Right, sorry to interrupt you at this very sad time, but we do have Prime Minister's Questions in one hour.
No it's fine, I've got the lead question, I've got the follow-up sarcastic question and I've got the withering put-down, so I'm prepped, I'm fucking prepped.
Yep. You'll walk rings round him.Ben: The Leader of the Opposition is in that room, Malcolm, practising walking. I mean, baby horses can walk from the womb, she's one-nil down to a pony.
A pony isn't a baby horse, it's a foal, a fucking foal is a baby horse.
Right, our guest tonight on 'I Don't Give a Fuck about Baby Horses' is me. But we need to do something about Nicola, Malcolm, I mean, you know about her plan – I mean, Nicola with a plan, that's like a toddler with a harpoon, there's a toddler wandering around in that office with a harpoon.
Yes, well, don't you worry about Nicola's plan. I'll deal with that, Sweaty Betty – Listen, when you wake up in the morning you've got a routine, haven't you?
Big shit, granola, check the email, shower and a shave, Nespresso, sometimes a second shit.
Exactly. You have a plan: that's good. Nicola has a plan: that's not good. But I have a plan: that's fucking great.Malcolm (seeing Nicola bend down in front of the photocopier): Oh, that's very moving: 'They shall not grow old, who photocopy their arses at the Christmas do'.
(Nicola and her advisers, Ollie Reeder & Helen Hatley, are brainstorming ideas for a buzzword for do-gooder members of the public.)
They're commuters, they are the street-pounders, street – walkers, um –
You can't call them streetwalkers.
They're the people who deal with the little stuff, erm – Wombles, Honest Wombles, Everyday Wombles?
Sorry, I've just got to take a call.
No. No, of course, sorry.
Interrai– human interrailers –
Human interrailers? That's interrailers. Er, everyday superstars, all British supremes –
That sounds like a racist tribute band.
Ordinary people, with something special about them, with a special power.
Please don't say special. Don't say special.
No but – you know, but like sup– people as superheroes.
Ironpeople, Spiderpeople. Wolfpeople.
They're just regular citizens, but they have this – that one special quality that makes them like Batman, or Batpeople. Erm, Quiet Batpeople.
(glaring) Quiet Batpeople?
Before we finish, I just want to throw one more pebble into the thought pool.
Sorry Ben, I missed that?
Just I'm sorry, I just, I said 'ploop', it's just the noise of a pebble.
(A photographer has managed to take a picture of Helen's 'Quiet Batpeople' notes)
"Quiet Batpeople" on every fucking paper!
Right, this is a wake-up call. And by the way, Helen, the next time you want to make Nicola look like a clown with her fucking hair on fire in a Zumba class, why don't you just take your notes down to Snappy Snaps and get them blown up to gigantic charity cheque size, so the partially sighted can be in on the fucking gag?
I didn't know they'd be able to see it!
So we have to seize the agenda. We have to deflect attention away from all this. It's now time to embrace our friend Mr. Tickle.
I can't even say his name without smiling.
Yeah, well, he's not smiling, is he? He's living in a tent, 'cause his key-worker housing's been sold off.
Yes, and he's a 24-carat fucking nutcase. Which means that Peter Mannion has been picking on a man with a history of depression. That's a way right into the Principality of Pricks right there.
It's time for you to step up, Ollie. What's that film that you love?
The one about the fucking hairdresser, the space hairdresser and the cowboy. The guy, he's got a tin foil pal and a pedal bin. His father's a robot and he's fucking fucked his sister. Lego! They're all made of fucking Lego.
That's the one, right. It's like that, okay? Where you fucking kill all the bad guys, and you'll be able to blow up the big –
The Death Star thing. Then you can go and live happily ever after on the planet of the teddy bears.
They're Ewoks, they're Ewoks. It's a fantastic analogy, well done.
So, your loyalty to Nicola is –
Unwavering. Right up to the point that –
Not necessary: she's going to kick her own head in, which will be easy for her because she does yoga. No, we just need somebody to hold her jacket while she commits political hara-kiri, and sweep in unopposed, being careful not to tread in the mess.
So you think – I should challenge her?
What the fuck is this, Tinker Tailor Soldier Cunt? Do you, or do you not, want to be the next leader of this party?
Right, well, she needs to fuck off in eight months, so it looks like we're giving her a chance. I will teach you the way of tears and love, my friend; now, let's get out of this fucking cupboard before Ben Swain comes in for his lunchtime wank.
(Malcolm and Ben, and separately Ollie and Helen, are watching Nicola at the Remembrance Sunday ceremony on TV)
You're right, she can't fucking walk.
I mean, should we get a pony to challenge her?
It's not a fucking pony, it's a fucking foal.
I don't understand how you can get that wrong.
It's this: (demonstrates) de-de-clunk!
She is officially a Ceno-twat.
Fabulous work, sister. Bury her in a grave. The Unknown Leader.
I can't watch: I feel a bit sick.
I just hope there is no afterlife, because if people fought and died for this, it is going to seem even more ridiculously futile.
Ben (to Malcolm): Why d'you know so much about horses, anyway? I thought you were raised by wolves.
(deleted scene)
(during the Quiet Batpeople brainstorming)
Wombles, Honest Wombles, Everyday Wombles?
Right, OK, obviously, you know, we're not gonna block anything 'cause this is a think-thoughting session, erm –
Sorry, I've just got to take a call.
Think-thoughting, Helen, is what we call, in the real world, thinking. It's the same. Am I say-speaking out of turn? Have I not understood-comprehended you?
I don't know, I tuned you out a bit.(deleted scene)
Hiya, I thought you were bollocking Dan Miller.
Oh, I am. (to the empty chair next to him) Look at you! You bourgeois, fucking side-parted twat, you flap that bammed-up nutcrease of yours again, and I will fuck you so deep, that if you're not drowned in the blizzard of jizz, your rectum will become the biggest fucking indoor venue in fucking Europe.
Malcolm (to Ollie): This is monkey typewriter stuff. There's not even a fucking infinite amount of monkeys with an infinite amount of time with an infinite amount of typewriters that'll produce the words, 'Nicola Murray, PM'.(deleted scene)
How do you know so much about horses, anyway? I thought you were raised by wolves.
I don't know anything about horses, apart from that a grown-up one's a fucking horse and a baby one's a foal. And why are you eating my biscuits?
I don't know, I found them on here. There's one left.
It's like a toilet seat, isn't it? I mean, it's not, it's lovely.
What size of a wreath would you need for a nuclear war?
There wouldn't be anyone left to put it on the Cenotaph, would there? It'd be carried along by cockroaches or whatever it is they say'll survive.
