Malcolm

A stand? Right, The White Stripes, outside. There's only two people that's in The White Stripes. l um. . . l admire you. l really do, l admire you. Making a stand. So, l take it, l can tell the PM that you. . . you don't want to go to Washington? See, the PM, he wants you. . . Well, he wanted you to go on a fact-finder, you know. Problems we might have to face if it all goes boombastic in the Middle East. But, you know, that's you,you're on the verge, aren't you? You're on the verge of your stand, so. . . Christ on a bendy-bus. Don't be such a fucking faff arse. Right, OK, well, when you go to America, talk to Karen Clark at the State Department, yeah? Keep away from Linton Barwick. He's pushing the war for Caulderwood's lot. l'll deal with him. He uses a live hand grenade as a fucking paper weight. That's a true story. Talk to as few people as possible, that would be best for you.

Ah, diarrhoea. This is Minister for international Development. He should be talking about food parcels, not fucking arse-spraying mayhem. Oh, say it again. Yes, very good. What is this, the shitting forecast?

Ah, the smoking intel? Yeah. Well, honestly, l haven't got it. You haven't got it? l've just had it brought forward. Hey. OK. Just a quick reality check here, J Edgar Fucking Hoover, l don't work for you. You don't fucking tell me what to do.

All right now, my lovely friends, the bottom line is... Sorry. Michael's quite right, I do apologise, l won't use that again. The bottom line is the President is going to the UN. This will be the vote to commence military intervention. And the Prime Minister has decided that we should join him. Rob, lnnis, Little Bo Cock Jockey and the Leakey Fucking Mingebox, go back to your desks and prepare to start briefing now.

And he is gone! l know it was you who leaked Linton's war committee. lt wasn't? That's what you'll say when they come to sliper, fly you to Diego Garcia and carry out a cavity search? That's better. OK. l am putting you on a probationary period from today, until the end of recorded time. Do you understand? You're my guy now. Right? l own you. You are my Kunta Kinte. Go and get your fucking laptop.

As you're not used to this, I'll go through it for you. What happens in press conference is this. A bunch of press people appear. They have things called cameras and microphones, and mobile phones, hangovers and bad breath. Then you are going to walk out and read from what we call a prepared statement. In that, you will say, _I'm really fucking sorry for sounding like a hairy arsed docker after 12 pints. _I promise that I will never call an eight-year-old girl a cunt again. 'Can we now just draw a line over this and fucking move on? Thank you.’' Everybody goes home and we see what happens. The best case is you keep your job, although you will be the Sweary Woman of Whitehall.

Be here, now. You are supposed to be a Cabinet minister! You are supposed to be the officer class! Don't do this, don't make fucking waves.

Because it's your job to make him look good. What kind of PR person are you, anyway? I mean, look. Hey, hey, hey, hey! Are you going to take a bad story and make it worse? You say, "Oh, hi there, everyone. I know this looks bad, but wait till you hear this. It was actually the Minister for Social Affairs and Citizenship who called a child a cunt.” So, there you are, it is really much worse than we thought. If you were to go out there and tell the truth, it would be morally repugnant. Because you would be condemning a guy who's doing his fucking best to try and make things better. You'd be condemning him to the scrapheap.

Can you hear that sound? Underneath the champagne corks popping, there's another sound. The sound of the government's arses yawning open. Because we have got ourselves a superb leader-in-waiting, who's going to stick the boot into those coked-up cousin-fucking chinless aliens.

Correct. Not until we can trust you to keep the line. What is it, then? Foreseeable? No. No! Not foreseeable. That's fucking declaring war. Do you want to fucking declare war? Write this down. lt's neither foreseeable nor unforeseeable. You'd better walk on this fucking line.

Department of Social Affairs. Department of fucking, shocking, shitty, charlatan shits. That's what… Feet off the furniture, you Oxbridge twat. You're not in a punt now.

Don't start contradicting me on that kind of shit. This is the gift that's going to go on giving, believe you me. So you better keep your head down. I don't mean just when you’re frequenting your favourite glory holes. When this inquiry lands, you'd better have developed a very flat, stony face with no expression. But that'll be easy for you. It's your fucking cum face, isn't it?

Don't start with the moral objections, you fucking Blue Peter badge-wearing ponce. Go and make a contribution to fucking Amnesty International. Go buy a goat the whole village can fuck, but you are doing this for me. How dare you? How dare you? Don't you ever, ever call me a bully. I'm so much worse than that. Do it. Okay? Go wash your hands.

Don't you worry about Nicola's plan… I'll deal with that Sweaty Betty. Listen, when you wake up in the morning, you've got a routine, haven't you? Exactly, you have a plan, that's good. Nicola has a plan, that's not good…  But I have a plan that’s fucking great.

Don’t you realise we have got 17 different issues we are fighting with treasury about. I’ll tell you why I’m upset. I’m upset because these fucking morons over the treasury, these people, they are so paranoid. If you don’t tell them stuff like this, you don’t even CC or email, they think you’ve started a palace coup. You don’t seem to understand that I'm going to have to mop up a fucking hurricane of piss from all these neurotics.

Exactly. Exactly. Exactly, Nicola. See that fucking gibbering? That's what everyone is doing right now. The fucking cabal. The fucking opposition. and fucking us. We have grabbed the initiative. Well, life is just a succession of five minutes. Yeah, if Buddha had been on the cover of magazine. Yeah, could you get me the Yale Centre for Economic Renewal, please?

FUCK'S SAKE! Jesus! Christ! We'll never get another fucking adjective til I get to fucking smug and glum. ... haven't we - FUCKING RETARDED! Jesus Christ - Do you not think it would have been germane to check who you're talking to - it's a fucking newspaper office! it's not a fucking sanatorium for the fucking deaf - is it?!

*No, I'm not backing Dan Miller! Don't you fucking ever ask me a question again.

Fucking Ruislip, he's fucking dead as well! That fucking texting coward. Give me his number. What's his fucking number? Give me the fucking number of Tim in Ruislip. If you don't give me his fucking number, do you know what I'm gonna have to do? I'm gonna have to fucking go to fucking Ruislip and fucking snap the thumb and forefinger off of every single person I see, who I think resembles the kind of wanker that would be walking around in this day and age with a name like fucking Tim! How do you think that sounds, huh?

Get him properly fucking screen-tested. I'm sorry, mate, but you need a lot of powder. I've never seen anybody look so fucking ugly with just one head. And who was it that did your media training? Myra Hindley? I mean, it was terrible, all this, hands were all over the place. You were looked like a sweaty octopus trying to unhook a bra. It was like watching John Leslie at work.

Have I just stepped through a portal into a sausage machine, because this is making mince meat of my head. It's the end of the world as we know it. To paraphrase a popular fucking bungle song.

His constituency wall is collapsing and he doesn't give a shit.

I don't care. I don't care if he's tired. He looked like he didn't know what he was fucking talking about. Now, I know he doesn’t know what he’s fucking talk about, but he's got to appear as if he does, right? And that is your job, and your job. And yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours. With all due respect to ministers, give them the fucking lines. Right?

I had a friend, who used to indulge extra marital affair. OK. He will go off, have some dalliance, and every Monday he come back and he met his wife, and he told me all he did was, inside his head, turn the little switch, the affair never happened. OK!

I just wanted to say to you by the way of introductory remarks that I'm extremely miffed about today's events. and in my quest to try to make you understand the level of my unhappiness - I'm likely to use an awful lot of - what we would call - violent sexual imagery, and I just wanted to check that neither of you would be terribly offended by that.

I know why she should’t. Cause you know what, if she did that, she’d be dead, to me, to this department, to the government. And she will never get another story, or fucking whiff of story, as long as she kept her sorry, hack, bitch, face lingering around Westminster, because I would call every editor I know - which, obviously, that's all of them - and I'd tell them to gouge her name out of their address books so she'd never even get a job on hospital radio, where the sad sack belongs. That's what I'd tell her. Maybe you should do it, see you later.

Over there, 300 yards down the road, I mean, it's like a fucking cancer ward. I mean, there are people in there, they're fucking screaming at each other. They are screaming, "You gave me this fucking disease.” "You gave me this fucking disease.” And every corner that I turn there's another threat, (Terri). Hacks, hacks, fucking vampire hacks. And they're slaughtering us, (Terri). They are fucking slaughtering us and they want my face for a flannel! Yeah. And you know what? I used to be the fairy tale, I used to be the fucking pharaoh, Now I'm fucking floundering in a fucking Nile of shit. But I am going to fashion a paddle out of that shit. Yeah?

General Flintstone. Was it you? Did you leak PWlP PlP? I mean, l know you can't fire a gun, but can you use a fax? Hey, I am doing my own work. l'm doing my job.

I need you to go over there for me, I need you in that hotel. Fuck you, Andy Pandy, I am the loop. I want you in there for reasons that will not become clear to you for about 200 years, so just do it. Specifically see if any of Dan Miller's army are mincing around in fishnets and high heels. And I want updates every five, right? Okay. All right, and listen. Get onto your ex at The Mail, right, tell her no fucker is standing, they've all evaporated like cat's piss on a hot tin roof. Okay, Twat, have you got that? Yes, I heard that. Fuck you.

I said one at a fucking time. Stand up. I'm telling you to fucking stand up, you sack of fucking come. Stand the fuck up! Fucking move, right! See that? Fucking play with that, right? Never mind your fucking toys. Play with that. Go and stand in that fucking corner. Stand over there, right? And do not move or I will perform a fucking living fucking autopsy on you with a fucking rusty spade and I'll have your kidneys for fucking cufflinks.

I'm in the middle of slamming his smug face into a verbal deep fat fryer. You know Dan, of course, don't you? Why don't you sit down and join us? Join us! I don't know if you've met Mrs Susan Doherty? Mrs Doherty is a quiet fucking bat person, or a fucking motorway mingebag, or whatever the fuck we're calling these fickle shits this week. I'll have a fucking Fanta. OK.

I'm scaring you? I'm so sorry I'm fucking scaring you. I mustn't scare you, must I? I won't scare you, okay? I'll just explain what I'm going to fucking do to you. I'm going to take your bollocks, I'm going to fucking rip them off, I'm going to fucking paint eyeballs on them and I'm going to stitch them onto a fucking sock and use that as a mouthpiece.

And don't say you weren't prepared, because l rang ahead. Give us a minute, could you, please, love?

Is that trainers she's wearing? Are you wearing fucking trainers? You're supposed to be a civil servant, not a fucking playgroup assistant. Steve, oh, the man himself. Yes, what is it?

Julius Nicholson, right? Blue sky thinker? Ex-business guru? Dog rapist? He's being a nuisance to me. He also has got plans to squeeze your department so hard you'll be lucky if you're left with one bullock between the three of you. So all I am doing here is asking you formally if you will join me in a little bit of a circle jerk.

Excuse me, l need a word with you. Do not move from here or l'll fucking stab you. Right. Was it you? You know what l'm talking about.

Karen will want you to say "War is unforeseeable." And Linton will want you to talk up the "climbing the mountain of conflict" line. You say nothing, OK? You stay detached, otherwise that's what l will do to your retinas. No, no, no, no. We're going to stay here and you are going to rehearse saying nothing.

Yeah, hunky-dory, thanks. Can l get a coffee? l'm sorry, l don't. . . This situation here is. . . is this it? No offence, son, but you look like you should still be at school with your head down a fucking toilet. Don't get sarcastic with me, son. We burned this tight-arsed city to the ground in 1814. And l'm all for doing it again, starting with you, you frat fuck. You get sarcastic with me again and l will stuff so much cotton wool down your fucking throat it'll come out your arse like the tail on a Playboy bunny. l was led to believe l was attending the war committee. And here we are. The fucking Vice President has also graced us with his presence. Give him a bottle of milk.

'- The Japanese. They'll have a printer.

Linton! Linton! Are you fucking me about? I've just come from a briefing with a nine-year-old child. Well, his briefing notes were written in alphabet spaghetti. When l left, l nearly tripped up over his fucking umbilical cord. Yeah, apparently, your fucking master race of highly-gifted toddlers - can't quite get the job done between breast feeds and playing with their Power Rangers. So, an actual grown-up has been asked to fucking bail you out.

Linton, come here. - The intel your guys couldn't find. Yeah? l think that l am owed a massive, grovelling apology. A pleasure doing business with you. You know, l've come across a lot of psychos... but none as fucking boring as you. l mean, you are a real, boring fuck. - Sorry. I know you disapprove swearing. So, I'll sort that out. You are a boring F star-star cunt.

Listen, Mary Queen of fucking Shits. In the old days we would have just slit you up the middle like a fucking Cornish pasty. Hang your steaming entrails all around the Tower of fucking London. Catch you later, you fucking traitor.

Listen, if you are not a prostitute or a pizza guy, fuck off! Steve, listen, could you eat or fuck whatever's at the door on your fucking way out, please? No, thanks. How can I be held responsible? What? For what? I've created a what around the government? I've created a vibe? Listen, son, the only fucking vibe you have to worry about is the one that your wife hides in her knicker drawer. I am on top of this, okay?

Listen, l hear that you might be preparing a story that we might not like. Yeah, please. l just wanted to say, please, this garden-wall story, don't run with that. Simon Foster's constituency office wall. That's what you've got, haven't you? Oh, shit. l haven't let the cat out of the bag, have l? Please, don't run with that. My reputation will be in tatters.

Look people really like you when you go just a bit early. You know, steely-jawed, faraway look in your eyes, before they get to a point when they sitting around pub say, “Oh, that fucker's got to go.” You surprise them! “Blimey, he's gone, I didn't expect that. Resigned? You don't see that much any more. Old school, respect, I rather like the guy, he was hounded out by the fucking press.” How about that, huh? What a way to go, yeah?

Look… you're in no position to dish out fucking sarcasm. That's over. You no longer have purchase in the sarcasm world. Get on the phone. Tell him you're jumping before you're pushed, although we were going to push you, but not because of press pressure but because of your deeply held fucking personal issues, whatever they were.

Don't fucking give... Look, half an hour ago you were in with a shot. This is half an hour hence. We've fucking time-travelled, yes? We're in a weird and wonderful world where everything is different. Maybe outside the polar icecaps have melted. Maybe there's fucking robots knocking about, and Donald Trump's the new Pope. Maybe you can download rice. I want you right now to think about your future, okay? Think about what you are doing. Get yourself back on the train to fucking reality (Tomsville) pronto, yeah? Half an hour ago.

Make sure fucking (Nicola) doesn't top herself, eh? Make sure that Ben does. Oh, and Glenn... Glenn, I've got a very special task for you, my unelectable friend. Turn the fucking phones back on.

Mr Ambassador, with your big, baldy head, you are spoiling us! A word? Excuse us, just for a second. Great. Well, l need it delayed now. Well, actually, two and a half hours, now that you've brought it forward.

No no no no no. It’s not ok, It’s not gonna be ok, I’ll tell you why, because you are fair game, so I hope your knickers are clean. Because every seat-sniffing little shit bag that’s ever filed a by-line is gonna questioning you. Cos now it’s in the fucking public interest, isn’t it? And they’re gonna hit you with any shit they can find, you’re gonna be spread out there in front of them like trollop in the stocks.

No, I haven't seen that. I'm the senior press guy for the government of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. No, I don't look at the newspapers. That's fucking news to me.

No, he's the nowhere man, he's fucking nowhere. The good news, however, is that the, eh… Well, the fucking Tom wobble, it's over. And so the… That's great, isn't it? Well, it means still the rats are now returning to a very buoyant ship and they're playing deck tennis, so that's lovely, isn't it?

No, l don't want to hold. l'm not holding any longer. What's he waiting for, a fucking sex change? No, you relax! Get me fucking Brian! If you don't get me fucking Brian, I'm gonna come over there. l'm gonna lock you in a fucking flotation tank and pump it full of sewage until you fucking drown.

OK, OK, go ahead and print "unforeseeable”.  Listen, assume l tell your wife about you and Angela Heaney at the Blackpool conference, what would be best, an email, a phone call or what? Hey, l could write it on a cake! With those little silver balls. "Your hack husband betrayed you on October 4th… and congratulations on the new baby.” Maybe it's better to spike it, yeah. OK, fuckity bye.

OK, this is what we’re doing. I’m putting it about through a number of cronies. This Hewitt’s piece is a packet of bollocks. He did it as a favour to Cliff. Cliff Lawton, Hugh’s predecessor.

OK. Cut the top paragraph and paste it into page 5. Right, yeah, we've done it. Page 6 - get rid of the footnotes. Done. - Go to page 9. - Go to page 9. Highlight from that page to the end of the document. - Go on, do it. - The caveats? - OK. Delete. - Right, OK, we're doing it. Delete it. Oh. There's a shake of the head here, Malc. l think he's crashed. Give him a thump - that usually works. Let me try a wee bit of manual override. Let's see if it is possible to delete the arguments against the war. Hey! You could delete it, after all. lt's done. Great. Now, attach that to an e-mail. Yes, done it. Done it. Let's find a printer.

OK. I want to have a bit of a think about some of our presentational issues with regard to yesterday. There seems to have been a bit problem last night with Liam on NewsNight. I want to know why did we have a minister on last night who did not appear to know their lines.

OK. Your phone is off, but there's been a catastrofuck here. Someone's leaked Liza Weld's PWlP PlP paper to the BBC. Jesus Christ! l reckon it's going to be on the six o'clock on CNN, one o'clock your time. That is going to fucking fist your UN vote to death. Hey, you ! Freeze! Right. Missing you loads. PWlP PlP toodle-oo. l want a fucking word with you. OK, Jamie, two jobs. Job one. Find the PWlP PlP leaker and kill them. Job one has two parts. Job two. Go to the BBC and find out who's got it there. We need them to delay till after the vote. Yeah? l love you.

(Dan Miller). Of course I fucking do. That is my mission? You, Mr Fucking Ming (Nutty Bar), have given me a task? Jesus Christ, who the fuck does guy (Tom) think he is? You (Nick), tell the mighty fucking Boss (Tom) that his transition will be as smooth as a Brazilian's fucking virgin thigh.

Of course it fucking does. as per the wee bar code and the serial number under your right armpit. you are now built and owned by the this state and you're under the spotlight 24 hours a day, darling! You know what you are? You're a fucking human dart-board. and think Eric fucking Bristow's on the ochre throwing a million darts made of human shit right at you. Can you take that? Can you?

Of course you have a choice. You can decide exactly how you say “yes". You can do it with a voice. Have fun with it. I look forward to toasting your success. Have a lovely time in Leamington, yeah? Of course you can fucking go.

Of course, you wouldn't know that now because the only people who know that right now are Mrs Murray, her daughter, Olly and me, yeah. If this gets into the press, I would know that it came from you. And I would rain down upon you so hard that you'd have to be reassembled by fucking air crash investigators. Do not fucking interrupt me, son, ever. Now, get this into the noggin, right? You breathe a word of this to anyone, you mincing fucking cunt, and I will tear your fucking skin off, I will wear it to your mother's birthday party and I will rub your nuts up and down her leg whilst whistling Bohemian fucking Rhapsody, right? Now, get out of my fucking sight!

Oh, welcome to the men's room! Jesus Christ, listen. It's this simple, right? If she goes on with Nicola, she'll be watched by 15 housebound mouth-breathers. Oh, and by the ever-swelling ranks of the unemployed who fucking hate us, by the way. But if she goes on with Tom, she'll make the 10:00 news, right?

Oh, who cares about the opinion of some golf-obsessed prick in a bow tie? Just scoop your guts up, put them in a fucking wheelbarrow and come over.

Oh, yeah, of course. Yeah, I read Rob Holt's blog. I read all the blogs. 'Cause basically I'm an underemployed, fat farting fucking loser. Got nothing better to do with my time than sit in my bedroom like a space-hopper in a tracksuit, reading, inconsequential, unspellchecked shit, fabricated by other fat, farting, fucking losers.

Okay, right, listen up. Where's (Robyn)? Robyn, come here, quick. Listen, I'm bringing Jamie in to firefight this Watford story, okay? So you're gonna be working with Jamie for the rest of the night. You take orders from Jamie. You are going to bury this Watford arse-ache tonight, okay? 'Cause tomorrow morning, from broadsheets to wank rags, I want page one, two and three to be a profile of Tom looking like a fucking political colossus. You know, Tom meeting the Pope, Tom in an NHS hospital chatting to little baldy kiddies. I want pages four and five to be a timeline of the last few years in British politics with me at the centre, looking fucking indispensable and fucking benign. And I want page six to be fucking Israel or some bullshit, not a fucking DoSAC dip-shit legacy-distracting cock-up!

People say to you, right? They say, "We hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” Everybody hates you. So fucking what? Some people, they just fucking love to hate. Some people, they'd fucking walk around the fucking stage (Garden of Eden) fucking moaning about the lack of fucking mobile reception. These are the kind of fucks who watched Trump (Mandela), fucking Donald Trumps (Nelson Mandela), walk to presidency (freedom) and said, “This not on the other side?” So we fucking forget about them. Swing Patrol, Swing Time (JB, Cal Richards) and their hordes of fucking robots, they're coming over the hill towards us and all you have got to do is this. Bend down, pick up any fucking weapon you can and twat the fuckery out of them. Let's get out there and let's fucking kill them.  Let's set fire to tiers! Let's go! Come on! Let's go, yes!

Right, stop rolling around naked in the headlines. Blind Man's Crumpet's on the way up. If you're going to film on your phones, try not to make it obvious. And no smiling. Not even a wee fucking Anne Robinson, right? The look we're going for should be solemn respect, you know, like blokes modelling underpants.

Right. Eight constitutes a lockdown. Right, people, listen up! It's a fucking lockdown. Right now. We are in a prison drama and this is the fucking Shawshank Redemption right? But with more tunnelling through shit and no fucking redemption.

Right. Pinky and fucking Perky,  listen, this fourth sector thing, right? It's fucking mad. She's mad. She's like Tom Cruise’s favourite fucking brush, right? But the great thing about it is, it's free. So you two, I want you to rub your dicks together and get some fucking energy going in here. I don't care whether you inject yourself with stem cells or put cocaine in your fucking Fruit Corners, just get on with something.

Right. Thanks for the heads-up, mate, yeah. Listen, I need a police station with a lot of exits and entrances, in case the press show up. Sam. Sam, Sam. Brentford, right, OK. Listen, Sam. Get a hold of Greg Fraser for me. I need some hard lawyering.

Sam, what is it? A call from Stewart Pearson. Stewart Pearson. I'm the fucking wanker's lodestone today! Stewart, yes. The goatee-bearded guru-boy of Company B.

Scruples? Scruples, what are they? Is that those low-fat kettle chips? Okay, people, wake up and smell the cock. Hey, Ben, next time that you want to stab Caesar, make sure you're not holding a fucking plastic spoon.

So, the wires are all currently reporting that you're going to resign over the war.

Sorry, please don't insult my intelligence by acting as if you're all so naive that you don’t know how this all works. Everybody in this room has learnt (bent) the rules to get in here, because you don't get in this room without learning (bending) the rules, you don't get to where you are without learning (bending) the rules, that's the way it is.

Stats, percentages, international comparison, information. E-mail them fucking wads of information. And tell them get their heads around it before they put pens to paper, or I'll be up their arses like a fucking Biafran ferret, right? Come on, unleash hell!

Terri, good news, I believe. You were about to tell us some good fucking news. What the fuck is it?

That was flown by one of Nicholson's mob. I'm spending half of my time now dealing with this rubbish that Nicholson's putting out.

Yeah. Sorry, Michael is quit right, I do apologise, I won't use it again, the Bottom line is, that you come out again? That's why you have to stay in Government, so that you can influence things. ln here, you can influence things, you can delay things. Out there, you're just another mouthy, shouty mad fucker who people don't want to make eye contact with. Remember Mary? Remember what happened? She took a stand on health. Everybody decided that she was mental.

The BB fucking C, yeah, I mean, they crumble at the first sign of pressure, like an old woman's hip. That's why they've got a fucking programme called Sorry! Right, the PM is coming home early, and he's asked for an audience with <señor> Malcolm Tucker. So I'm getting my paddle, Terri, I'm getting my paddle.

The bad news is that they will run with headteacher bends the rules and gives preferential treatment to cabinet minister.” It's unacceptable. The Board of Governors will have no choice, he'll have to resign. Yeah, I'm afraid it's fuck off, Mr. Chips.

This could be a great deal worse. You have had a good innings, you have been here for 18 months. And you know, I have written some very nice things about you in the PM's reply to your resignation. Some very nice fucking things indeed. I had a lump in my throat. And you know why? Because no one who matters thinks any less of you over this, so far. OK?

This is the delightful Robyn. She's just with us today. She's standing in to cover the Department of Social Affairs. So let's be gentle with her please. No remarks about the Department of Stuffed Anuses, or the Department of Stupid Announcements or the Department of Sod All. Right, next.

This lift is - I mean it’s fucking huge! I mean this is bigger than some rooms; this is bigger than some people's flats. Oh, well that's great. That's fucking great. That's another fucking thing right there. Not only you've got a fucking bent husband and a fucking daughter that gets taken to school on a fucking sedan chair. you're also fucking mental! Jesus Christ, see you you are a fucking omni-shambles that's what you are. You're like that coffee machine, you know, from bean to cup, you fuck up.

We need to persuade Matt Delaney not to cross the floor. I think we should use the carrot-and-stick approach, yeah. You take a carrot, you stick it up his fucking ass, followed by the stick, followed by an even bigger, rougher carrot.

We're old soldiers, right? This is life in wartime, okay? I mean, every now and then you're going to get an incident of friendly fire. Yeah? Good man. Yes, good… Now that you've lost Geordie Julie, the merry fucking widow, you've got a hole in your speech. Right, so have we got a contingency for that? Well, look, why don't I help you? Let's roll some tits up the flagpole and see if anyone gets wood.

Well, the thing is, people like you and I, Ollie, we need time, right? We need time to ease the transition from one regime to the next. And I've been hearing from a very nasty and very baldy little bird that we might not be getting the time that we need to make the alliances that we need to ease the transition.

Well, yesterday, the announcement that you didn’t make, today, you did. Fuck that. Look, this is what they run with. I tell them that you said, they believed you said, you don’t really believe what you said, they know that you never said, but it’s in their interest to say that you said it. Because if they don’t say that you said it, they’re not get what you say tomorrow or the next day when I decide to tell them what is your saying.

What did Prime Minister actually said to you? What did he actually say? Should be doing. Should does not mean yes. Now there’s only one thing to do here, it’s what I’m gonna tell you to do. Kill it.

What the fuck is your girlfriend doing, hitting us with this? You won’t mind if I kill her then, will you?Hey, hey, hey, hey, if you could sweet-talk that sour-face bitch into dropping this you will be sweet to me, actually very very sweet. Yeah, I will just have to kill both of you, will I. That’s a joke by the way, not a very nice one, a nasty one which masks a lot of very negative feelings about this fucking department.

What? The actual war. . . the actual war committee? Who's going to be there? How about the rest of the committee, who are they going to be? Jimmy Osmond, Gwyneth Paltrow? lt's a diversion. The real committee, that's happening at the White House. Don't mention this to the press, OK? Don't mention it to anyone. lf the press get a whiff that there's a war committee even a cardboard one, every fucker in this town is gonna turn up and try and get on it. So no matter what gay bar you end up in, keep it shtoom. Yeah, well, l have to have a word with you. You might want to slip into your negligee.

Where's all this education, where does it go when it comes to this? You take this and this and you put it onto your bird's breasts and you rub them and squeeze them very, very gently. You get her into the sack, you bang her fucking brains out, make sure that she comes and you just give her the policy.

Where's the war committee? l thought l was going the war committee. Just tell me where the fuck is it happening? Let me tell you what's going on where you are, sweetheart. A certain vinegar-faced, manipulative cowbag is about to discover that she's out of a fucking...job. Fucking hung up, haven't you? You fucking hoity-toity fucking. . . Kiss my sweaty balls, you fat fuck.

Yeah, I know, we did take a hit over the focus group thing. But it wasn’t a great hit. Oh yes, says who? Oh, the prime minister told you that, ooh get you... Look, I can only cook with what I’ve been given. You know, it’s like ready steady cook. You give me Hugh Abbot, I give you bangers and mash. But if you give me Gerry from the Home Office, well I can then rise it to fucking risotto and scallops. Do you know what I mean. Yeah, yeah, yeah, OK, bye.

What the fuck does that mean? Yeah, very easy to mock. The closest you'll come to getting one of those is buying a fucking Toblerone. l'll meet you in the car. Come on, back to London.

Yeah, we've got to plug that leak. l don't know what else they've got and where's this intel? Are you sure you're working as hard as me? l'm sweating spinal fluid here. l'm a fucking husk. Jesus.

Yeah, well, my expert would totally oppose that. No idea, but I can get one by this afternoon. You have spoken to the wrong expert. You've got to ask the right expert. You've got to know what an expert’s going to advise before he advises you. Hugh, whether you like this or not, you are going to have to promote this Bill. So what I'm going to do is, I'm going to get you another expert.

There is an informant. lce Man. l don't name them. lce Man.

Yes, the reshuffle. No, yes, definitely, we don't know anything. I don't know anything, so we can't say anything. But you know, even if we did, we wouldn’t. But we don't, so we both can't and won't.

Yes, there is a pending reshuffle. I can see we’re not going to get anything past you. There was a young girl from DOSA who helped herself to a samosa. Argh! Next time I'll come up with something. Just a bit of fun.

You and me, Ollie, hey? I just realised that we're in the same boat, yeah? Well, I mean, obviously, I'm up on the bridge with the binoculars and the Richard Gere gear on, and you're down in the engine room trying not to get bum-raped by a bunch of big lads with shovels. But essentially, it's the same boat.

You are not a grandee, you're a fucking blandee. No-one knew what the fuck you stood for. Political fucking mist. No substance, no weight. You've got all the charm of a rotting teddy bear by a graveside. By the way, women fucking hate you. I can show you the polling. They think you come across like a jittery mother at a wedding. The best thing you ever did in your flat-lining non-leadership was call for an inquiry. Because that will fuck the government, and it will fuck you.

You fucking drive off like that again and I'll stick your meter so far down your throat, you won’t be able to tell the price of your next shfit.

You know Jackie fucking Chan about me. You know fuck all about me! I am totally beyond the realms of your fucking tousle-haired, fucking dim-witted compre-fucking-hension. I don't just take this fucking job home, you know. I take this job home, it fucking ties me to the bed, and it fucking fucks me from arsehole to breakfast. Then, it wakes me up in the morning with a cup full of piss slammed in my face, slaps me about the chops, to make sure I'm awake enough so it can kick me in the fucking bollocks.

You know that film, Notting Hill, have you see that? You know that bit when that guy opens the door, there’s like millions of journalists, hacks, photographers, all flashbulbs are going off. In four hours time, that’s gonna be you darling. They’re gonna be all over you like fucking cockroaches.

You still don't need to resign. lt's not ridiculous. lt's not ridiculous at all. . . You're fired. Over the wall, l mean, that's just not tolerable. Look. Give me the paper. The Telegraph has a cartoon of you teetering on the Great Wall of China, suggesting you are the only political fuck-up visible from space. Look at this. Look at it. No-one could survive this. The PM's very clear about this. You're sacked - over the wall. l have spoken to the PM. Whether it's happened or not is irrelevant. lt is true. And he was very clear you've got to go. Well, if you want to turn this into some anti-war protest, expect to hear your "mountain of conflict" sound-bite everywhere. From ring-tones to fucking. . . a dance mix on YouTube. And l will marshal all the media forces of darkness, to hound you to an assisted suicide. Right-ho. Let's just go and draft your. . ."Dear Prime Minster, Just a quick note to say, 'Thanks for giving me the sack,"' letter. Off we trot. Come on, young Simon.

You, hey, put the snifter out there that if the BBC ambushes a minister with another surprise question about the war, l'll drop a bomb on them. Does that not fit within your purview, Marie Antoinette? Why don't you just scuttle off back to fucking Cranford and play around with your tea and your cakes and your fucking horse cocks. Let them eat cock! Hey, you! Ron Weasley, you do it.