"Okay guys," said Sir Wilfred, "we've got three Under-Secretaries of State in the Commons, Julian, Jillian and Jo, so I suggest we designate them as your Chorus, Tim: they'll doughnut you and cheer in the right places – I'm told they're all pretty good with the Jazz Hands, and Julian has a basso-profundo sort of voice, so he can repeat the last word of each sentence, while the others say 'Amen' or 'Lordy Lord' or suchlike and we'll rotate them like a turntable; now, this bit for The Dame, have we got hold of that Red Hand of Ulster?" and Quentin, who had just returned, rather breathless – as if he'd been in the back garden having a quick ciggie with the Police Guards – said: "success! straight from the Leader of the Orangemen's Group Office – it was in a cupboard with their stockpile of Tizer and Vimto and back numbers of the Belfast Telegraph and a bit dusty, I think it's really just a tchotchke, or maybe a paperweight, but I gave it a wipe with my hankie on the way back," and from one of the voluminous pockets of his coat he pulled a red-painted bronze sculpture of a hand looking rather like that of a Police Officer refusing entry: "excellent," said Sir Wilfred, "I think that'll do nicely when the Oppos are booing, or asking rude questions; she can pull it out and say: 'talk to the Hand, Jeremy, the Face ain't listening until you begin to speak some Dunstable!' that should get a big cheer from the Orangemen – they won't realise it's theirs until they get back to their office and open the cupboard to get something to quench their thirst; wasn't there anything stronger in there?" and Quentin grinned: "three bottles of Bushmills, I've left two!" and from another pocket he drew an unopened bottle and three shot glasses; Tim, initially rather concerned about the proprieties of stealing from the offices of the Government's only supporters in Parliament, decided that, as the old sayings go: All's Well That Ends Well and The Ends Justify The Means, so, throwing caution to the winds, and dreaming of a tourbillion whistling through the Palace, emptied his glass in a oner and began to feel that maybe, just maybe, there was just a faint possibility of success ahead of them!