METAPHORING

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.

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?

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

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.

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!

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?

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.

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

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.

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?

(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?

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.

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, 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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 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.