Power

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Power 〰️

The Edinburgh Fringe is back for 2026, and with it, our annual feature series! This year, we’re taking on POWER: Who’s got it? Where is it? Where should it be? How do you get it? Our comedians are the only ones with the answers.

By Cecily Hitchcock

I knew every inch of him. The sweep of his hair. The stretch of his smile. His tendency to poll well with Middle England. And yet, I didn't feel I knew him at all. Perhaps I had only ever known the version of him I wanted to know.

The abdication was nearly complete. I stood against the far wall as aides drifted through Downing Street carrying boxes of books and belongings. The walls had begun to surrender their portraits. The house itself seemed impatient to be rid of him.

Downing's decade of Blair domination was over. The Brownze Age was about to begin. Yet I felt strangely reluctant to brush off my hands. To do so felt like wiping them clean of the hand I had held, both tightly and loosely, for ten years.

"Congratulations, Prime Minister-elect."

I jumped. I hadn't expected him back so soon. He strolled towards the desk, hands in his pockets. Even now he looked less like a departing Prime Minister and more like the lead singer of an indie band whose albums I secretly owned.

"Tony."

"Prime Minister Gordypops."

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't call me that."

Tony giggled. That famous Blair smile melted across his face. "Why not?" he chirped. "You've only been waiting thirteen years. You look handsome.”

"Thank you" I mumbled, smoothing my hair flat against my head.

I hated that. Nobody called me handsome. Serious. Thoughtful. Dependable. Those were my adjectives.

"You'd be the only person to describe me as handsome, Tony.”

"I don't know," he said, lifting a Diana commemorative mug from his desk and eyeing it, and then me. "You have your moments."

"I've been called many things. Sturdy. Thick-set. One journalist compared me to a Newfoundland. You're the only one who's ever called me handsome."

Tony threw his head back and laughed.

"A Newfoundland. Blimey, yes! I remember that."

Of course he did. Tony remembered the things that made people feel seen. It was one of his gifts. And, occasionally, one of his cruelties.

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"The dark eyes," he said. "The dependable nature. Slightly melancholy expression."

Yes. The trustworthy Newfoundland. And him? Quite obviously, a Labrador.

Golden. Big tonguey smile. Effortlessly popular. Forever bounding into rooms and emerging moments later with the affection of everyone inside them. The sort of dog trusted with the nation's arse. I imagined myself as a great rain-soaked Newfoundland staring across a windswept moor at a Labrador named Tony, watching in disbelief as he somehow won over every farmer, sheep and passing rambler before I'd even arrived. Labradors never appeared to work particularly hard, yet somehow everybody preferred them. It was, when stripped of all political detail, a fairly accurate summary of the last thirteen years.

My vision was broken by the sound of him dropping the mug into a box. With his hand still outstretched, he sauntered towards me. Then, without warning, he brushed something from my lapel. His fingers lingered for half a second longer than strictly necessary. Not that I was counting. I had, however, been counting for thirteen years.

"Brown sauce," he murmured. His face was suddenly very close to mine.

"Hungry boy."

His shark-like grin then moved toward my ear. I could feel his breath inside it. “I remember how much you gobbed up that night at The Granita.”

My fists clenched. He pulled back and I saw his trademark smile had become devilish.

“Get fucked, Tony.”

I wanted him to. That night at The Granita I had wanted it then too.

There are moments in life that change you forever. The moon landing. The fall of the Berlin Wall. The first time you see Tony Blair roll up his sleeves.

The rumours of the night are wrong. This wasn’t just a relinquishing of power, a decision about the future of Labour. To me, The Granita was an intimate candlelit table for two. The Granita was a shared bottle of Malbec. The Granita was Tony wearing a crisp blue shirt and asking whether I wanted to share some garlic bread. I did not want the garlic bread. I wanted him.

And also the garlic bread.

It turned out he did not want to share garlic bread or much else with me either. The years that followed were a lesson in disappointment.

The deal was simple. He would lead. Then I. Instead, I watched Tony spend the next decade becoming the real Tony Blair. Every speech seemed suspiciously familiar. Every great idea appeared to originate somewhere in my immediate vicinity before finding its way into his mouth. Then came George, suddenly I was no longer the most important person in his life.

I took his wrist suddenly in my palm. Our lips approached each other. Then the BDSM began. BDSM being, of course, Blair’s Devoted Spin Machine — Alastair Campbell; who was now standing in the doorway of the room.

“Time to go, Tony” he said, giving me a nod as he vanished.

Tony gave me one more wink and left.

I stood alone in the office. Prime Minister at last. I walked slowly to the desk and lowered myself into the chair. His chair. My chair.

Outside, Britain hummed along happily. House prices were soaring. The banks were thriving.

The economy was booming and the future glittered before me. This was 2007!

I allowed myself a smile. After all, I had finally got everything I had ever wanted. What could possibly go wrong?

Cecily Hitchcock: Family Recipe is running at Pleasance Courtyard (Cellar) from Aug 5-30th, 20:10. Tickets here