Yes, (Prime) Minister
Collecting the dribs and drabs I appear to be writing in collaboration with phlebjorn:
Yes, Prime Minister/Drop the Dead Donkey:
Sir Humphrey refrained from rolling his eyes. Even at this late stage in his career, it wouldn't do to make enemies of the media when he could avoid it. This reporter - and he really was slipping if he couldn't remember the man's name twenty minutes after they had been introduced - looked sharp enough to catch the first signs of his interviewee's boredom and vain enough not to forgive such a slight.
"Sir Humphrey-" At last! The reporter's smooth, slightly affected Royal Shakespeare Company voice broke through the white noise of the recording studio. "You went to Balliol College?"
Sir Humphrey nodded acquiescence.
"My cousin was there at the same time. Gerry Davenport - he also read PPE."
It took considerable effort not to let his eyebrows rise in astonishment. Old Squiffy Davenport, related to this prematurely balding hack? Now Squiffy himself, there was a man who knew which side of his ciabatta slice was covered in best Jersey butter. He'd been a state-run grammar school boy made good, if Sir Humphrey recalled correctly, and he'd been startlingly good at sucking dick for a chap who'd never even heard of The Sacred Band of Thebes before coming to university.
The reporter - Henry Davenport, that was his name - was still talking. "Yes, Gerry mentioned you once, just after Prime Minister Hacker's Eurosausage debacle."
This time, Sir Humphrey did raise his eyebrows, just enough to communicate his vague interest in the subject.
"He said you were always his favourite fuck. Recommended I try you out, if I ever got the chance. See why you were really called 'Humpy'."
Years of training in the art of pokerfaced reactions served the civil servant well. With just the slightest quirk of a smile, Sir Humphrey leant forward in his chair, his action mirrored by Davenport. "Henry," he began, giving every impression of enjoying the sound of the name on his tongue, "don't mention Hacker's balls up with the ambassador and the tea lady and you might just get that chance."
Davenport smiled a tad too cockily for Sir Humphrey's comfort. "Yes, Permanent Secretary."
Yes, Minister/Harry Potter:
Sir H: "It was felt, by those who are wont to feel such things, that the feeling was that you would fail to feel the sort of understanding understood by those of us who feel such an understanding is necessary, instead taking it upon yourself to opine upon the matter in such a manner as to further the understanding of those whose understanding of this situation it is felt might undermine the undertaking."
Jim: "In other words, you're shagging Snape?"
Sir H: "Yes, Minister."
Yes, Prime Minister/Drop the Dead Donkey:
Sir Humphrey refrained from rolling his eyes. Even at this late stage in his career, it wouldn't do to make enemies of the media when he could avoid it. This reporter - and he really was slipping if he couldn't remember the man's name twenty minutes after they had been introduced - looked sharp enough to catch the first signs of his interviewee's boredom and vain enough not to forgive such a slight.
"Sir Humphrey-" At last! The reporter's smooth, slightly affected Royal Shakespeare Company voice broke through the white noise of the recording studio. "You went to Balliol College?"
Sir Humphrey nodded acquiescence.
"My cousin was there at the same time. Gerry Davenport - he also read PPE."
It took considerable effort not to let his eyebrows rise in astonishment. Old Squiffy Davenport, related to this prematurely balding hack? Now Squiffy himself, there was a man who knew which side of his ciabatta slice was covered in best Jersey butter. He'd been a state-run grammar school boy made good, if Sir Humphrey recalled correctly, and he'd been startlingly good at sucking dick for a chap who'd never even heard of The Sacred Band of Thebes before coming to university.
The reporter - Henry Davenport, that was his name - was still talking. "Yes, Gerry mentioned you once, just after Prime Minister Hacker's Eurosausage debacle."
This time, Sir Humphrey did raise his eyebrows, just enough to communicate his vague interest in the subject.
"He said you were always his favourite fuck. Recommended I try you out, if I ever got the chance. See why you were really called 'Humpy'."
Years of training in the art of pokerfaced reactions served the civil servant well. With just the slightest quirk of a smile, Sir Humphrey leant forward in his chair, his action mirrored by Davenport. "Henry," he began, giving every impression of enjoying the sound of the name on his tongue, "don't mention Hacker's balls up with the ambassador and the tea lady and you might just get that chance."
Davenport smiled a tad too cockily for Sir Humphrey's comfort. "Yes, Permanent Secretary."
Yes, Minister/Harry Potter:
Sir H: "It was felt, by those who are wont to feel such things, that the feeling was that you would fail to feel the sort of understanding understood by those of us who feel such an understanding is necessary, instead taking it upon yourself to opine upon the matter in such a manner as to further the understanding of those whose understanding of this situation it is felt might undermine the undertaking."
Jim: "In other words, you're shagging Snape?"
Sir H: "Yes, Minister."