THREATENING

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.