RIDICULING

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.