Malcolm loved his job. Or at least, he would love it, if people actually did their jobs.

As the Director of Communications, he was used to handling all manner of ministerial and governmental business. Described frequently as the spin doctor quite literally from Hell, he supposed he had gained himself quite the reputation in Westminster.

Malcolm ran a hand through his grey hair, his stormy grey eyes matching his mood. He desperately needed to shout at someone, preferably in an incredibly graphic, borderline violent way. It was just party politics, after all. As a Glaswegian, he certainly wasn’t against using some choice words to get his feelings across.