MAIL EXECUTIVE (pointing at map): We couldn't get a map of Burnley. But of we juggle the letters in 'Berlin', they give us Bernli. Daily Mail readers will never know the difference and Alastair Campbell won't know because he never reads the Mail.
PAUL DACRE studies map.
PETER OBORNE (hesitantly): Mr Dacre...have you...have you read that blog he wrote (SEE MENU: ALASTAIR SPURNS PAUL'S LOVE)? He seems to think you are in love with him.
(Long pause. Dacre removes spectacles with trembling fingers.
DACRE: I've got a newspaper to run. (Glares at staff) Now go away and write poisonous crap. Now.
(Most staff shuffle out the door looking relieved leaving behind OBORNE and other senior executives. The door closes.)
DACRE (screaming): Of course I love him! But he doesn't love me back, the big gorgeous bastard. What am I supposed to do? Send him my underpants with flowers?
(Shot of junior staff eavesdropping outside the door. They look disturbed and even more depressed.)
DACRE (slightly calmer): He doesn't deserve my adoration. We'd make a great couple if only he'd see it! I lie in bed thinking about him. I sit here all fucking day thinking about him!
OBORNE: But Mr Dacre, Campbell says it can never be...
DACRE (murderously): Back off, Peter Oborne, he's mine!
OBORNE: Mr Dacre, I've written two books about Campbell. I want him too, so much.
DACRE: Fuck off, Oborne, those books were a pile of shit. And so are you. My Alastair deserves better! He's mine, I tell you. You people have no idea what it's like for me, to love a man who hates me. Yearning to lie beside him at night, or wake him with a nice cuppa and a cuddle. I feel the rejection every time we run a story about him. How dare he reject me? It hurts to print such vicious things about the man I love. But there's no other way to show him I've got such serious hots for him.
He's my hero, my kind of guy, my Alastair. I blame that Tony Blair. Before he came along it could have been Alastair and Paul, together, an item. Blair made Alastair hate me. I know it.
I've tried to channel my passion for Alastair into racism, homophobia and hating foreigners, making out the country has gone to the dogs, having a go at asylum seekers, single mothers, anyone I could think of to attack. But does my Alastair give a toss about me? No.
He only cares about his fucking Labour Party and bloody Burnley Football Club. I love him far more than they do!
(Outside the room, we see the concerned eavesdroppers. One woman begins to sob quietly.)
ANOTHER WOMAN (consoling sobbing woman): Don't cry, Mrs Dacre, he gets like this in the office.
Dacre (unnaturally softly): ...Just holding hands would be nice. I would not want to make him feel awkward. Not my Alastair. Just him and me. (Raising voice.) So fuck off, Peter Oborne... (calm again) We'd go shopping, see a movie, have dinner and a good laugh. He could tell me about politics. I've always wanted to know about that.
I love Alastair so much...
You can watch this production, with Adolf Hitler starring as Paul Dacre, at