(on the phone) Sam, hi, listen, can you do me a favour? Buy some flowers for Nicola fucking Murray. Yeah, have them delivered to her home this evening with a card that says: "Sorry you had to go, but let's face it, you are a fucking waste of skin". Waste of skin, yeah.
“Series 4, Episode 4”
In this episode: Malcolm Tucker (11), Nicola Murray (7), Ben Swain (5), Ollie Reeder (4), Glenn Cullen (2), John Duggan (2), Dan Miller (2), Helen Hatley (2)
(to a hospital receptionist) Morning. I'm looking for a Mr. Oliver Reeder. He looks a bit like a Quentin Blake illustration.
(answers his mobile) Hi Mum. Yeah, a bit sore –
(entering Ollie's room) Here she is, Britain's latest post-op transsexual. How did they do that, did they actually manage to graft one on? (briefly lifts up Ollie's bedsheet)
I'll call you back, Mum. (hangs up) It's the scary Morrissey!
(throws Ollie some flowers) I've come to cheer you up.
Did you actually buy me flowers, Malcolm?
No no no, it's one of the many advantages of living close to an accident blackspot. So how are things, the little boy from The Secret Garden?
Well, you know, there's no Wi-Fi, there's basic Freeview. It's like living in 2003. But I am lighter to the tune of one whole appendix, so I do feel very svelte.
So have you seen this? (holds up the Guardian, which leads with an interview with Steve Fleming)
(reads the headline) "Nicola Murray is 'unelectable'"?
(throws Ollie the paper) Fleming is foaming.
Is that it then, is she fucked?
Like Caligula's favourite watermelon. Fleming's fired the starting pistol so we can all start firing our actual pistols into her fucking fat unelectable smug head.
How...Is this it now?
It's on. It's on like Fat Pat's thong. We're putting Nicola on a train today to Bradford. It's the closest as I could get to locking her in a metal box.
Oh, this is the Here 2 Hear thing. What a great idea, going around the country listening to people tell you that they hate you, just in different accents. (In various accents) "I fucking hate you." "I hate you." "I fucking hate you."
So wait, today's the day?
Today's the day. Once she's on the train, I'm going to detonate the main bomb, but I need you to set one off later.
(laughing) Malcolm, I'm in hospital, I'm not wearing any pants!
I don't care if you've been dead for a year and playing cribbage with Jimmy fucking Savile. I want you to make a bomb and explode it, today.
(confused) This is a metaphorical bomb, right?
This is it, Jack fucking Bauer. Time for you to embrace your inner bastard.
I'm not going to exploit a suicide.
Come on, you can't look a gift corpse in the mouth, you should be taking that corpse and slapping the Government about the face with it. Bit of slap with Tickle, yeah?
No, I'm not doing it, it's insensitive, as was that.
Erm, John, maybe –
Please, call me JD, I've rebranded.
Right. So John, if you could get us some drinks, that would be great.
Abso-dutely, I could murder a lager! It's all right drinking on trains, isn't it, it's one of those places where alcohol is acceptable at any time of day, like a casino, or Cardiff. That's not racist. I could have said Glasgow, or Dublin.
Ben (to two colleagues): Yeah, it's a Nigella recipe, you sort of do it with gammon and Coca-Cola. That's fantastic.
Ah, the hairless Hagrid. I need a private word.
Yeah, we're kind of in the middle of something.
Malcolm (to Ben's colleagues): I need you lot to make like a tree and go fuck yourselves.
Yeah, we'll pick this up later.
Malcolm (seeing Ben's empty desk): Oh I'm sorry, I can come back if you're – I didn't realise you were so fucking busy.
Well, I could do some work, but you know what, we're still gonna lose.
Hey hey hey. Don't be so grim, you big quim. You are the future of this party, yeah? You are the next generation.
And you're in its past, I mean – I don't really know why you're still here, Malcolm.
I just want to see this thing turn around, right? I can't leave while we're getting fucked in the polls, and we're getting fucked consistently and repeatedly like a horse in the fucking Hebrides.
All very original observations, Malcolm MacIntucker, but what's the solution?
Nicola has to go. Today.
Oh, right.
You need to resign.
And challenge her for the leadership?
Ah, no. No, that would be petty and self-interested. No. You are doing this for the greater good of the party. As Deputy Leader, Dan Miller will take over, and he can be anointed at a later date.
So, you want me to stick my cock in a fan so that Dan Miller can become the next Prime Minister? Well fuck you very much, Malcolm. What do I get out of this?
I would not ask you to do this for nothing, would I?
You might.
I'm asking you, because you're a big fucking beast. Which is why, when you come back, it'll be as Foreign Secretary.
And you mean Foreign Secretary, that isn't code for, like, Northern Ireland, I'm not fucking going there.
This is the proper Foreign Secretary, with all the perks. Fuck-off breakfasts at Dubai hotels. Tours of secret Russian sex yachts.
All right! All right, I'll do it. And you know what? I'd have done it for a lot less.
I beg your pardon?
I'd have done it just to see the look on Nicola's face.
Oh. I've underestimated you.
(quite proud of himself) You have been out-maneuvered by a player. It happens.
Yeah, well...didn't used to.
God, this is absolutely ridiculous. We so should have sat separately in first!
You can't go in first class, it's career suicide. You might as well do a shit in the aisle.
(Glenn Cullen is visiting Ollie Reeder in the hospital)
(to Glenn) So go on, then. How's life in Nazi HQ? Is it fun collaborating?
Oh, don't start all that again. I got into government by accident.
Speaking of which, how is Terri?
She's entering her dog for Britain's Got Talent.
(Ollie lets out a big laugh)
(to Ollie) Look, what's the matter with you anyway? Please tell me you're looking for a bone marrow donor and that I'm your only hope. The answer would be no, by the way.
Bad luck. No, it's an appendix out. Well, I hope it is. Since your lot took over the NHS, everything's a fucking adventure, isn't it?
Look, all this is incredibly entertaining, Ollie. But you called me over in my lunch hour, and as you're fond of saying, I don't have many of them left.
So you know all this stuff with Mr. Tickle?
Sad business.
Very sad business.
Yeah. Mr. Sad is actually very very sad about it.
Yes. Mr. Happy, on the other hand: fucking delighted!
Yeah? Mr. Stoic's taking it on the chin.
Yes! Mr. Milk-it says we should probably stop this now.
Okey doke.
Nicola (returning to her seat): Right, wee mission accomplished.
Actually, having an accurate wee into a moving train toilet would make a great round on The Cube with Phillip Schofield.Glenn (entering the toilet): Ollie, come on, this is my shittiest lunch break I've had since Stewart took us all out for sushi.
Patience, old man, and you can watch the fuckpuppet master at work now. (calls Ben) Ben Swain! Benign tumour, Bental illness!
Ol– Oliver Cyst, Olivetti – Spaghet– I don't really have time for chit-chat, Ollie.
Are you resigning, mate, are you dropping the R-bomb? Benola Gay? I'm not just, er, talking about the rumours.
Let's just say it is time to prepare the hidey-hole for Madame Hussein, her reign of error is over.
And out of interest, Ben, what would it take to stop you from resigning?
Why, what's Nicola offering?
Name your price!
All right. Shadow Chancellor.
(Ollie laughs. Glenn barely stops himself from doing so as well.)
Ah, you still got it, Benny.
I'm serious, stop fucking laughing.
All right, I'll call you back. (hangs up)
This is a fucking joke! Ben Swain, Chancellor? He goes into debt every time he passes a sweet shop!
Malcolm (answering his phone): What have you got for me, Professor Brian Cock?
Ben small-balled it. Nicola's offered him Shadow Chancellor, he's not resigning.
Christ in a diamond heist, the dopey fucking bollard. Right, how are you getting on with the old man from Up?
(Glenn is waiting outside the toilet)
Yeah, you know, getting there.
Well, get a move on. I want him leaking like Cliff Richard out jogging.
Right. OK. I'll be right on it. (hangs up)
Malcolm (entering Ben's office): Oh, here she is. Pippa Middleton, trying to steal the limelight with your peachy little arse. Right, where are we?
Well, I've just offered Ben here Deputy Leadership of the party.
I don't want it. I want Chancellor.
Malcolm (surprised): Chancellor? Of the United Kingdom?
Yeah, it's what Nicola's offering me.
Are you sure about this Ben, how's your economics?
Good, strong.
What, you're a PPE-er guy?
No, History of Art, but –
Oh right, so you are confident that one day you will be able to shepherd this country out of one of the darkest economic periods in its entire fucking art history?
Look, at the moment, I hold all the cards, including the card that tells you how to play, so – so it's over. The fat lady's singing.
No she's not. The fat man from the GoCompare adverts is talking.
This is tiger-by-the-tail time and I'm loving it, loving it, loving it!
Oh, in that case you leave me no option, Ben, I'm gonna have to say yes.
Oh, Chumba-fucking-wamba! Then I resign on the dotted line.
Can you give us a minute, Ben, please? Dan and I need to talk some strategy.
Might head in the direction of confection; any snack-age, anyone?
No, no.
(Ben leaves)
Is this for real?
No, of course it's not for real, Malcolm. I'm offering him Chancellor, but I might as well be offering him bass player in The Wurzels, because that burly haemorrhoid's getting nowhere near any fucking cabinet of mine.
Good, so how are you gonna shaft him?
That's not my problem. That's your problem, Malcolm.
Right, so this is a little test, is it, you're weighing my balls?
(Dan nods and smiles.)
Should we get Ben?
Oh, he'll be back. Like the shit Terminator. (Ben returns) There he is.
I hereby tweet, 'I have resigned. More to follow.' Didn't seem that momentous.
How many followers have you got?
612, or thereabouts.
Christ, well let's hope it gets retweeted, otherwise you might as well just whisper it to a fucking dead tramp.
(Nicola is upset that she wasn't able to get support from a fellow politician in her party.)
Fucking fibroid polyp bitch! I hope they sprout out of her abdomen and fucking choke her!
(Ben is preparing for his big announcement, but first, Malcolm wants to show Ben something on his cell phone.)
These phones are amazing, aren't they? I've got an application here that can throw grenades into people's dreams.
So, how do I look?
Is that your suit with the reinforced trouser arse on it, yeah?
Ha, very funny. What, a joke that I'm going to shit myself?
No, it's because you're gonna need it for the 10 years you're gonna be sitting on the back benches. The e-mail trail about the key worker housing clearly shows that you, Benjamin Trevor Swain, were gleefully in favor of it, just like Nicola.
You've...Um...
There you go. Break a leg, love. And your neck and your wrist. It doesn't really matter.
(Meanwhile, Nicola and Helen are on a train back to London, when Nicola realizes...)
I never act on impulse. I'm so not impulsive. And Malcolm made me do it now, fuck!
What?
Launching this inquiry may prove to be misguided in that I now recall I may have fleetingly supported the policy myself.
(in disbelief) So you've essentially launched an investigation into yourself.
Malcolm made me do it.
Oh, well, Malcolm, yeah.
You've met Malcolm. I would've said that it was ethically bad.
I'll tell you what you said, just give me a minute. (Helen scoffs) Brilliant. Courtesy of the Telegraph website. You said, "Great revenue raiser, but I'm afraid it's a no-no because of my bloody husband." I'm sorry. Why would you do that?
You remember all your e-mails, do you, that you sent three years ago? Because from what I understand from Ollie, a large number of them were sent to that married producer on the Daily Politics.
Ollie is a fucking...because...He was supposed to leave her and...
(Helen wants to come up with a better rescue plan.)
Okay, while we're on our way back to London, maybe we should make a list of the things, you know, you're for and against. Let's start with something simple. Animals in circuses?
Tell you what. Why don't you make the little list and shove it up your tight, cold arse? I just need to stare.
Have a good stare.
(on the phone to Ollie) You are not going to try and talk me down off a ledge, are you? Because, I've got to tell you, I'm really tired and the pavement looks like a nice, warm, splatty bed right now.
These quotes come from Wikiquote's The Thick Of It pages and are available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License.