how did your team do at the weekend?
great. wanker.
sam. morning.
well, pop pickers. what shall we start with today? wonky ron. or simon foster, on the pm programme for the bbc. malcolm starts listening to the recording of simon on the radio.
here we go.
diarrhoea? i mean, this is the minister for international development. he should be talking about food parcels, not fucking arse-spraying mayhem.
oh yes, say it again. very good. what is this, the shitting forecast?
steady eddie.
sam! sam!
no you do not think that! sam! i'm going to have to go over to international development, and pull simon foster's fucking hair.
he did not say "unforseeable'. you may have heard him say it, but he did not say that, and that is a fact.
no. you're fine to go ahead and print that. it's lies, you'd be lying, but go ahead. he did not say unforeseeable. no he did not. oh, just before you go -- when i tell your wife about you and angela heaney at the blackpool conference. would email be better? or a phone call? or, hey i know, i'll write it on a cake, "your hack husband betrayed you on the 4th of october, and congratulations on the new baby" in those little silver balls. yeah, maybe best to spike it? okay. fuckity-bye!
yeah, malcolm tucker. can i speak to james lewis at the pm programme please? page 7
no, i'll hold,. what's he waiting for? a sex-change?
james! right --simon foster? yeah, very funny, the diarrhoea of a nobody. listen, we get an easy ride on tom tomorrow, ok? no, you relax. tell you what, i'll come over a lock you in a flotation tank and pump it full of sewage until you drown. get me fucking brian!
now. and don't say you weren't prepared because i rang ahead. give us a minute, will you love?
in the words of the late, great nat king fucking cole, `unforeseeable, that's what you are'
oh why didn't you say? i mean, he asked you. fuck. of course, that explains it. yeah. say, if he'd asked you to fucking black up, or give him your pin number, or shot yourself, would you have done that as well.
yeah. very good.
that is not our line, alright? walk the fucking line. look.
not the time love. fuck off.
don't apologise for me. you should apologise for yourself. did i not just tell you to fuck off and yet you're still here?
hey, foetus boy. lesson one: if i tell you to fuck off what do you do?
you'll go far.now fuck off.
no, you're not going on question time tonight. you've been disinvited. page 11
because they ask fucking questions on question time. and you're no good at questions. if it was fumbling, off- message shit fucking answer time, you'd be our main guy. but it's not.
why should i tell you about this?
your purview? where do you think you are sweetheart, in some regency costume drama? this is a government department, not a fucking jane austen novel. allow me to pop a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up the shitter with a lubricated horse cock.
she's married? the poor bastard.
no, not until we can trust you to keep to the line.
what is it then?
no. not foreseeable. that's fucking declaring war. do you want to fucking declare war?
write this down. it's neither forseeable nor undorseeable.
okay, you need to work on this fucking line. that includes you, jane fucking austen with the strap-on. oh, and put the sniff out there that the next time the bbc ambushes a minister with a war question we'll drop a bomb on them.
purview, marie antoinette? weel listen, darling, why don't you fucking scuttle off back to fucking cranford and play around with your tea and cake and horse cocks. let them eat cock! you, ron weasley -- you do it.
simon. i don't like finding out about people i work with via the news, unless they've died. get over here now so we can address at least one of those issues.
you are supposed to be a cabinet minster. you are supposed to be officer class. don't do this. don't make waves.
you're against talking up the war? is that why you said, "climb the mountain of conflict"?
right, you two, the white stripes, outside.
there's only two people in the white stripes.
washington. the boss wants you over there on a fact-finder. problems we might face if it all goes boombastic in the middle east.
but you were saying, you are on the verge of your stand.
christ on a bendy-bus, simon, stop being such a faffing fuck-arse.
well, when you go to america, talk to karen clarke at the state department,
but keep away from linton barwick. he's pushing the war for caulderwood's lot. i'll deal with him. dangerous fucker. keeps a live hand-grenade as a paperweight. true story.
talk to as few people as possible. that would be best for you.
i'm here, i'm there, i'm fucking everywhere. i am the egg-man.
hello!!
you're meant to shit yourself in there. not out here.
what? the actual. war committee?
who's going to be there?
who else is going -- jimmy osmond? gwyneth paltrow? you've been invited to a diversion. the real committee, the real thing, that's happening at the white house.
don't mention this to the press, ok? don't mention it to anyone. because if the press get a whiff there's a war committee, even a cardboard one, every fucker in this town is going to turn up and try and get on it. so no matter what gay bar you end up, keep it schtumm.
i have to have a word with you. you might want to slip into your negligee.
we are under enormous pressure simon. karen will want you to say, `war is unforeseeable'. linton will want you to talk up `climbing the mountain of conflict'. you say nothing, okay? you can't swing both ways, you're not david fucking bowie.
no, we're going to run that through.
yeah yeah. hunky dory. can i get a coffee? he gives aj his coat.
your assistant?
i'm sorry son, am i - is this it? no offence, but shouldn't you be at school with your head down a toilet?
don't get sarcastic with me son. we burnt this tight-arsed city to the ground in 1814 and i'm all for doing it again. starting with you, you frat fuck. you get sarcastic with me again and i will stuff so much cotton wool dowm your fucking throat it'll come out of your arse like the wee tail on a playboy bunny. okay? i thought. i was led to believe i was attending the war committee.
i don't want the bullshit son, i want the bull. no one sidelines me. i'm away.
and here we go - the fucking vice president has also graced us with his presence!
bitch!
are you fucking me about? page 65
you might pull this kind of stunt on some young wank fresh up from oklahoma, happy to be getting his hookers paid for by tobacco lobbyists, but not me.
i've just had a briefing from a 9-year- old finalist in americas got talent. i think he may have been a ventriloquist. or possibly the fucking dummie.
his fucking briefing notes were written in alphabetti spaghetti. when i left i nearly tripped over his umbilical cord.
yeah, apparently your fucking master race of gifted toddlers can't quit get the job done in between breast feeds and playing with their power rangers. so yeah, we're getting some actual grown-ups to bail you out.
what the fuck does that mean? `all roads lead to munich'?
`all roads lead to munich'?
come on let's go, get back to the hotel, nick as many coat hangers as you can. we're off back to london.
don't mock that! the closest you'll come to getting one of those is buying a toblerone. mark hadley's dad's died.
nah, i'll send him a ouija board so they can keep in touch.
i want a word with the minister and charlotte fucking bronte.
"while foster jets around at the taxpayer's expense, his constituency headquarter's wall's collapsing and he doesn't give a shit.
no but it says `wall-ace and gromitt'
you are being portrayed as the biggest twat in northamptonshire, and that's going some.
listen, my little stem cell, i don't want to be dealing with this either, okay? i've got bigger fucking fish to fry, believe me. i'm rolling blue whales in breadcrumbs at the moment. i'm giving this to jamie.
right, i'm off to deal with the fate of the planet, okay?
don't look at me like that's arrogant. that is just a fucking fact. don't even look at me. be gentle with them.
so, my lovely friends, bottom line.
sorry michael, i promise never to use it again.
now then, you still got doubts, complicated simon?
that's why you've got to stay in government. in here you can influence things, delay things. out there you're just another mad shouty fucker people don't want to make eye-contact with. remember mary? she took a stand over health. everyone decided she was mental.
i found that a very powerful image. look, the prime minister of this country is not a viking. he doesn't drink blood, he doesn't go round biting tramps. he doesn't go to chequers at the weekend for a bit of light raping and a pub lunch.
unlike me, the man abhors physical violence.
listen, we've got evidence harder than a diamond dildo. we have intelligence so deep and hard it would fucking puncture your kidneys.there's an informant, `ice man', ok? the stuff he's giving us? it'll make your blood run cold. and clot. your insides will turn to black pudding. . now, certain box-lickers are sitting on it. but you're going to see it, because the pm regards you as a key player now. judy's mobile goes.
see- you're a-list now. you're a kennedy. in the vip lounge, with the gold card and the complimentary drinks and the hard-on.
so. the wires are all currently reporting that you're going to resign from government over the war.
yeah well it is outside. it's lurking outside like a big hairy rapist at a coach station.
do you know, if i could i'd punch you into total paralysis.
it's a shithole. it looks like a hospice for robots.
nibbles? who still says nibbles?
jamie. hello?
no fucking signal down here. jesus. i'd be better off in an internet cafe in kircoddy.
okay jamie, two jobs. one: find the pwip pip leaker and kill them. that's one job. job one has two parts. job two: stop pwip pip coming out. sow enough seeds of fear and doubt that the fat arses at the bbc dither till after the vote, okay? after the vote enola gay is cleared for take- off and everything is groovy. i love you.
do not move from this spot or i'll fucking stab you.
was it you?
but you know what i'm talking about?
was it you, the-baby-from-eraserhead?
so it must have been you woman from the crying game?
someone's dropped a bollock in the noodles and i reckon it was you.
yeah well i know you didn't leak last time. but what i reckon is you got so pissy about being accused, you leaked this time.
come on, baldermort, i need a word.
we're in a new reality now and you've got to speed things up.
the debate. it needs to start at eleven o'clock, not one thirty.
just fucking do it, fishlips. otherwise you'll find yourself in some medieval warzone in the caucasus with your arse in the air, trying to persuade a group of men in balaclavas that sustained sexual violence is not the way forward.
then i'll do it. they're through there?
then you do it. get in there.
i'm leading, look follow my lead.
where's the intel? are you sure you're working as hard as me? cos i'm sweating spinal fluid here. i'm a husk.
oh yeah i think so. thanks. oh, whoa whoa whoa just a wee moment general flintstone. was it you? did you leak pwip pip? i know you can't fire a gun, but can you use a fax?
i'm doing my own work. i'm doing my job.
oooo. tough talk from the armchair general. what you going to do? throw a cushion at me? put your feet up on a poof and go back to sleep why don't you?
have you ever even killed anybody? really?
falling asleep on someone doesn't count.
personally, i prefer maiming.
go ahead. i can see the headlines now. 'peace-loving general starts fight in un, swiss intervene'. i don't know, i'm no expert on spin but could that hurt your career?
right. do excuse me. i've got work to do. oh, and don't ever call me fucking english again.
honestly? i haven't got it. we need more time.
no. i've had the vote brought forward.
okay, quick reality check, j edgar fucking hoover. i don't work for you. you don't tell me what to fucking do.
get your polos and fuck off.
what do you want?
it's complicated, okay? i've been juggling a number of responsibilities.
look. it's too late now. resigning. it's not worth it. the horse has bolted. it's out there getting shot now.
if you repeat this to anyone i will pull your leg off, break it in two and stab you to death with your broken shin bone. now go away.
yeah, bbc newsdesk please. malcolm tucker. ben? hi, how you doing? yeah, well, i'm hearing you're preparing a story that we might not like.
i just want to say please, this garden wall story, please don't run with it. simon foster's constituency-office wall? you've got that haven't you? i haven't let the cat out of the bag? shit. look, my reputation will be in tatters if you run with.  and he's gone. boo hoo. i've got a hard on.
i know it was you who leaked linton's war committee.
are you telling me it wasn't you? is that your proposition? is that want you want to say if i ask them to fly you to diego garcia and slip a hood over your head and carry out a cavity search?
that's more like it. so. you are now on probation. okay?
you're my guy now. i own you now. you're my kunte kinte. go and get your laptop.
ah, ambassador -- with your big baldy head you are spoiling us.
great. i need it delayed now.
by an hour, at least. although i guess two and a half hours now, as you've brought it forward.
you do what i say or you can go and see if belize are looking for a new ambassador but with a broken nose, one bollock, and a half-chewed cock.
is it up, have you got it up?
okay, go to page nine, highlight that.
highlight from that page to the end of the document.
i don't know i don't use these things.
is it highlighted?
okay, right, standby .  delete!
messenger! get messenger up!
have you tried hitting him? give him a thump, that usually works.
great. now attach that to email.
right, let's find a printer. the japanese, they'll have one. they've got everything.
get me a blue folder.
i don't fucking know. do i look like i've ever set foot in a stationary cupboard? i do my shagging in five star hotels. now go and find me a blue fucking folder. pronto.
the intelligence your guys couldn't find? i think you owe me a massive, grovelling apology.
it's been a pleasure working with you. you know, i've met some psychos in my time, but none as fucking boring as you. oh sorry, that's right. you disapprove of swearing. a boring f star star cunt!
simon, look, mate. listen to me. you still don't need to resign.
it's nor ridiculous. you're fired.
the wall. it's just not tolerable.
look at this. give me the paper. he's my new boy. i'm just breaking him in.
the telegraph has a cartoon of you crushed underneath the great wall of china, suggesting you are the only political fuck-up visible from space. look at this. no one could survive this. the pm is very clear on this - you're sacked, over the wall.
yes.
yes i have.
i have spoken to the prime minister. whether it has happened or not is irrelevant. it is true. as soon as i heard about the wall, i spoke to him and he decided you had to go.
yeah well if you try to turn this into some anti-war protest, you can expect your `mountain of conflict' soundbite to be everywhere from ringtones to a fucking dance mix on youtube. i will marshall all the forces of media darkness to hound you to an assisted suicide.
right, rumpleforeskin's give me your laptop, so -- shall we draft your `dear prime minister, just a quick note to say thanks for sacking me' letter?
ah, here they are. minister. elizabeth. welcome aboard.
ah, cheeky! let me take you out for an expensive lunch, roast swan and all the trimmings, and i'll bring you up to speed on the whole middle east situation.
aye, but in a friendly, non-breaky way. watch your step there. there's still blood on the deck.