The Thick of It is a British sitcom, satirising the inner workings of modern government, that finished its fourth (and final) series in October 2012. It stars Peter Capaldi as spin doctor Malcolm Tucker. See also In The Loop, a spin-off feature film.

Series 1, Episode 1 [ edit ]

(Malcolm's first line) Malcolm Tucker (on his phone, in Cliff Lawton's office): No, he's useless. He's absolutely useless. He is, he's useless, he's as useless as a marzipan dildo.

Cliff Lawton: Malcolm, look, um – if you do this, it's the bollocks of the jungle out there, you know? They're like wolves. Pissed wolves. Malcolm Tucker: I've made the announcement: I've told the Lobby you're going, Cliff. Cliff Lawton: You've told the Lobby I'm going? Malcolm Tucker: Yeah. Sorry, Cliff. Cliff Lawton: Minister. Malcolm Tucker: Yeah, get used to Cliff. I've booked you in for the usual soapy tit-wank farewell at Number 10, in 20 minutes. Also drafted you a letter of resignation: gives you the chance to say that you're jumping before you're pushed, although obviously we're gonna be briefing that you were pushed, sorry.

Malcolm Tucker: I'll tell you why I'm upset. I'm upset because these fucking morons over at the Treasury, these people, they are so paranoid. If you don't tell them about stuff like this, if you don't even cc them an email, they think you've started a palace coup! Hugh Abbot: Mal– Malcolm – Malcolm Tucker: You don't seem to understand that I'm gonna have to mop up a fucking hurricane of piss here from all of these neurotics! What did the Prime Minister actually say to you? Hugh Abbot: He actually said, 'This is exactly the kind of thing we should be doing.' Malcolm Tucker: What did he actually say? Hugh Abbot: He said, 'This is exactly the sort of thing we should be doing.' Malcolm Tucker: 'Should' be doing. 'Should' does not mean 'yes'.

Glenn Cullen: What we need is something that the public want, is incredibly popular and is free. Ollie Reeder: Return of capital punishment. Hugh Abbot: That's a joke, right? You are joking, yes, obviously? Come on Ollie, come up with something. Ollie Reeder: National spare room database. Hugh Abbot: What about zoos? My kids went to a zoo the other day and they said it was fucking disgusting, you know, the state of it. That's shit, isn't it?

Hugh Abbot: What are we gonna do now? Malcolm Tucker: You're gonna completely reverse your position. Hugh Abbot: Hang on a second. Malcolm, it's not actually that, um – I mean, that's gonna be quite hard, really. Malcolm Tucker: Yes, well the announcement that you didn't make today, you did. Hugh Abbot: No, no, I didn't, and there were television cameras there while I was not doing it. Malcolm Tucker: Fuck them! Hugh Abbot: I'm not quite sure h– what level of reality I'm supposed to be operating on.

Hugh: I want a new driver. Get me a new driver. I don't wanna see this guy ever again. Glenn Cullen: On what grounds? Hugh: Smiling! Inappropriate smiling! And smirking! Smiling and smirking! I don't wanna see that smile or smirk ever again, ok?

(Ollie and Angela are arguing. Tucker comes in) Malcolm: Hi, Angela! Oh, like the hair, nice little corkscrews. How's it going? Ollie: Fine. We were just talking about why Angela shouldn't do a big story on the big insidery piece, kinda day of spin, sort of spread in the paper... Malcolm: Oh, I don't know. Maybe you should! Good idea! (Malcolm leaves. Then comes back) Malcolm: Oh, wait a minute! I know why she shouldn't! Because , you know, if she did that, she'd be dead. To me, to this department, to the government. And she'll never get another story, or even a fucking whiff of a 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. But maybe you should tell her.

Series 1, Episode 2 [ edit ]

Terri: It's not my role to have a preference. I sell the apples. If you want me to sell the apples, I'll sell the apples, and if you want me to sell oranges, then I'll go and tell people that the apples? The apples are shit, Ollie. They're shit. I'll say, go on, check out our oranges!

Hugh: I work, I eat, I shower. That's it. Occasionally... I take a dump, just as a sort of treat. I mean, that really is my treat. That's what it's come to. I sit there and I think, "No, I'm not going to read the New Statesman. This time is just for me. This is quality time just for me." Is that normal? Glenn: It's sad. Hugh: Well at least I've made something.

Malcolm: (on the phone to Simon Hewitt) Fuck off, back to your match reports, ya twat!

(discussing an article by Simon Hewitt) Malcolm: Have you got to the bit where he calls you out of your depth? Hugh: No, at the moment he's calling me 'the political equivalent of the house wine at a suburban Indian restaurant'. That's not very good, is it?

Hugh: So, how do we respond to this? Terri: Right, we don't exchange insults with bloody Simon arsepipes titty-twat. Ollie: Is that honestly the best swearing that you can come up with? Glenn: This is a bucket of shit: if someone throws shit at us, we throw shit back at them, we start a shit fight. We throw so much shit back at them that they can't pick up shit, they can't throw shit, they can't do shit. Terri: Mm. Hugh: That's top swearing, Glenn, well done. Ollie: Watch and learn.

Hugh (thinking of policy ideas): Shut up for a minute, please. Where else can we go? Pollution, the environment. Litter. Dog shit. Ollie: Aiming high. Hugh: We aimed high, now we're at dog shit. Ollie: So what you're looking for – Malcolm (entering): OK, this is what we're doing. I'm putting it about through a number of cronies – Glenn: Morning, Malcolm. Malcolm: – that Hewitt's piece was a packet of bollocks; he did it as a favour to Cliff. Ollie: Cliff being – Glenn: Cliff Lawton. Ollie: Oh right. Malcolm: Hugh's predecessor; he and Hewitt are as tight as arse cheeks. Hugh: Are they now? Malcolm: Fuck knows, but that's what we're saying, OK? It's personal, it's backslapping, it's borderline homoerotic, and you are an innocent victim of a nasty media stitch-up.

Malcolm: And you're against it? Glenn: It'll die on its arse! 'My grandma was mugged by some ferret-faced teenager with a neck tattoo, what are you gonna do about it?' 'Teach him to play the bassoon.' It is, as my dear old mother would have said, double wank and shit chips. Glenn: Well, my guts still say no. Malcolm: Yeah, well substantial as they are, they've been outvoted. Hugh: Malcolm, I know you were very keen on Terri's appointment but, um – Malcolm: She's shit. Hugh: Well, I wouldn't go that far. Malcolm: She's a box-ticker, Hugh. She can't think outside the box. Hugh: No, in fact she's built a box inside the actual box and she's doing her thinking inside that box. Malcolm: Exactly, I like that. Hugh: I'm sorry, I'm so tired, Malcolm. Malcolm: No, that's good. Hugh: I have so much stuff to read and think about.

Terri: Anyway, these focus groups, they're absolutely useless. Ollie: Oh, so it's useless to ask people what they think, is it? It's useless to ask people's opinions before we formulate a policy? It's useless?! Glenn: Look, there's no point in asking people what they think. They either don't know what they think or they think that you should bring back hanging for traffic wardens. Or they just think what every right-minded thinking person would think, and that's just common sense! Ollie: Oh, yeah yeah yeah, oh yeah, "I'm Geoff Average, and I think the same as everybody else cos I'm Mr Average Normal Bloke and everybody thinks like me cos I work in IT, and on the weekends I pop a few pills and do a bit of DJ-ing, y'know, spare cash cos I'm a single mum and I'm a member of the National Trust, I enjoy any sports on TV, anything with Colin Firth, I enjoy domestic violence and sun-dried fucking...karaoke." Not everybody is the same, Glenn! People can surprise you! Glenn: Was that good-natured joshing?

Hugh: How fucked am I? Ollie: Well, you look awful, you look terrible. I mean, you often look quite bad, but... Hugh: In terms of negative publicity. On the fuckometer, where am I? Glenn: Oh, 12. Ollie: Yeah. 12, say. Hugh: Out of what? Glenn: Er... 50. Ollie: Oh. Mine was out of ten. Hugh: Right, (to Glenn) so I'm 24% fucked according to you, (to Ollie) but according to you I'm 120% fucked?

Hugh: Glenn? Glenn: What? Hugh: I've got a bit of a problem. You remember Mary from the focus group? Glenn: What, Miss Immaculate bloody Conception? Hugh: She's an actress. Glenn: What do you mean? Hugh: Well, I mean she's – No, there's no clearer way of saying it, she's an actress. Glenn: Are you sure? Hugh: I've just seen her, she's in The fucking Bill! Glenn: Oh, Jesus! Look, this doesn't necessarily have to be a total fucking disaster. Hugh: I think it does, because she wasn't for real, she's not really a stay-at-home Middle England housewife, she's just playing a part, so what she said wasn't, you know – (they walk past Terri, who is on the phone) Glenn: Yes. I do know. Terri: What, who said what wasn't what? Hugh (to Terri): We are organising focus groups to listen to the opinions of ordinary people, except they're not ordinary people, they're fucking actors, so they're not technically people at all! (Glenn and Hugh go to Ollie's desk) Terri (on the phone): Can I get back to you? Ollie (to Glenn): What is it? Glenn: Your fucking legend is a fucking actress! Ollie: Well, 'cause the focus group companies do it all the time: if they can't cobble together, you know, the right cross-section, they call a casting agency – Glenn: Dial-an-opinion, is it? 'Send me three liberals, two fucking mavericks and a racist.' Brilliant, Ollie, brilliant!

Malcolm: Hugh, we have to sort this out. When I asked you about the focus group – Hugh: Yeah. Malcolm: – you said 'she' loved it. Hugh: We gave her a one-on-one. Malcolm: Why? Hugh: She's Middle England. Malcolm: So Middle England is a big fucking field, with one woman standing in it? Hugh: Do you think Hewitt will find out? Malcolm: OF COURSE HE FUCKING WILL, SHE'S HIS MOLE! THAT'S WHY HE'S GOT A PIECE IN THE PAPER TOMORROW! (to Glenn, Ollie and Terri) We've got to shut this down now, right? I want this leaked to Angela Heaney. It's damage control, OK? We put out the story the way we want it, before Hewitt fucks us up the bugle. Get onto it, now!

Malcolm (to Mary): Do you just want to think about what is going to happen tomorrow? Hugh: Because tomorrow, you are gonna find the press all over you – Mary: In a good way? Hugh: No, not in a good way at all, I can tell you – Malcolm: You know that film Notting Hill, have you seen that? Glenn: She's probably fucking in it. Malcolm: You know that bit where the guy opens the door – Mary: What is this? Malcolm: – and there's like millions of journalists and hacks and photographers and all flashbulbs are going off? In about four hours time, that's gonna be you, darling: they're gonna be all over you like fucking cockroaches. Hugh (to Mary): It's OK, it's OK. Malcolm: No no no, it's not OK. It's not gonna be OK, and I'll tell you why: because you're fair game. So I hope your knickers are clean. Because every seat-sniffing little shitbag that's ever filed a byline is gonna be questioning you. 'Cause now, it's in the fucking public interest, isn't it? And they're gonna hit you with any shit they can find and you're gonna be spread out there in front of them like a trollop in the stocks! Glenn: Listen, if we get on the phone, can we pull the front page? Hugh: No. It's too late. Glenn: You mean Heaney's piece is gonna go ahead anyway now? Malcolm: Of course it's gonna fucking go ahead, I mean, I'm good but I can't fucking hold back the tide, can I? Hugh: Can you wake me in a couple of hours? (lies down on a sofa) There's no time to go home, I'll just pass myself coming back in.

Series 1, Episode 3 [ edit ]

Terri: Did you say we were gonna do a press release? Hugh: Yes, erm, "Following a successful report stage debate, Secretary of State for Social Affairs, Hugh Abbot, today announced: 'I'm the fucking daddy!'" Dan Miller: How are you, Glenn? Glenn: I'm good, thank you – Actually, I just thought you were very heavy-handed with the backbenchers. No need for it in this day and age. Dan Miller: Listen, Glenn. I mean, you know as well as I do, if you're going to make an omelette, you're going to have to have some frank and honest discussion with the eggs! And that's all I was doing.

(looking at Hugh's tie) Glenn: What are those? They're little hippos, aren't they? Hugh: I don't know what they are actually; I think they're just unidentified amusing creatures. Hugh: So what time does this Daily Mail hack get here? Glenn: Ten minutes, it's Angela Heaney, didn't I tell you? Hugh: So she left the Standard? Glenn: That's right, absolutely. Hugh: Go on then: ask me some questions. Glenn: Right, OK, I'll be Angela Heaney, and I'll ask you some questions. Hugh: My God, that's uncanny. Mind you, your tits are a bit bigger than hers. Glenn: Is it true that, although this Housing Bill went through Parliament with incredible ease – Hugh: Actually, can you just do it as yourself? Sorry, it's just slightly unsettling. Glenn: Right, erm – that you'll find a lot of difficulty in the real world? Hugh: On the contrary, this Bill is going to do an extraordinary amount of good for an extraordinarily large number of people. Ordinary people, but ordinary people who deserve a little bit of the extraordinary in their lives. (both start giggling) Glenn: Perfect. That's brilliant. That's brilliant! Hugh: It's a piece of piss. Glenn: There you are, you see. Hugh: Go on, ask me something hard. Glenn: Where's the Nazi gold, you donkey-shagger? Hugh: I'm very pleased you asked me that, Angela, because let me just say right away that this Bill is going to do an extraordinary amount of good for an extraordinarily large –

Malcolm (in his office, on his mobile): Hi Tom, what can I do for you? – Well, I didn't know what he was doing with his flat – I told him that fucking flat w– Well, they're not running with this – No, well, I know, he's got an interview now with that Angela Heaney, you know, the twat bubble from the Standard – Fuck, she's just gone to the Mail. I'm onto it. (hangs up and leaves)

(barely audible, outside the 'goldfish bowl' where Angela Heaney was interviewing Hugh) Malcolm (to Hugh): They're running about your fucking flat, I fucking told you about that. How the fuck did you think it was gonna run, you STUPID CUNT?! How am I supposed to control what's going on if I don't know WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? (Terri opens the door) YOU'RE A FUCKING PRICK! AN ABSOLUTE CUNT, do you understand that?

(discussing Angela Heaney) Malcolm: Hey hey hey, if you could sweet-talk that sour-faced bitch into dropping us you'd be sweet to me, you'd be very very sweet – Ollie: If I could sweet-talk that sour-faced bitch into anything I would have had a more comfortable four months – Malcolm: Yeah well, I'll just have to kill the both of you then, won't I? Ollie: Yeah, well. Malcolm: 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.

Hugh: Well what do you want me to do, resign? (Malcolm stares at him) No, no! No, that is – I'm not going over this. Malcolm: The way out of this situation is for you to – Hugh: This is madness, Malcolm, this desire for perfection, that – I am not perfect, I am just a person, right? I need to sleep, I need to eat, occasionally I need to take a dump. So, I mean, what's next, I mean, do we put that on the evening news, on the front page? "Minister is disgusting defecation outburst". Mollie Sugden at Number 10: "Did you enjoy your shit, Mr Abbot?" They should just clone ministers, you know, so we're born at 55, with no past, and no flats, and no genitals. Just a world of robots in a sort of – It's like a futuristic film, and you'd enjoy that, wouldn't you: you'd be in your little space station surrounded by obedient androids, like that fucking brushed-aluminium Dan Miller cyber-prick! Malcolm: It is possible to have a good resignation, you know! Hugh: A good resignation? Oh, I'm looking forward to how you're gonna sell this to me! Malcolm: Look, people really like it when you go just a bit early! You know, steely-jawed, faraway look in your eyes! Before they're getting to the point when they're sitting round in the pub saying "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 anymore! Old school! Respect! I rather liked the guy! He was hounded out by the fucking press!" How about that, huh? What a way to go, yeah?

Ollie: You know, I'm just the counter man in McDonald's, I'm not that important, frankly; you're the clown running the shop, you're the one that they want to see strung up from a lamppost by his fucking wig. Glenn: What does that make me? Ollie: Ronald McDonald. Glenn: Well, fuck off!

Malcolm: "Department of Social Affairs", Department of Fucking Shocking, Shitty, Charlatan, Shits! That's what – (to Ollie) Feet off the furniture, you Oxbridge twat! You're no' on a punt now.

Hugh (to Dan Miller): I've missed my ideal resigning point. With every day I delay, it's another year before I can get back again. If I had resigned the day I was appointed, I'd actually be Prime Minister by now.

Hugh: Social Affairs, what the fuck does that actually mean? You know, it's so vague. You know, 'Hello, I'm Hugh Abbot, the Minister for, I dunno, stuff'.

Series 2, Episode 1 [ edit ]

(Ollie has had sex with Emma) Hugh (to Ollie): Morning studmuffin, enjoy your walk on the wild side? How was your dip in the wild blue – pussy? Jamie: Have you seen the whips' numbers? Malcolm: NoMFuP. Jamie: Eh? Malcolm: NoMFuP, N-O-M-F-P, Not My Fucking Problem – I quite liked that, did you like that? Jamie: Yeah, it's very good. Malcolm: I think I'll use that quite a lot today. Jamie: I'll use it as well. Malcolm: I tell you the thing that's worrying me is, er – is this dodgy? Jamie: I don't know. The kid's firm was the second lowest bid. He says they never talked; what does it matter? Malcolm: No, but you know me, I'm a man of principle. Jamie: Oh, I know. Malcolm: I like to know whether I'm lying to save the skin of a tosser or a moron! Jamie: Probably a moron. Hugh: That was funny. Glenn: That was funny? Hugh: Yeah. Glenn: I don't think it was funny. Hugh: I'm an elected representative of the people. Glenn: Yes? Hugh: It was funny.

(outside Malcolm's office) Ollie: I just didn't want to interrupt you, I never know what you're doing in your – Malcolm: Yeah, well if the PM's giving me a blowjob I always put a sign up.

Hugh: Robyn, all events are regional, hmm? Everything that happens in the world has to happen somewhere. Do you see? Even JFK's assassination was a regional event. But it was also very important. Hmm? Like this factory visit? You see that?

Malcolm (to Geoff Holhurst): How much fucking shit is there on the menu, and what fucking FLAVOUR is it? Ollie (on the phone to Emma): Oh, Malcolm? No no, that's – I'm in a Scottish restaurant, some man's complaining 'cause they've under-fried his Mars bar – yeah, of course it's Malcolm! Malcolm (to Geoff Holhurst): You're worse than dead meat. I don't know why you're laughing: you're too toxic to even feed to the vultures. (discussing footage of Hugh being confronted at the factory) Mark Davies: Malcolm, this is a traditional old-fashioned news story, called 'Minister looks a tit'. Malcolm: Hey, everybody looks a tit, you know? Take two of these shots of him looking moronic out. Leave a couple in of him looking a little bit dim, put one of him composed, drop it down the running order, and we've got a deal. Mark Davies: I'm not – Deal, what deal, Malcolm? He looks a tit, that's it. I'm sorry. Malcolm: But there is a difference between allowing someone's natural tittishness to come through, and just exploiting it through camera work here! You're sticking one tit moment on top of another tit moment. That wouldn't happen in real life. Malcolm: Stats, percentages, international comparison, information! Email them fucking WADS of information! And tell them they'd better get their heads around it before they put pen to paper, or I'll be up their arses like a fucking Biafran ferret, right? COME ON, UNLEASH HELL!

Hugh: I know this is what they think people like me think, so I hate thinking it, but I just find myself thinking they're from a different fucking species; you know, with their T-shirts and weird trousers and tabards. Why do they wear clothes with writing on them? And why are they so fucking fat? Glenn: I know, and stupid. Hugh: God, I hate this place.

Ollie: (seeing a bag of chips from a bin on his chair) Oh nice, very nice. Jamie: WELL GO FOR FUCK'S SAKE, YOU BIG FUCKING PRICK! I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING EARS OFF, WE NEED IT DONE! Ollie: When I met you this morning, I thought you were the nice Scot!

Ollie: Fuck's sake. (answers phone) Oliver Reeder. Malcolm: Have you sorted it, Ollie? Ollie: It's not quite sorted just yet, Malcolm, it's difficult – Malcolm: Shall I send Jamie over? Would you like that? Ollie: No, no – Malcolm: You and Jamie and a rubber truncheon, locked in that fucking newsroom together. Ollie: No, I'm fine. Malcolm: Then make me happy. Bring me sunshine. Ollie: Right, I'll make you happy, Malcolm. (hangs up) Dickwad. (his phone rings again; he answers it) Oliver Reeder. Jamie: Hey all right, shitebag, you done it yet? Ollie: I'm just in the middle of doing it right now, but every time I try – Jamie: WELL, FUCKING HURRY UP! GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE! Ollie: (hangs up) Fuck's sake! (his phone rings yet again; he answers) I'm fucking doing it! I'm just – Sorry Emma, yeah, hi. I'm stuck in that meeting about equal pay. It's just – it's gone over.

Hugh (in a voicemail): Ollie, hi, it's Hugh. I just wanted to say thank you very very much: the way you shifted the spotlight onto Glenn was quite Tucker-esque, really very Malc-iavellian, if you know what I mean. Well done, and bye bye.

(deleted scene) Jamie: Oh, don't worry about Malcolm, he's only about half as scary as he thinks he is. Well, here, you can have this desk, it's free. Ollie: OK. Jamie: Don't worry, she won't be coming back. Hey, Joe, Joe! This guy is your replacement. I'm not fucking joking, by the way. Ollie, this is Frankie. Frankie, this is Ollie. (Ollie extends his hand to Frankie, who ignores it) Frankie, I don't know what happened, but I somehow – you know those numbers I asked you for? I never found them on my desk. Maybe somebody stole them. Or, maybe, maybe, you're fucking me around. And if you fuck me around again, I'll tell you something: (laughs slightly) I am going to rip your fucking head off, and shit right down into your neck, (grabs Frankie's head) and then I'm going to stick your FUCKING head back on, and SHIT ON THAT!

Series 2, Episode 2 [ edit ]

(Robyn is heading to Malcolm's 8.30 meeting) Robyn: I've really got to go now, because I don't want to be late. Hugh: Yeah, God, don't be late! Robyn: Apparently, they shout things at the last one in. Glenn: If anyone shouts at you, they'll have to answer to me. I'll box his ears. (Robyn leaves) Hugh: Box his ears? If that was flirting, that was absolutely crap. Glenn: What? Hugh: Box his ears? How long is it since you've had sex? Glenn: That is between me and my internet service provider. Anyway, about this morning's – Ollie: You've actually gone red, Glenn. Look at you. Hugh: Yeah, you have. Look, you've gone red. Glenn: I have not gone red. (points to his folder) That's red. Ollie: Yeah! Hugh: Look, he can hardly walk properly. Malcolm (asked for a line about Julius at his 8.30 meeting): 'Julius Nicholson is a hugely respected adviser. He now has a wide-ranging brief, and his blue-sky vision and helicopter thinking will enable this Government to go, in his own phrase, "beyond delivery, and beyond that".' That's the line, OK? And if he does stick his baldy head round your door and comes up with some stupid idea about 'policemen's helmets should be yellow', or 'let's set up a department to count the moon', just treat him like someone with Alzheimer's disease, you know? Just say to him, "Oh, yeah, that's lovely, that's good. We must talk about that later." OK?

Malcolm: (on his mobile) In no way, shape or form is it gonna have any (knock at door) – Come the fuck in, or fuck the fuck off. Hugh: (entering) Well I'll come the fuck in then. Malcolm: (back on his mobile) It's just something that Nicholson's flown, you know. It's a kind of brain exercise, like "What would it be like if men had tits?", you know? Mark Mardell, yeah, (laughs) that's pretty good, actually. All right, then. See you, then. (hangs up) Hugh? Hugh: I thought you would want to know as soon as possible. Malcolm: What? Hugh: Terri's dad. Malcolm: Yeah? Hugh: No news at the moment. Malcolm: Right, so you've come to talk about the reshuffle, yeah? Hugh: Yeah, I have. Malcolm (to Hugh): Well I know that you're looking for mouth-to-mouth in the reshuffle, but I don't know anything about it. The PM is still working it out on the back of a Coldplay CD as we speak.

Malcolm: Don't take it so personally. Hugh: You're telling me she doesn't like me as a person. How else am I supposed to take it? Ollie: Robyn, can you send these back to archives, 'cause they're not even highlighted, I'm not going to plough through all that myself. While you're talking to them, I need the last four months of the European Digest. I'm going to be moving – Robyn: Is it 'cause you fancy me, is that what this is all about? Ollie: Sorry? Robyn: Why are you so bloody rude to me? I mean, that's got to be the reason. Other people, when they come in here, they knock on the door and they say "hello", "good morning", "thank you" and "nice top" sometimes. Ollie: Right, um, well, no. I mean, for a start, I don't fancy you. I don't know where you got that in your head, but it's probably best to get it out. If I'm slightly polite to you on a semi-regular basis, will that in any way bypass it? Robyn: I think that would definitely do it. Ollie: Right, fantastic. Well, thank you very much for the work you do; hi, by the way, how are you? Robyn: I'm really well, actually. Ollie: Great, that's great; you look lovely; can I have the fucking Digest, please? That would be terrific. Robyn: All you had to do was ask me. Ollie: Yeah, well, all I did do is ask. (Robyn bends down to get something) Phwoar! (She gets up and stares at Ollie) It was a joke. (discussing the latest Cabinet meeting) Hugh: I did mention your great quiet carriages thing and he just – (pulls a slightly disgusted face) Ollie: Well what does that mean? Hugh: Fuck knows what it means, but I don't think it means, "Oh, Hugh, you're fantastic. Here, become Home Secretary". And even if it did mean that, when he's in bed tonight with Mrs PM, flossing, then she'll say, "What do you mean, Hugh Abbot as Home Secretary? The man is a social spastic and very probably a registered nonce, darling."

(Discussing Julius Nicholson) Hugh: Can't we just kill him, shoot him? Ollie: What about we just fire him at a wall from a cannon. Just a wall two feet away. Glenn: I know, we force feed him with a mixture of garlic and Dettol in Cup-a-Soup. Hugh: What about the old red-hot poker up the arse? Edward II? (Julius walks in) Ollie: I'd like to nail him to a tree through the head and watch lice slowly crawl over his body, eating off the flesh in a slow and painful death, (having already noticed Julius) but that rather bitter anomaly aside, most of the responses to the Warwick report press cuttings were pretty positive. Hugh (to Ollie): I am desperate, but I don't really want to look desperate, like Glenn. Glenn (entering): Oh, God, here we go again. Yeah, like Glenn, what? Hugh: Well, I was just saying, the last time you saw a snatch was... Ollie: Basic Instinct. Hugh: You see, that's good. That's the kind of repartee I need with the PM's wife. It's that final k-tsssss! you see, that's the bit I'm missing. Glenn: Yeah, well, I think you could drop the snatch material with the PM's wife, don't you? Hugh: Well, OK, between the snatch and the Euro there's some sort of happy medium. Malcolm (on the phone): He is not getting anywhere near my fucking pantry, I tell you that. That door is staying as open as a fat whore's bonehole. Hugh: Sorry I'm late, traffic was an absolute bitch. No offence, Robyn. Julius: It's Paul Webster, US Economics Secretary of State. He's unexpectedly coming over, and the Treasury are hosting a bash for him this evening. Don't tell me you've not been invited. Hugh: Yes, no, I have. It's just that I'm actually bashing myself tonight. Julius: So you – you've got your own bash here? Hugh: Uh yeah. Ollie: Yeah. Julius: Ah! Back up, everybody, put the brakes on! We've got a bash happening here tonight and at the Treasury? Hugh: Yeah. It sounds complicated but I like to, um, maximise my face.

Hugh: (telling a joke at his party) And Julius, Julius Nicholson, says, ”I'm sorry but I think you'll find you're sitting in my seat.” (No one laughs) Hugh: And this was to God, as I mentioned in the setup. Anyway, have a lovely time. (to Ollie, whispering) A fiver if you set off the sprinklers.

Hugh: Why didn't you tell me, Glenn? What possible reason did you have? You saw me, I was swinging like a colostomy bag! Glenn: Oh, Hugh, grow up! Stuff happens in this department every day, I can't tell you everything! Hugh: Since when, Glenn, since when does the Secretary of State for Social Affairs have to find out from the fucking press that every morning at 8:30 I'm being fisted up to the gallbladder by a bald man?

Malcolm: Right, guys, thanks very much for staying on. Julius Nicholson, right? Glenn: Yep. Malcolm: Blue sky thinker? Ex-business guru? Dog rapist? Hugh: Quite possibly. Malcolm: 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 bollock 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. Hugh: Circle jerk? What? Ollie: It's when a lot of guys in a circle all, you know. (to Malcolm) Well, I assume you don't mean literally, do you? Presumably? Glenn (on the phone to a journalist): Yeah I know it's probably bollocks, but that's what we all thought when Jim was up for Home Secretary, and then the next thing you know, he's given up the Colombian marching powder and taken up the sacraments. Malcolm (arriving at his 8.30 meeting): Morning, morning, morning! So what's the story in Bala-fucking-mory? A press officer: Reshuffle! Malcolm: Excellent! You win a year's supply of condoms, which in your case is four. (deleted scene) Malcolm: So how was Cabinet this morning? Hugh: It was good. Obviously, with reshuffle coming up, everybody's desperate to impress. Clare went round the room on a unicycle juggling burning kittens, but er – She didn't really, but what she did do was pretty embarrassing. Malcolm: OK. Hugh: And in terms of shuffle-y stuff, Carol ended up in Neil's seat. What do you think that means? Malcolm: Well, I think that means that Carol wants to be nearer the biscuits, just in case her blood sugar level drops. That woman, she's unbelievable. I have seen her go into second reading debates with Pringles! Her star is somewhat on the wane, I think she's going a bit downward, actually, Constitutional Affairs. Hugh: Ooh, that's gonna hurt, Constitutional Affairs, that's the Ginger Spice of the – Malcolm: Of the what, Hugh? Of the what? Hugh: Of the Gov– the whole – Malcolm: Ginger Spice. Jesus Christ, what – what fucking century are you living in? Hugh: There was a fantastic feature about Ginger in the Heat magazine. Apparently she shaves downstairs and she's working for UNICEF or some sort of – Malcolm: Hugh, you are talking absolute fucking drivel. (deleted scene) Hugh: It looked like Fatty was the one who was on his way out, but now it could just as likely be me. Ollie: Well look, Hugh, if you're worried about Fatty we can always start gently briefing against him, I know it's late in the day and, you know, obviously it's not the first thing that we want to be doing – Hugh: Yeah, 'Abbot says Fatty's a twat'. Does that make Fatty look like a twat? I think it makes me look like a twat for calling him a twat. Ollie: Mm – it doesn't have to be you directly, does it? That's the point. Hugh: Robyn? Come on, it's like giving a child a firework. Ollie: Well, not Robyn. Hugh: Actually that's where your bit of skirt – sorry, whatever the modern – your ho, your ho could actually be quite helpful. If you were just to leave some compromising bits of anti-Fatty documents, you know, just lying by the loo – Ollie: Whoa, whoa. Just blatantly using Emma, I'm really not comfortable with that. Hugh: Can I remind you, in the last 12 hours you've described her as being 'as mad as a jackdaw on crack', 'castratingly right-wing zealot', and also 'disappointingly below par in the blowjob department', so why the sudden outbreak of principle? (deleted scene) Glenn: Are you still in the frame for Question Time? Hugh: I am, but I think they're gonna go for Fatty to take advantage of the widescreen option. (Ollie laughs.) Any, erm – Are there any shuffle-y rumours? Glenn: Yeah, yeah. Rob thinks Gerry's got the Foreign Office. Ollie: The thing about this, moving offices, just from one place to another, completely different, it's just fucked as a system, isn't it? Because if you – it wouldn't happen in any other job – if you were, you know, Professor of Medieval English in Oxford and you were sitting in your study and somebody came through the door and went, 'Hey, guess what? You're now, er, Professor of Zoology, we want you in the other quad', you know, that would be mental, you'd be sitting in a room like a stuffed tit just saying to people, 'How many Os in Zoology? I don't really know, this isn't really my field', and all of that information that you've built up over years and years about Chaucer or whatever is of absolutely no use to you any more because Chaucer didn't really write about baboons. Hugh: Ollie, these are very undergraduate concerns; my point is you don't have to be an expert to make decisions. Glenn: That's why you have advisors, you twat. Ollie: Yeah, I am being serious, Glenn. Glenn: Yes, so am I, you are a twat. Hugh: I mean, the point is, a lot of knowledge is a dangerous thing. (Hugh's office phone rings; Glenn answers it) Ollie: It's 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing'. Hugh: Well exactly, so a lot of knowledge is incredibly dangerous.

Series 2, Episode 3 [ edit ]

Ollie (to Hugh and Glenn): Sorry, I'm sorry to interrupt. Who wants to go and watch Bollockvision? Hugh: Bollockvision? Ollie: Mr Malcolm Tucker, turning it all the way up to eleven, down in the lobby. Come and have a look. (They all go out onto the balcony. On the other side of the atrium, on their floor, Malcolm is shouting at another Minister.) Hugh: Oh, poor Keith. Malcolm must fucking love this place: four ministers in one building. It's his dream, a one-stop bollock-shop. Glenn: Trouble is, we're gonna be getting some of that in about an hour. Hugh: Yeah. I don't know which is worse, watching him slowly rumble towards you like prostate cancer, or him appearing suddenly out of nowhere like a severe stroke. (Terri, whose father died after a stroke, turns towards Hugh) Hugh: Oh. How's your sister coping?

(The Department of Social Affairs has been renamed "The Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship") Glenn: So, Hugh, this new word, 'Citizenship', did the PM actually outline what it entails? Hugh: Well, to be honest, I think he was making the reshuffle up as he went along, and I think we were very lucky that 'Citizenship' was the first word that sprang to mind. Otherwise we could be the Department for Social Affairs and Woodland Folk.

(Ollie has made a joke about special needs kids) Hugh: You just took a shit with your clothes on, Ollie. Ollie: Why? Hugh: Glenn's boy Peter, he went to a special needs school. Ollie: Oh. Hugh: Yep. Ollie: ... Glenn's had sex? Hugh: God, you're such a prick, Ollie. Ollie: It's just a joke! Hugh: There's more to life, you know, than drinks parties at the Foreign Office and having Nick Robinson's mobile number on your fucking BlackBerry! Ollie: Yes, all right, fine, sorry, Hugh. I feel for the guy: I had a girlfriend with special needs once, so I know. (smiles smugly) Luckily, I was able to fulfil them.

(looking at the atrium of the new building from their floor) Ollie: Good spot for a suicide, this, I would think: good long drop, appreciative audience. Robyn: What if you just broke your back? You know, you'd be paralysed for life and then you'd still be depressed about the thing that was depressing you in the first place. Terri: What are these, um, hangy-down things? Ollie: Oh, they're acoustic baffles, they stop it getting too echoey in here. Robyn: So when you're breaking your back, nobody can hear you screaming? Ollie: Well, that is the kind of attention to detail that you get in a PFI building. Malcolm (spotting them from the ground floor): HEY! GET BACK TO WORK, ALL OF YOU!

(Hugh has privately admitted to Terri that he sent the sweary email from her account) Terri: Now Hugh, are you going to do the right thing, are you going to admit to this publicly? Hugh: Are you – What? No! Are you mad? I can't do that, that mustn't happen! You've got – I need you, to – Terri: What, to lie? Hugh: I think it was Derrida who said there is no such thing as actual empirical truth, but only – Terri: Yeah, I'll tell you what Derrida said, he said, 'Go fuck your face, Abbot!' (Terri tries to storm out of the door, but only belatedly notices the exit switch) Hugh: You need to mind your language, it just will keep getting you into trouble. Terri (finally opening the door): I can't even get out the fucking room! (storms out)

(Hugh and Glenn return from their Education Select Committee appearance) Ollie: How was that? Hugh: I lied to the Select Committee. I lied! Is Tucker in the building? Ollie: Malcolm in the Middle. Hugh: What? Ollie: It's just what they're calling him now, 'cause he can stand in the middle of the atrium and just shout at all the departments. Hugh: Well I don't want to see him, not at the moment, I can't take one of his scenes from The Exorcist just now. Glenn: Look, I don't think Ballentine's on to anything. Hugh: Oh no? No? Well, why did she keep asking, 'Just one expert? Only one? Not two experts? Less than three but not two?' The fucking bitch. Glenn: It's her style, look, she's just trying to throw you off balance like a sumo wrestler. Hugh: Well it worked: there I was on the floor in a big fucking nappy.

Hugh: Christ Malcolm, how do you appear out of nowhere in a building made entirely out of glass? Malcolm: I'm a shape-shifter.

Hugh: It's going to be like sitting on a tea crate, having chicken shit sprayed all over me.

A civil servant: I'm sorry, can you stop swearing please? Malcolm: I'm really sorry, you won't hear any more swearing from us, YOU MASSIVE, GAY, SHITE!!! FUCK OFF! (to Ollie) Right, how are you doing in sorting out whether or not he lied or not, are you OK? Ollie: Pretty well, yeah. Malcolm: Is that a lie? Ollie: Yeah. Malcolm: That is not fucking funny, you retard. I'm sorry about that, Glenn. The situation just –

Claire Ballentine: Are you lying to me now about not lying to me before? Hugh: No, I am not a liar. I categorically did not knowingly not tell the truth, even though unknowingly I might not have done.

Hugh: I don't know what else can go wrong now. Unless the flexible energy system sets fire to my office and then puts it out by squirting liquefied human shit through the ceiling sprinklers.

Malcolm: Hey, I'm going to have a swear box installed on Monday. Hugh: What? Malcolm: Fucking joking, you twat! I'm on turbo.

Malcolm: God, right, okay, well, seein' as you're not used to this, I'll go through it for you, okay? What happens at a press conference is this. A bunch of press people are gonna appear, they've got things called cameras and microphones and mobile phones and hangovers and bad breath. Then you are gonna walk out and you're gonna 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 twelve pints. I promise that I will never call an 8-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 then we wait and we see what happens. The best case is you get to keep your job, although you will forever be known as the Sweary Woman of Whitehall. (deleted scene) Ollie (on the phone to a man he can see in a glass office): Yes, but you can't just dump rabies on us because you don't want it. You're Health, that's your job! You should have rabies. Health should have rabies, right? (sees the man mime fellatio) Oh right, yeah, fine. OK. So we're gonna have to swallow this one, but if we have to deal with a rabies outbreak we're gonna do it so fucking well, you're gonna be frothing at the mouth – yeah, twice! (hangs up) You prick! (deleted scene) Hugh: First day back from holiday, tanned, tawdry and cheap. I feel like something out of Footballers' Wives. Glenn: How do you know about Footballers' Wives? Hugh: Ollie told me. They all live in Chelmsford, have names like Madison and Chutney, they're an orange colour and they've got thongs up their cracks.

The Rise Of The Nutters [ edit ]

Emma Messinger: You are an extremely powerful man, Ollie. Ollie: Very powerful, very attractive sexually, due to all this power. Jamie: Hey, Poxbridge! Malcolm: Hello! Jamie: Hey, dickhead! Happy New Queer! Malcolm: I'm really sorry, but I – don't be so offensive. I do apologise for my friend's behaviour. Did you have a nice Poof-mas?

Ollie: Have you ever been to Australia? Ben Swain: No. Why would I want to go there? Full of people in khaki, squinting. Just the world's largest collection of poisonous things. Ollie: God, yeah, if you want to stick around with poisonous snakes you might as well stay here. (no one laughs) Throw a blanket on me, I'm on fire.

Phil Smith: (looking at two lamps) What is that? Peter Mannion: It's just – Phil Smith: Is that raffia? Peter Mannion: He's discovered IKEA, hasn't he? Phil Smith: It's all for show. They want to look modern, like they appeal to the kind of people who go to IKEA. Peter Mannion: I'm modern! I say 'black' instead of 'coloured', I think women are a good thing, I have no problem with gays. Most of them are very well turned out, especially the men. Phil Smith: I know. Peter Mannion: Why is it, this last year, I'm being made to feel as if I'm always two steps behind, like I can't program the video or convert everything back to old money? Because that's not me! Phil Smith: You still got a video? (Stewart makes Peter change into a different suit and shirt) Stewart Pearson: Just wondering whether you're fully conversant with the new line, whether you're really up to speed? Peter Mannion: Well, I don't know. Am I? Because I get people stopping me in the streets and saying, 'Are you still for locking up yobbos?', and I say, 'Yeah, of course we are', and then I think, 'Well, are we?' Because maybe I missed a memo from you: maybe I should understand yobbos now, or not even call them yobbos, call them 'young men with issues around stabbing'. No tie, you say? Stewart Pearson: No tie. Peter Mannion: Quite a nice suit, actually. Stewart Pearson: So, we were thinking: shirt outside the trousers. Peter Mannion: Outside? Not tuck my shirt in? Stewart Pearson: Yeah. Peter Mannion: I always tuck my shirt in, it's part of getting dressed. What, should I not do my flies up either? Let the old chap flop out, is that modern enough for you? Stewart Pearson: Just try it, Peter. Not the cock out, but just the shirt thing. Peter Mannion (untucking his shirt): I'm from a generation of men, Stewart, who tuck their shirts in. I've done it since I was a boy, I was told off for not doing it. Stewart Pearson: Oh God, no, you were right, sorry, no, tuck it in: you look like you've been startled by a fire alarm.

Malcolm: Right, Ben, heard the big news about Paxo. Ben Swain: Oh right. Malcolm: What was it you did in your gap year again? Ben Swain: Um, Interrailing, month on a kibbutz – Malcolm: Did you ever travel, like, 100 miles per hour, head-first through a tunnel full of pig shit? Because that's what's gonna happen to you tonight with Paxman, unless you listen to us. Jamie: He will eat you up, sick you out and grout his fucking wet room with you. Ben Swain: Yeah, I have been interviewed on television before, thank you very much. Malcolm: Who? Ben Swain: George Alagiah. Jamie: Yeah? Do you know what they call him? Easy George. Malcolm: This is Paxo. What are you gonna do when he pulls that big rubbery horse-face of mock-incredulity at you?

(in their flat, discussing Ollie) Phil Smith: Why the fuck do you have to keep inviting him round here? Emma Messinger: Oh, are you a bit jealous? Phil Smith: Of the man from the Mr Muscle adverts? No, I just think it's just unreasonable that I have to watch what I'm gonna say in my own flat; I mean, you could at least give me warning if he's coming round or something. Emma Messinger: I tell you what, I'll put a sex grid on the fridge. Phil Smith: Oh, yeah. Emma Messinger: So that you can have dates and stuff: I'll put an A4 piece of paper for me up, and maybe you could have half a post-it note? You could share it with Affers, maybe. Phil Smith: Yeah. Have to write really small, though, I've slept with three women in – Ollie (returning from the toilet): Your life? Phil Smith: Yes. (Ollie laughs) (Ollie, Emma, and Phil are watching Ben Swain's Newsnight interview together. Malcolm, who is also watching from his office, is on the phone to Jamie, who is watching Ben from inside the studio.) Emma Messinger: What's he doing with his eyes? Ollie: Oh my God. He's got a nervous blink. Malcolm: That's a mega blink! It's not just a blink. Ollie: He looks like what happens when you punch a cow. (impersonates a cow mooing in pain) Phil Smith: Oh my God, this is like watching a lion rape a sheep, but in a bad way. Jamie: The cameramen are laughing. Ollie: 'J-j-j-j-just'! Emma Messinger: Stop him, stop him! Ollie: He spelled 'just' with four Js! Malcolm: He's like a chicken, he's like an enormous chicken! Phil Smith: It's just one word he's been saying, which is basically (gibberish). Jamie: Well, what about the coalface? Malcolm: Pull it, puncture his lifebelt. Pull it, give him the signal. If he shits, I'll give you 500 quid. (After Ben Swain's interview) Ollie: Well he certainly looked like a Nutter. Emma Messinger: He looked like that little guy on the green that shouts 'You're an Arab' at everyone. Phil Smith: It's a tough day tomorrow, picking bits of Ben out of Malcolm's car. Ollie: He didn't mention the coalface idea.

Jamie: (to Ben, in the car back from the studio) You don't deserve to live!

Peter Mannion: How is my blog? My own personal blog, personally written by me? (they all go to the computer) Phil Smith: There we go. Emma Messinger: Oh, brilliant. Phil Smith: Yesterday you liked the leader's speech, it was bold and courageous and sent out the right signals, and you had a fruit lunch. Peter Mannion: Oh, I write very well. What's the feedback like? Phil Smith: Pretty good. Let's see on this page here. Here we go. Peter Mannion: "I don't trust you, you Cypriot crook." Phil Smith: What? Peter Mannion: Cypriot? This is the shit room. You've opened the shit room door. Emma Messinger: Oh come on, that's not too bad. Peter Mannion: "How are the maintenance payments going on your bastard?" Christ, that was twelve years ago! Phil Smith: I hadn't seen that one. Peter Mannion: "Adulterous Nazi"? Phil Smith: Or that one. Emma Messinger: That's actually I think the same one. Peter Mannion: This is the trouble with the public, they're fucking horrible. Emma Messinger: Peter, you really – you can't say the public are fucking horrible. Peter Mannion: Yes I can, I've met them. "You've always got such a pained expression. Do you take it up the chutney?" Really? I mean, for God's sake. Emma Messinger: The chutney? Peter Mannion: Yes, it's up the arse. Emma Messinger: See this: I still don't understand why people do this 'h8' thing. If you're going to leave a message, I mean, at least spell it correctly. Phil Smith: What the fuck was that all about? You know, nicking the other lot's ideas? Emma Messinger: You jumped straight on the bandwagon, you hypocrite. Phil Smith: You started it. You know, at least I'm not nicking my boyfriend's ideas. Emma Messinger: You sanctimonious twat! Jesus, you're not my dad, Phil, even if you do dress like him. Peter Mannion: (knocking from behind glass) What's going on? Phil Smith: Swain was supposed to flag up the coalface idea last night but he didn't. So Emma nicked it. Peter Mannion: (to Emma) Oh, fuck-tastic. Not only was it a shit idea to ruin my holiday, it was a shit idea you stole from the government to ruin my holiday. Good work. Emma Messinger: (to Phil) Thanks a lot, Supergrass.

Malcolm (seeing Ben Swain arrive): Oh, here he is. Dead man walking. Jamie: (impersonating Ben) 'I, I, I wish you wouldn't keep saying that, I, I, I –' (normal voice) What's your favourite band, blink-182? Jamie: That's not a proper cigar: a proper cigar is those big Cuban whoppers, that's just a jumped-up fag. Malcolm: Talking of which – Ollie (entering): Hi. Jamie and Malcolm: Hey! Jamie: Is it Rag Week? Malcolm: Do you fancy a cigar? I promise I won't tell any of the other prefects. Jamie: Hand rolled on the thigh of a Cuban virgin with big tits and four kids. Ollie: Yeah, thanks. Um, Malcolm, I just wondered if I could have a quick word, actually. The opposition have got the Week at the Coalface idea. They're gonna do it. Jamie: Who, when? Ollie: Peter Mannion, I don't know when. Malcolm: How the fuck did they get that? Your fucking girlfriend, Jesus Christ! Jamie: You should have dumped that mad bitch ages ago. Ollie: Well I would've done! She is mad, she's a mental woman! But you two kept telling me to go out with her and stay going out with her, just in case I found anything out! Jamie: Oh, and what did you find out? That you've been leaking intelligence to them? You're the fucking shittest James Bond ever. You're... you're David fucking Niven!

Malcolm: 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. Ben Swain: Yeah. No, I lost my islands of safety, didn't I, which is – Malcolm: 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 like a sweaty octopus trying to unhook a bra! It was like watching John Leslie at work! Ben Swain: Yes, I know all of that, and it just kind of fell away. God, it was like one of those dreams when you're wandering around Covent Garden or something in just your vest and everyone's staring at you. Jamie: I think it was much worse than that, I mean, how many people see you in Covent Garden, a few thousand? Your meltdown was witnessed by 1.2 million people. That's more people than saw Al Jolson in his entire career. And that's Al fucking Jolson! Malcolm: He loves Al Jolson. Jamie: The Governor! Ollie: 'Maaammy.' Jamie: You take the piss out of Jolson again, and I will remove your iPod from its tiny nano-sheath, and push it up your cock! And then I'll plug some speakers up your arse, and put it onto shuffle with my fucking fist! And every time I hear something that I don't like, which will be every time that something comes on, I will skip to the next track (to Ben) by crushing your balls!

Emma Messinger (to Phil): Oh, sorry! Do you know what, maybe you should dump Peter and go out with Ollie. Ollie: Well, it wouldn't be any more disastrous than our relationship, would it, hey? Emma Messinger: Christ, Ollie, well if it's been such a fucking disaster, why didn't you break up with me sooner? Ollie: Well, if it had been up to me I would have broken up with you sooner! Emma Messinger: If it had been up t– Oh, OK – This is Malcolm, isn't it? Malcolm has been pimping you out! You fucking sad little – Phil Smith (laughing): That's funny. Ollie and Emma: Fuck you, Phil! Phil Smith: Oh, suddenly I'm the bad guy again. Ollie: Go and read your blog, nerd boy! I'm going. This is the point where I go. Phil Smith: Wow. That point actually exists. Incredible. Ollie: I will be so not sorry not ever to have to talk to you again, you massive floppy blonde tit! I hope your blog gets done for libel and you get knobbed in prison by men. And – (to Emma) it is over, you self-serving, crypto-fascist, horse-loving, posh, weekend-at-Daddy's, vacuous nothing! (leaves) Emma Messinger: Fuck you, Ollie, and put your keys on the side! Phil Smith: He's got keys?

(looking at a newspaper story with the headline 'Silly Tucker: Was web of filth spun by Downing Street 'Spiderman'?) Malcolm (on the phone): The story isn't me, Glenn, OK? Nobody is interested in me and I'll be pleased if you'd remember that, OK? Glenn (at his sister's Welsh cottage): You sure you don't want me and Hugh to come back? We could give you some cover. Malcolm: Hugh is not coming back: it would look like we're panicking, and we're not panicking. But I need you back here fucking ASAP to let them know that we're not panicking. Glenn: So you want me to interrupt my holiday in a panic, so that Hugh doesn't have to interrupt his holiday and look like he's panicking? Malcolm: You get back here! I wanna see you popping a bollock for me! (hangs up) Jamie: (walking in, holding up the same 'Silly Tucker' story) You seen this? Malcolm: 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. Jamie: All right, all right. What are we doing? Malcolm: What are we doing? Fuck all, we're not doing nothing, all right, because I am not the story here. Jamie: Well, no, you kind of are the story, Malc: they spelt your name right and everything.

Malcolm: 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, you make sure that she cums, and you just give her the policy! Ollie: Yeah, but I chucked her, and not in a kind of, you know, 'It's not you, it's me' sort of way, more in a 'It is you, you hideous vacuous Sloane bitch from hell' kind of scorched-earth kind of – Malcolm: I'm really not interested at all in your little tiff. Get round there, take your Barry White album and your lube and your fucking policy folder. Ollie: Malcolm, this is really crossing the line here – Malcolm: Don't start with the moral objections, you fucking Blue Peter badge-wearing ponce! Go and make a contribution to fucking Amnesty International, go and buy a goat the whole village can fuck! But you are doing this for me. Ollie: Malcolm, you're bullying me, and, you know, I don't know why you're bullying me, you're – Malcolm: How dare you? How dare you! Don't you ever, ever, call me a bully. I'm so much worse than that. Do it. OK? Wash your hands.

Peter Mannion: Do I know you? Oh, don't you work for somebody famous? Er, Malcolm Hamish MacDeath? Jamie: It's, er, Peter Onion, isn't it? Peter Mannion: Hah! That's right. Jamie: I always forget, were you the forced abortion or the love child? Or the guy who asphyxiated himself with a kiwi? Peter Mannion: Just the love child: I was the quiet one. Phil Smith: Like John Deacon in Queen.

Terri (on her phone): Well I might as well call myself on unofficial leave now: nothing will happen for the next three weeks, absolutely zero. I'm gonna book that holiday. Yeah, well, I mean, all they'll be doing, they'll be bobbing about like emperor penguins trying to swap over an egg.

(deleted scene) Jamie: Is your department looking at a 10 million overspend? Yes, or no? Ben Swain: Well, I don't have the figures to hand, but all I can say is that if there has been an overspend or a perceived overspend within this department, then certainly I think I've – (sees Jamie mime fellatio) He's not gonna do that, is he? Malcolm: Oh yes, he will, and he will do a lot more. Jazz hands, he'll be touching you up under the table, he's got all the tricks. Ben Swain: No he won't! Fuck off, Malcolm. Malcolm: You, listen. First things first: you need some interruption lines, yeah? Something that you can throw in. Ben Swain: All right: how about, er, 'I will answer the questions in the order you asked them, Jeremy'. Jamie: That makes you sound like a smug Oxbridge twat. Oh, I know you are, but everyone doesn't need to know.

(deleted scene) (while watching Ben Swain on Newsnight) Ollie: Still, at least Hugh will be pleased. Phil Smith: Yeah, he'll be thrilled, I'm sure! His department on the rack, he'll be like, 'Hey, Ollie, thanks for running the department, although it seems to have all turned to shit!' You're like the man with the Midas touch, except instead of everything you touch turning to gold, it turns to shit. You're like the man with the shit touch. Shitfinger. Ollie: Shouldn't you be online pretending to be a Hobbit, eh? Trying to get a date with a lady Hobbit, but failing? Phil Smith: Shitfinger.

(deleted scene) (seeing Ben Swain arrive) Malcolm: Oh hey, hello, here he is! The walk of shame. Jamie: You never told us you had epilepsy of the eyes. Was that a sweat, or were you crying? Malcolm: Have I seen you on the telly? Ben Swain: (laughs) Yeah. Blockbuster, 1991, I got a Gold Run. Malcolm: You know what, I have never seen anyone sweat so much in my life. And I've had a sauna with Pavarotti! I know that politicians and hot air are supposed to go together, but I've never actually seen one vapourise! Ben Swain: Can I get you two fellows a drink? Malcolm: An orange juice, yeah, yes. Ben Swain: Jamie? Jamie: Oh, I'll have a pint of 'Fuck right off and die, you miserable fucking tosser'. Do they do that in here? Malcolm: He's a wee bit disappointed. Jamie: We'll get you on Newsround next time. You reflected badly on me, and I don't like that. Ben Swain: Oh come on, Jamie, look, I'll get you a drink and then we'll – Jamie: DO YOU WANT A FUCKING SPLINTER GLASS FACIAL? I'm not pretending to hate you here, I actually fucking hate you! I'm not playing a fucking game. Fuck off! (leaves) Malcolm: He trained as a priest. Ben Swain: Really? Yeah, he'd be fantastic, I'd confess everything to him.

(deleted scene) Malcolm: Where are you tonight? 'Cause you're not here. What, no invitation for number one party animal, Julius Pete Doherty Nicholson? Julius: Who's Peter O'Doherty? Malcolm: Stop trying to joke, OK? Don't joke, you are not funny, Julius, you're about as funny as a blind toddler in a fucking minefield.

(deleted scene) Glenn (in his sister's Welsh cottage, on the phone): Ah, Malcolm. Terri's just rung about the wankers' announcement, and I thought you'd want to know, Hugh's on the way to the airport, but do you want me to definitely tell him to get on the plane? Malcolm: No, it's too fucking late. What's he gonna do, come and shadow the shadow of DoSAC shadowing him? Show him where the bogs are? Glenn: Yeah, but you told me to tell him to come home. Malcolm: Did I? Glenn: Yeah! Ollie (in Malcolm's office, on the phone): Right, Hugh, hi. Er, no, I don't think you're going to be wanted back here. Malcolm: What is the problem? Ollie: He's on some road somewhere where he can't do a U-turn for about five miles or something. Malcolm: Good! I like to know that I can still make him miserable even though he's 12,000 miles away.

Spinners and Losers [ edit ]

Angela: So go on, tell me: who else is running? Ollie (in the men's toilets): Well, no one. No one's gonna stand against Tom now, surely, it's going to be unopposed. (Starts using the urinal) They'll be rebranding him as we speak, I would imagine: new hair, Ted Baker teeth, all the modern trappings of your political leader – Angela: Ollie! Are you pissing? Ollie: Er no, that's the flush of the automatic urinals, it's a gentlemen's lavatory. Angela: I don't want to talk to you while you're holding your penis. Ollie: Well, that's not what you used to say, Angela. Angela: Er, yes it is. Ollie: No, well – actually it is precisely what you used to say. Malcolm: Has anybody seen Jamie? Glenn: Why, have you lost him? Ollie: Oh, don't tell me he's gone feral, 'cause he was fucking terrifying when you had him on the leash! Malcolm: Let's not overreact. Ollie: Easy for you to say, he threatened to shove an iPod up my cock! Malcolm: But you get that a lot, though, don't you? (discussing Dan Miller) Glenn: You don't think he's got a chance, do you? Ollie: Nah, he's just a droid, isn't he? He's just – (makes robotic noises and gestures) Malcolm: Hey hey hey, don't let him hear you doing that sort of stuff. What happens if he does stand a chance, eh? He'll fuck you harder than Ron Jeremy, and with less warmth.

Jamie: Are you a horse? Cliff Lawton: ...Sorry? Jamie: Are you a fucking horse? Cliff Lawton: Um... I... don't know what you mean, what— Jamie: Are you a fucking horse? Cliff Lawton: Okay, no, I'm not a horse. Jamie: Are you sure? Cliff Lawton: I'm sure— Jamie: You've got a pretty fucking horsey face... and a bit of a horsey wife — are you a fucking horse? Are you? Cliff Lawton: Okay, leaving the wife aside for a second— Jamie: Are you a horse? Cliff Lawton: No... Jamie: EXACTLY! Cliff Lawton: —Categorically say that I am not a horse! Jamie: Exactly! You are not a fucking horse. You are no horse, and you're not a stalking horse. You... are the real thing. And we are going to ram you up Tom's arse so hard that he has to shit out of his lying mouth. Cliff Lawton: ...It's not a very nice image. It's very motivating. Adam Kenyon: Right, Geoff Holhurst? Angela Heaney: Yeah. Adam Kenyon: Right, Ollie's our source on this, is he? Ollie Reeder? Shallow Throat? Brilliant. Angela Heaney: Yeah, I know you don't rate him. Adam Kenyon: You can say that again; Ollie Reeder is, to quote Bobby Kennedy, a complete fucking spasmoloid. Plus you know how Geoff Holhurst photographs: it looks like his body's in the foreground and his head is really really far away, he looks fucking weird! Just something solid, all right? Otherwise our front page is gonna be an interview with Janet Street-Porter on why she hasn't been asked to be Prime Minister and a giant fucking Sudoku. Malcolm: Well look, I'd love to stop and chat to you, but you know, I'd rather have type 2 diabetes. Cliff Lawton: Yes, fuck you, Malcolm. Malcolm: Yeah, Happy New Year. Jamie (to Malcolm and Nick Hanway): Oh! Trinny and Susannah! Well I'm sorry to burst into your little fucking boutique, but you've got a fight on your hands. That's all I'm saying. I'm backing a rival candidate, (to Malcolm) so fuck you, (to Nick) and fuck you and your Nutter coronation 'cause it ain't happening. Nick Hanway: So you're backing Dan Miller, are you? Jamie: No, I'm not backing Dan Miller! Don't you fucking ever ask me a question again! Malcolm: Fatty? Jamie: Oh aye, Fatty, yeah, wee Spider-Man pyjamas, fucking idiot. From now on, it's a proper fight: it's a pub fight, Motherwell rules, and Tom is gonna get a pint glass in his fucking eye, and a pool cue up his arse, and another pool cue in his other fucking eye! Malcolm: Geoff Holhurst. Jamie: Oh, what, Mr Baby New Potato Head? Fuck off. Glenn: And then, Liam said that someone suggested that Tom should go on Strictly Come Dancing. Ollie: He can barely even walk properly. He looks like he shat himself the whole time. Glenn: He often has. Malcolm (to Robyn): You are going to bury this Watford arseache tonight, OK? '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, baldie 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, DIPSHIT, LEGACY-DISTRACTING COCK-UP! Robyn: Right, um, Jamie. Look, I just have to say at this point that I do find him just a little bit frightening. Malcolm: Relax, he has never hit anyone. Or at least, anyone he has hit has never had the balls to take it to a superior. (Robyn still looks terrified) It's a fucking joke. It's a joke, OK? The man is a professional, you will be fine. Glenn: Actually, Malcolm? We still have no word on Dan Miller. I mean, he's gone dark, he's not answering his phone – Malcolm: Maybe he's in a hotel with his own huddle. Ring around, try and find him. Glenn: What, ring every hotel in London and ask if Dan Miller's booked in? Malcolm: Yeah! Although he could be using an assumed name. Glenn: So you want me to ring round every hotel in London, and ask if anyone, of any name, has booked in? Malcolm: Well it will keep you busy, you know, you need to keep the mind active at your age. Jamie: OK, the line is: wildcat walkout, we'll be talking to the unions, it's too early to comment. Off the record: er, union Neanderthals with brains the size of children's bogies couldn't take the heat of Hugh Abbot's ring-stinging, shit-hot, public sector reforms, but he's flying back like Harrison Ford with a big whip in one hand and a skinny latte in the other and he's gonna whip six shades of shit out of them and save the world, OK?

Jamie: Nobody gives a shit if you got shafted by Malcolm. Cliff Lawton: I will never ever forgive him for what he did to me. Jamie: Jesus, this isn't EastEnders! This is politics! We're all in the same plague pit, Cliff, there's no clean hands. Cliff Lawton: Alright. Jamie: (phone rings. Jamie answers) Yeah? Malcolm: Jamie! What's that sort of droning noise in the background there? What, kind of boring, kind of low, sort of droning, boring, kind of miserable, whining, boring kind of, sort of boring noise going on? Jamie: Yeah, well you've got it wrong, yeah? Malcolm: Cliff fucking Lawton. Hey, nice. Was the Cillit Bang guy not available? Jamie: Fuck you. [hangs up] Cliff Lawton: (reading from his speech) "...to put it simply, I'm back!" Jamie: Oh fuck off, Cliff. Cliff Lawton: Sorry? Jamie: Fuck off! You're a busted flush! You're not gonna be any Prime Minister, you're not gonna be anything, so fuck off! Cliff Lawton: That's your thing, isn't it? Everything has to be in absolutes, everything has to be black and white. You know, "I love you -fuck off!" There are lots of shades of grey, you know! Jamie: I know that, I'm looking at fifteen of them right now! Malcolm: You've got this bullshit Watford story covered, yeah? Jamie: Yeah. Malcolm: You and I will have a little discussion later. Jamie: Yeah. I think Watford will get bumped by the fact that we're about to hand the nuclear codes to a guy who, every now and then, loses it so bad he needs satnav to find his own nipples. Malcolm: What are you talking about? Jamie: Well, I just thought it was fair to let everyone know about the Tom rumours, you know. How the guy that's about to become Prime Minister chugs antidepressants like they're fucking Smints. How the Black Dog humps his leg and shits in his duvet every four months; I think that will bump the Watford walkout. Malcolm: You've gone fucking psycho son, fucking psycho! (leaves) TWAT!

Julius: Why don't I get something in? A man cannot live on Jaffa Cakes alone, obviously. I've tried!

Malcolm: (On phone to Jamie) There is a glacier of shit at DoSaC! I need you over there with a fucking blowtorch, right now!

Malcolm: (on the phone to Ollie) Right, what's the plan? Ollie: They don't have a plan. Malcolm: Perhaps you should give them one. Ollie: Yes, fantastic actually, Malcolm, because obviously I have a very suitable one tattooed on the underside of my scrotum, so-- Malcolm: Shut it! You're using all the minutes on my "Talk until you get head cancer" tariff!

Ben: What do you think? Nick: To be honest, I was really hoping that was going to be shit, because I'm tired, and I'd quite like to hit someone.

Jamie: I'm not leaving it to you. You couldn't organise a bum-rape in a barracks. Malcolm: Au contraire! Angela Heaney: They've ditched Ballentine. Adam Kenyon: What? Already? Angela Heaney: Yeah. Adam Kenyon: What the fuck is wrong with these people? I mean, what is this, potential leader speed dating? Right, who is standing? Angela Heaney: I dunno. Adam Kenyon (to another journalist working on a Ballentine story): Well, ditch that for a starter, get rid of her, I can't stand her fucking face. Angela Heaney: You know, I think you should eat something. Adam Kenyon: Oh right, yeah! Eat something, that'd be right, wouldn't it? You know what, our coverage so far has either been wrong or guesswork, which was wrong. So all we have now is a story-shaped hole! Angela Heaney: Seriously, your blood sugar's low. Adam Kenyon: Right. Angela Heaney: Makes you very irritable. Adam Kenyon: No, what makes me very irritable, Angela, is having no fucking stories and having to fill an entire newspaper with just fucking prepositions!

Malcolm (On the phone to Adam Kenyon): If you do think about running with this pill story, I'll personally fucking eviscerate you, right? I mean, I don't have your education, I don't know what that means. But I'll start by ripping your cock off and I'll busk it from there. Okay? Malcolm (to Ben): I'm just gonna go make some nuisance calls, I'll see you in about half a – Stop fucking blinking! Or I will take your optic nerve and strangle you with it. OK. You look after him, Ollie, OK? He's a very important man. Cock like a caber. Adam Kenyon: What's the news, just – Angela Heaney: What? Adam Kenyon: Just tell me what the fucking news is and I'll put it on the front page. It's not like we're The Independent, we can't just stick a headline saying 'Cruelty' and then stick a picture of a dolphin or a whale underneath it. I mean, that's just fucking cheating, that's rubbish. Angela Heaney: Well, what I'm hearing is Ben Swain. Adam Kenyon: Ben Swain? Angela Heaney: Yeah. Adam Kenyon: Right, I literally don't know who he is. I'm not being stupid or anything, but I physically don't know who Ben Swain is. He could be the leader of the Special Boat Squadron – Angela Heaney: Service. Adam Kenyon: The Special Boat Service or whatever it's fucking called, and this could be a massive coup. Angela Heaney: Ben Swain is what I'm hearing.

Malcolm: The Tom wobble. It's over. Ben Swain: So what does that mean? Malcolm: Well, it means that the rats are now returning to a very buoyant ship... and they're playing deck tennis. So that's lovely, isn't it? Ben: What does that mean for me, then? Malcolm: I guess that means that you're standing in the chamber of the House of Commons with your big flaccid dick hanging out with a "Vote for me" sticker on the end. Ben: B-but you said I had a chance! About half an hour ago you said I was in with a shot!! Malcolm: Well 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 ice caps have melted, maybe there's fucking robots knocking about and Davina McCall'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 Tomsville, yeah? (as he's walking out) "Half an hour ago...!"

Malcolm: What's that, cricket? That's the English equivalent of sport, isn't it? No actual physical contact, just glaring.

Jamie: What we're having here is a secret conversation, and I'm hoping that this time you can keep the fucking secret, because normally you're about as secure as a hymen in a South London comprehensive. Terri: Yep, well done. That's offensive on a number of levels, in a very concise way.

Jamie (to Terri and Robyn): Hey, Desperate Housewives, have you found out who's leaking it yet? Glenn: I have. It's Julius! He just told me – Jamie: No, no, no, wait, Julius? Nicholson?! That baldy pussy?! Well, I'll tell you, if he thinks he's leaking now, wait 'till you see when I'm finished with him! He'll look like fucking Mel Gibson's Jesus! FUCK!! FUCK FUCK!! FUCK!!

(Jamie has found out that Nicholson has leaked Immigration figures) Jamie: Nicholson! NICHOLSON! The immigration shit! It was you, wasn't it?! You mimsy, bastard, quisling, leak FUCK! Julius: (smirking) Sorry? What are you-- Jamie: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, you will be sorry, you inflatable cock! You fucking sold us out, didn't you? Deny it! Julius: Well, James, I can't deny something until I have the actual charge presented... Jamie: (impersonating Julius) Oh, oh, oh, oh, "the actual charge"? (normal voice) Yeah, well, apart from the charge you're gonna get when I clamp jump leads to your baldy bollocks? Okay, okay, okay, okay! You, Julius Nicholson, being of sound mind but with a body that looks like a giant sex toy did knowingly do us up the shit-hole by passing confidential information to the enemy! And I am going to have your guts as a skipping rope! And your lungs sun-dried and turned into a little fucking waistcoat! Julius: James, technically it was not a leak, because firstly- Malcolm: Eat that prawn. Julius: -there's not confidential- Malcolm: Eat that fucking prawn. Julius: I'm not eating prawns, Malcolm. Malcolm: Eat that prawn. Eat a bit of fucking pizza. (throws a bit of half eaten pizza at Julius) Julius: Don't be stupid. Malcolm: Eat another prawn. (throws another prawn at Julius) Julius: Stop it! Malcolm: Have some fucking chow mein! Jamie: Stuff it in his fucking head! Stuff it in his big baby head! Julius: Stop it! Malcolm: (to Ollie, who has just walked in on the spectacle) Get that fucking cheese over there! Jamie: Eat the cheese! Julius: STOP IT! Glenn: Go on, have some! Jamie: EAT THE CHEESE! EAT THE FUCKING-- Julius: This isn't funny! This is an expensive suit! (Jamie tries to beat up Julius) Julius: James, just-- Jamie: Fuck! Julius: Fuck you, mate! (runs out the room) (Jamie runs after Julius) Malcolm: Hey, hey hey hey! Right! Jamie: EAT THE FUCKING CHEESE! EAT THE CHEESE, NICHOLSON!

Glenn: Fucking hell! Fuck! Jesus... I'm not a joke, okay, all right, hello?! I am a man. I am a man, you know? You know?! This, THIS... THIS IS MY LIFE!! I'M A HUMAN BEING, AND ALL THIS IS MY LIFE!! And it's... collapsing in front of me! You know, Tom's lot, they're never going to want me, are they? And fucking Hugh, now, he... Jesus Christ, this is all...! I AM A MAN!!! AND, NO YOU DON'T, I'M IRRELEVANT!! No, no, go away! I'm irrelevant, I'm irrelevant, I'm irrelevant! FUCKING HUGH JUST WANTS TO SPEAK TO TINKY WINKY?!! WELL FUCK TINKY WINKY!!! FUCK YOU, TINKY WINKY!!! AUF WIEDERSEHEN, PET! THE PARTY'S OVER! GOODBYE, YELLOW BRICK ROAD! WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT HITLER?! WELL, HE HAD A MOUSTACHE AND HE LIVED OVER THERE!! FUCK US ALL!!!! Malcolm (receives an alert on his phone): Oh, I've been summoned to the breakfast meeting, to talk to Tom about This Morning: some details about Claire Ballentine, maybe; Geoff Holhurst; young Benjamin here. Nick Hanway: Fuck you very much, you unscrupulous bastard. Malcolm: Scruples? Scruples, what are they? Is that those low-fat Kettle Chips? OK people, wake up and smell the cock! Hey Ben, next time that you wanna stab Caesar, make sure you're not holding a fucking plastic spoon.

(The Mail are revealing that Ben Swain was racist to a cleaner) Glenn: I've been leaking for 27 years, I know how it's done, I leaked it! Ollie: You don't leak! Well not from the mouth, anyway. Malcolm: You fucking shut up. At least this is Hugh's Glenn. All that you are, mate, is fucking Ben's Glenn. (deleted scene) Ollie: Guardian Online, right? Glenn: Yes. Ollie: I notice they got Tom to do the questionnaire. Glenn: What, trying to make himself look more like a human being and less like a calculator with Aspergers? What does he say? Ollie: 'When were you happiest?' 'At the birth of my son.' Glenn: Bollocks, he wasn't even at the birth of his son. Actually no, he was in an all-night sitting of the Communications Bill, fast asleep. And his sister-in-law woke him with a text. Ollie: 'What was the last CD you bought?' 'The Scissor Sisters'. (Glenn laughs.) And do we believe him? 'Which living person do you most admire?' Glenn: Er, well that's tough. Nelson Mandela? Ollie: Correct! I think you just press F5 for that one, to be absolutely honest with you. 'How do you relax?' 'Cannabis and wanking'? Glenn: He hasn't. Ollie: No of course he hasn't, you idiot, 'Listening to opera'. Glenn: Oh, right. Ollie: While wanking. (deleted scene) Nick Hanway: Why tonight of all fucking nights, why tonight? Malcolm Tucker: Oh well, that's easy: Tucker's Law. 'If some cunt can fuck something up, that cunt will pick the worst possible time to fucking fuck up because that cunt's a cunt.' I've got that embroidered on a tea towel at home.

Opposition Extra [ edit ]

Emma Messinger: Peter, hi, it's Emma. Now listen, Stewart says this really is the strategy. Peter Mannion: We're supposed to be the opposition, for Christ's sake. In the old days, we wouldn't have been weeping over his grave, we'd have been pissing on it. Emma Messinger: If we start point-scoring now, we're just going to look like opportunist weasels. Peter Mannion: Well, weasily done. Emma Messinger: Sorry? Peter Mannion: It's weasily done. Phil Smith: It's a joke. Emma Messinger: That was a joke? Peter Mannion: Tell Stewart I'm not doing it. Tell him bollocks to it, tell him to fuck off. Emma Messinger: Tell Stewart to f– Now, Peter, that's not really a very good idea, is it? He's not going to like it if you tell him to fuck off, is he? Peter Mannion: Not actually. Yeah, not actually fuck off, just make an excuse, pretty it up, but when you do tell him, make sure that he knows, reading between the lines, that I told you to tell him to fuck off, but you're prettying it up. Peter Mannion: I was supposed to be making an announcement this morning on the failures in the immigration system, making a big speech! Adam Kenyon: Yeah, Peter, we were there; you know, I mean, you were giving your recipe for spag bol, and then Gordon Ramsay walks in and takes us all out for peacock and chips. Emma Messinger (arriving at Peter's house): Peter! Peter? Hi, it's Emma. (whispers) Oh sorry, you're on the phone, sorry. Peter Mannion: Oh hi, Emma! I thought it was Kate Winslet, she generally pops round about now. Stewart Pearson (on the phone): Peter, we need you to go on News 24, like Phil asked, and to say nice things about the PM. Peter Mannion: If I'm praising the PM, can I at least have a go at Tom and the Nutters? Can I at least subtly suggest they're waving in a man who pulls himself off by reading European tax law amendments? Stewart Pearson: No way! No way, we do not slag off Tom, we want Tom in. Tom is our big fat, socially dysfunctional, swing-voter repellent, golden weirdo ticket. Emma Messinger: Surely you can understand how this will work in our favour, Peter? I mean, they're going to elect a man who can count his friends on the fingers of, like, of my father's right hand! Stewart Pearson: Dan Miller is thinking of standing, that's what I'm hearing. Yeah, oh sorry, just a minute, just a min– (to a colleague outside his office) Mark! Mark! When I say I want you to cc JB on everything to do with these interviews, I do mean everything, not just the things that you think are important. I'm an extraordinarily precise man, Mark, that's why my wife left me. (back on the phone) JB doesn't want Dan Miller, he's too young and he's too witty, whereas Tom looks 92 and he's about as funny as Norman Wisdom. We slag Tom off once he's elected, but not now, hm? (watching TV in their flat) Emma Messinger: Phil, switch over, we haven't looked at News 24 for a bit. Phil Smith: No, it would just be the Ten Glorious Years package in permanent orbit. Is it just me, or does Noel Gallagher getting older look like one of those Evolution of Man wall charts in reverse? Ollie (answers his mobile): Morning. Emma: Yeah, have you seen the Mail? Ollie: Erm, no I haven't, I'm under 40 and I have a penis, why? Emma: They've got a big graphic on the night's winners and losers. Yeah, it's not a great picture of you. Ollie: What? Me – What, I'm in it? Emma: You look very very pasty and about nine, so – Ollie: Am I a winner or a loser? Emma: You are a loser! Ollie: I'm a loser? For fuck's sake – (Emma is listening to the radio) God, is that Ben on Today in the background? You can even hear him blinking on the radio. This is absolute bollocks, I'm not supposed to be in the paper, Em, I'm just, you know – It's not me who's supposed to be in the paper, is it? It's fucking ridiculous. Emma: Oh come on, it's only the Mail, don't worry about it. Ollie: Yeah, yeah, I know it's the Daily Mail, but you know – my mum gets the Mail.

Series 3, Episode 1 [ edit ]

Malcolm: He’s making Paul Remington a Cabinet Minister. Remtard Remington. I mean the guy is an epic fuck-up. He’s so dense that light bends around him.

Malcolm: Come on people, let’s get going here! I’ve got a to-do list that’s longer than a fucking Leonard Cohen song!

(discussing the Cabinet reshuffle) Terri: Oh look, Fatty's staying put! They're not moving Fatty. Ollie: That's because they haven’t got five big blokes and a winch. Terri: They couldn't really demote Fatty because he knows too much. Ollie: Well he doesn't know where the Ryvita is kept, does he?

(on the phone to a colleague about how busy he is) Malcolm: I've got more on my plate than a spinster at a wedding. That wasn't a reference to your daughter by the way, Andrew. (later in the episode, on the phone again) Malcolm: Doug Hayes is a massive abortion. Again, not a reference to your daughter.

Malcolm: Here he is! Cock like the Pink Panther's tail. Doug Hayes: I'm afraid I turned it down, Malcolm. Malcolm: Do you know ninety percent of household dust is made of dead human skin? That's what you are, to me.

Malcolm: Get me Nicola Murray. Yeah, if she says "no", the only other candidate is my left bollock with a fucking smiley face drawn on it.

(Hugh has lost his place in the reshuffle) Glenn: Well, that's Hugh gone, then. Terri: It's so sad, isn't it - Hugh? Ollie: You don't give a shit! (beat) Terri: ...No, perhaps I don't.

Ollie: Who's Tom Rudd? Terri: Isn't he in Harry Potter? Glenn: Tom Rudd is army slang for standing up buggery.

(Glenn and Ollie don't know if Nicola will keep them on) Terri: Well, thank goodness I'm safe. Glen: Je- We know you're safe Terri! How do we know you're safe? Because you keep using the word 'Safe' like you're bloody Jim Bowen! Ollie: [Immitating Jim Bowen presenting Bullseye] You've got DoSAC, that's safe. Do you want to go for the treasury, young lady?

Terri: Well, it was a bit of a shock for us. In a good way. Like twins, or a tax rebate.

Nicola Murray: (On the phone to her husband) So, I'll take your warm congratulations as... implied.

Nicola: My primary focus is social mobility, that's very much my Big Thing. Ollie: Right. Nicola: And I suppose I'm telling you that, really, partly to get your take on it and also so that you can, you know, start spreading the news and printing the posters and, you know, fire up the turbo chargers, set the phases to equality: it's Murray time! Glenn: The thing is – and Ollie, please correct me here if I'm wrong. Ollie: I will certainly do that. Glenn: Social mobility, making people richer, costs money. Ollie: Yes, and we don't have any of that, really. Nicola: Right. Ollie: I mean, if you speak to Nick at the Treasury he will tell you the same, only with his annoying lisp. Nicola: What you're telling me is that basically I'm gonna be a woman with a computer and some pens. Ollie: Well, it's just a pen budget. Nicola: I mean, I have about as much real power as those twats who sit either side of Alan Sugar. Ollie: Well – Yes.

Malcolm: That's the sort of thing the press will throw at you. I mean you step out of line they'll be all over you like a pigeon on a chip, you know? Is that your chair? Nicola: Oh God yes, it's cool isn't it. It's got lumbar support. Malcolm: Bin it. People don't like their politicians to be comfortable. They don't like you having expenses. They don't like you being paid. They'd rather you lived in a fucking cave. Nicola: Ok, fine. So what should I be sitting on? Should I just get an upturned KFC bucket? Malcolm: A fucking normal chair, right. Not a fucking massive vibrating throne. (Discussing Nicola's 11-year-old daughter, who is starting secondary school in September) Nicola: She's not going to the comprehensive, Malcolm. She's going to a local independent school. Malcolm: Jesus H fucking Corbett. Do you honestly think, do you honestly believe that as a minister you can get away with that? You are saying that all your local state schools, all the schools that this government has drastically improved are knife-addled rape sheds, and that's not a big story? For fuck's sake. Sort it or abort it! Nicola: Let's get this clear: my family is off limits, all right? This job is not gonna get anywhere near my husband and my kids, it just doesn't. Malcolm: Of course it fucking does: as per the wee barcode and the serial number under your right armpit, you are now built and owned by the state, and you are under the spotlight 24 hours a day, darling! Do you know what you are? You're a fucking human dartboard, and Eric fucking Bristow's on the oche flinging a million darts made of human shit right at you. Can you take that? Can you?

Malcolm: What's up with you? You look like you've shat a Lego garage.

Ed: What do we do? Malcolm: We send everyone up there, to support Liam Bentley, including the Prime Minister. Ed: You want to send Tom up there? Malcolm: Yeah, fuck it, he'll be all right as long as he doesn't do the smile. You hit the phones, right? I'll be with you in two shakes of a crying baby.

Malcolm: You have been asked by the PM, specifically, to pop along to Leamington, and do some photo ops with Liam Bentley, supporting him, yeah? Nicola: I don't really have any choice, do I? Malcolm: 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. Nicola: (Pause) Yes. (Beat) In my own voice.

Malcolm: (on the phone) Well you know what, Howard, she's not bent, either in the sense of being corrupt or being gay. And by the way, that's an incredibly homophobic headline, you massive poof. (enters Nicola's office) You've got egg on your face, Howard, you over-easy pissbag. (hangs up. To Terri, Ollie and Glenn) Oh hey, Yoko Ono and the two remaining Beatles, piss off.

(Nicola suspects that Malcolm set up the 'I am bent' photos) Nicola: Malcolm. Sorry, can we just carry on talking about that thing? Was it you who positioned me there? Malcolm (waiting for a lift): Do you know what the first sign of madness is? Paranoia. Have you seen that film, you know, A Beautiful Mind, the one with that, er, Russell Crowe? The one where the maths guy thinks that the CIA are working away in his shed at the bottom of his garden? That's you. Nicola: No. I'm not the mad one here. You are the mad one, you're Russell Crowe. Malcolm: No, no, no, you are Russell Crowe. (waves patronisingly at her) And you need to fucking listen to me, Russell, you fucking Antipodean fucking kangaroo-loving fruitcake! See this poster stuff? That's fucking small fry. That's fucking whitebait, Russ me old cobber. (enters the lift) The really horrible stuff, that's all still about to happen to you, right? Right, you're coming in here so we can carry this on? Nicola: What, now? Malcolm: Err, if you can spare the time! Nicola: Err, no. (Pause) No, I can't – I don't use lifts, I'm claustrophobic. Malcolm: (incredulous) You're what? Nicola: Not hugely, I can be in rooms, you've seen that, I just don't do lifts, that's all. Malcolm: But 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! Nicola: It's about not being able to get out. Malcolm: Oh, well that's great. That's fucking great, that's another fucking thing, right there: not only have you got a fucking bent husband and a fucking daughter that gets taken to school in a fucking sedan chair, you're also fucking mental! Jesus Christ, see you, you are a fucking omnishambles, that's what you are. You're like that coffee machine, you know: "from bean to cup, you fuck up". Nicola (to herself, returing to her office): He so is Russell Crowe! Terri (at her desk, overhearing): Who?

(deleted scene) Malcolm: Where the fuck is Doug Hayes? Ed: Yes, we put in a lot of calls. Malcolm: Well, put it a lot more calls: I'm talking 'psycho ex-girlfriend with a really good tariff'.

(deleted scene) Glenn: Because if you are worried about Malcolm, well, you know, Ollie and I have amassed one or two tips, how to deal with him, over the years. It's pretty much common sense, really: don't drive a gas guzzler, don't sign up for Bupa, don't have an affair. Don't tell racist jokes, however ironic. Nicola: Oh! Glenn: Don't send your children to independent schools. Ollie: Don't dig up Diana and have Patrick Moore play Nazi drinking songs on her ribs. (deleted scene) Ollie: Yeah I suppose so, he's gonna have to let her go free-range for a week, isn't he? Till after the by-election. Then he can snap her beak off, cram her into the battery cage; Nicola: 'I'm not really good with cages', (impersonates Malcolm) 'Get in there Nicola, fucking get in till you're perfectly square, and you're shiteing cuboid eggs!' Terri (sighing): Thank God I'm safe. I'm glued to this department and you'd have to steam me off. Glenn: Yeah. Well you don't have to worry about me: you don't hang around in this business as long as I have without picking up contacts. Ollie: Yes, but Disraeli's dead, Glenn, he died in the Crimea, did you not hear the town crier announce it? (deleted scene) Malcolm: It's never too soon to go to Leamington. It's the Venice of the Midlands, if Venice was fucking horrible. Malcolm: Have a lovely time in Leamington, yeah? I hear it's got the best Lidl in the West Midlands. (deleted scene) Nicola (at the poster launch in Leamington): And we need to be investing, er, at least – Glenn: Invest? Did I hear her say 'invest'? Terri (on the phone): Ollie, she's gone off-piste, she's off the mountain now. Glenn: Oh, Jesus. She's so far off the mountain, she's being finger-banged in a chalet by Bigfoot.

Series 3, Episode 2 [ edit ]

Malcolm: Look, stop worrying: the PM is not going to sack you after a week. Sacked after twelve months, looks like you've fucked up; sacked after a week, looks like he's fucked up. Nicola: I'm not doing terribly, am I? (beat) Malcolm (looking out of the car window): I love the way that they've sandblasted everything around here. It's so clean!

Malcolm (to Nicola's driver): Can you just pull in over here? And you can take out that cyclist as you go in, I think he's Shadow Cabinet.

Glenn (to Nicola): I have here the minutes which are a record and – Ollie: No no no, you can't just overwrite minutes! You specifically can't do it, 'cause you can't unlock a PDF file.

Robyn: Do you know, Malcolm? (Malcolm stares back, gravely) Er, the best way to clear a paper jam? Malcolm: I don't know. Kill a kid an hour until it sorts itself out? (Nicola has told Malcolm about the data loss) Malcolm: Do you know what, you know what's really fucking sad here is that I don't even have the energy to pretend I already knew. Which is for the best, because I'm gonna need all of my fucking energy to fucking rip all of your bodies to bits with my bare hands and sell off, (sees Nicola gesture to herself) yeah, sell off your fucking flayed skin, as a sleeping bag! To a fucking normal person! Nicola: Can I just say that getting angry actually isn't gonna help anything. I've done anger, I'm currently at grief, I'm working my way towards, er, bargaining, whatever, you know – you're behind me. Malcolm: So what is your great strategy for dealing with this? Come on: I mean, I'm fucking all ears, I'm fucking Andrew Marr here! Nicola: So let's – Terri, let's hear what you – Malcolm: Let's go, let's get going, high-level tactical discussion, I'm up for it! Terri: Right, er, blaming the department minister might be a high-risk strategy. Malcolm: Oh, high-risk: saucy! Power serve! Nicola: My pitch would be: this department is fatally flawed, it's out of condition, it's obese, it's asthmatic. Malcolm: That's it girl, back over the net. Glenn: You need to be really sure about that, Nicola. Malcolm: Yes, wise words from the distinguished elderly gay fucking tennis coach here. Ollie: Seriously, I think we should talk about my strategy further because I really think that that's the way. Malcolm (interrupting): Yeah. Yeah. Yeah, the fucking wee ball boy's having a go now with his wee fucking tight shorts on! (to Robyn, who has returned with a tray of drinks) What about Sue Barker's little sister here? What's she got to say? You got something to say, to add to the conversation? Robyn: No, er, just that there was no lemon zinger so, um, (to Nicola) this is coffee, is that all right? Malcolm: Do The Guardian know about this? Nicola: Oh fuck, I don't – Fucking Guardian, I don't know. Malcolm: Yeah, as it's referred to in my department. Terri: Should I find out? Get some feelers? Malcolm (looking at Terri's breasts): Yeah go on, get your feelers out for the lads.

Malcolm (arriving at Nicola's Guardian lunch): Afternoon, ladies! I heard there were sandwiches and I'm a fucker for cress – No no no, please don't get up, I'm not Viagra. Geoffrey. (shakes hands) Geoffrey: Always a pleasure. Malcolm: Good to see you. John, how are you doing? (John gets up to shake hands) I just want to tell you, I really enjoyed your novel. John: Oh, thank you very much! Malcolm: Way of writing a fucking awful story. Joking, joking! (Nicola has accidentally revealed the data loss to an on-the-record journalist) Malcolm: FUCK'S SAKE! Jesus – Christ! Well, now we've got another fucking adjective to add to fucking 'smug' and 'glum', haven't we?! Fucking 'RETARDED'! JESUS Ch– Do you not think it would be 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?! ARE YOU SO DENSE?! Am I gonna have to run around, slapping badges on people, with a big tick on some and a big cross on others, so you know when to shut your gob and when to open it?! Jesus Christ! Oh, but that'll probably confuse you as well, won't it?! That'll be too confusing! You'd see the cross and go "Oh, fuck! X marks the spot! Better tell this little person all about the Prime Minister's fucking CATASTROPHIC ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION!" Oh, but not to worry, not to worry, you've sent fucking Ollie over there to deal with it. (Nicola tries to speak) FUCKING OLLIE! HE'S A FUCKING- HE'S A FUCKING KNITTED SCARF, THAT TWAT, HE'S A FUCKING BALACLAVA!

Nicola: It just seems to me that all we'd be losing if we got rid of Robyn is somebody who makes a weak cup of tea, you know, I don't think we've – (mobile rings) Shit, Malcolm. (answers) Hello? Malcolm (in his office): Get over here, now. Might be advisable to wear brown trousers, and a shirt the colour of blood. (hangs up) Nicola: Fuck. Glenn: Has he run off? He does that. Nicola: Yeah, it's all just gone really HBO. (Nicola and Terri sit down in Malcolm's office) Malcolm: I just wanted to say to you, by way of introductory remarks, that I'm extremely miffed about today's events and, in my quest to try and make you understand the level of my, um, 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. Nicola: I could actually do without the theatrics, I think, Malcolm – Malcolm: Enough. E-fucking-nough. You need to learn to shut your fucking cave, right? Today, you have laid your first big fat egg of solid fuck. You took the data loss media strategy, and you ate it with a lump of E. coli. And then you sprayed it our of your arse at 300 miles per hour. Nicola: I simply made a mistake, Malcolm – Malcolm: You got 'on the record' and 'off the record' fucking mixed up! What would have happened if, like, George Martin had done that? We'd have no fucking Beatles, that's what. Now, I don't give a fuck about that: I've had to fucking sit next to Paul McCartney at fucking Chequers! Nicola: The data loss wasn't my fault. Malcolm: Fine, yeah, but I tell you what, it came out fucking pretty fast once you were in there, didn't it? Which makes me wonder, should I just go and talk to the boss? Should I go and tell him, "I don't think she's up to the job"? Nicola: You said yourself that if he sacks me after a week it looks like he's fucked up. Malcolm: Yeah, but that was before, when your only problem was a fucking shit pun in a newspaper, and a face like Dot Cotton licking piss off a nettle!

(Terri speaks for the first time in the meeting) Terri (with pen and diary ready): Right, what's the strategy? Malcolm (dramatic growl): The Kraken awakes! Terri: No no no, it's just that, I mean, this is the first bit of the meeting that hasn't been about expletives and fezzes and stilts and teabagging, I mean, this is the bit that relates to media management. Malcolm: I didn't say anything about teabagging. Do you even know what teabagging is? Terri: Not really, no; er, I'm told it's unpleasant. (deleted scene) Nicola: I don't know where 'smug' comes from, I mean, I've aged ten years in the past week: I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and I thought, 'Fuck me, it's a pantomime dame'. So an informal off-the-record lunch meet at The Guardian: apparently it's a sort of shoot-the-breeze, you know, 'Have you seen the latest Mad Men? Isn't Andrew Neil a jerk?' sort of thing. Malcolm: The Guardian? Don't tell them any fucking anecdotes about your children, or they'll offer you a fucking column. (deleted scene) Nicola: Right, when I came into this department I thought, 'OK. Let's turn a fresh page.' So I turned a fresh page, and you collectively have drawn a gigantic fucking cock on it! (deleted scene) Glenn (to Robyn): Part of the strategy is to warn us when Malcolm is coming back, so it's your job to block the path. You're the Spartans at Thermopylae. You're Richard Egan with an oily chest. (later, in Nicola's office) Ollie: One possible strategy might be not to tell anybody. Glenn: What, we keep it a secret? Robyn (running in): Sorry, sorry. Malcolm's coming. Sorry. Glenn: What? You were meant to be delaying him, you're supposed to be the Spartans! Robyn: Well I couldn't really remember what the Spartans did, I'm not as old as you, Glenn! (deleted scene) Marianne Swift: Data, exactly, I heard what you said about your data loss. Malcolm: Did you say that? Nicola: No, er, well I don't remem– I don't recognise