(deleted scene)
Is your department looking at a 10 million overspend? Yes, or no?
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?
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.
No he won't! Fuck off, Malcolm.
You, listen. First things first: you need some interruption lines, yeah? Something that you can throw in.
All right: how about, er, 'I will answer the questions in the order you asked them, Jeremy'.
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)
Still, at least Hugh will be pleased.
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.
Shouldn't you be online pretending to be a Hobbit, eh? Trying to get a date with a lady Hobbit, but failing?
(deleted scene)
(seeing Ben Swain arrive)
Oh hey, hello, here he is! The walk of shame.
You never told us you had epilepsy of the eyes. Was that a sweat, or were you crying?
Have I seen you on the telly?
(laughs) Yeah. Blockbuster, 1991, I got a Gold Run.
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!
Can I get you two fellows a drink?
An orange juice, yeah, yes.
Oh, I'll have a pint of 'Fuck right off and die, you miserable fucking tosser'. Do they do that in here?
He's a wee bit disappointed.
We'll get you on Newsround next time. You reflected badly on me, and I don't like that.
Oh come on, Jamie, look, I'll get you a drink and then we'll –
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)
Really? Yeah, he'd be fantastic, I'd confess everything to him.
(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?
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?
Yeah, but you told me to tell him to come home.
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.
He's on some road somewhere where he can't do a U-turn for about five miles or something.
Good! I like to know that I can still make him miserable even though he's 12,000 miles away.
(Amidst all the chaos swirling after the announcement of the PM's surprise resignation, Ollie's cell phone rings. It's Angela Heaney.)
(answering his phone) Angela, hello.
I am tickety-fuckety-boo, thank you very much.
Tickety-fuckety-boo. It's just something that Ben says.
Are you and Ben Swain big buds, then?
Well, you know...Just, could you...
(Ollie has to get away from Glenn, because Glenn is talking to Hugh on his cell phone.)
(to Angela) Hang on just a second...
(Ollie walks away from the action...and then resumes his conversation with Angela.)
(in a quieter voice) Things are just a little bit fluid here and Glenn's not really a big Ben fan. Ben Swain obviously, not the clock. Well, it's not the clock, is it? It's the bell that's called Big Ben.
So go on, tell me: Who else is running?
(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 –
Er no, that's the flush of the automatic urinals, it's a gentlemen's lavatory.
I don't want to talk to you while you're holding your penis.
Well, that's not what you used to say, Angela.
No, well – actually it is precisely what you used to say.
(Meanwhile, at the Daily Mail's headquarters, Adam Kenyon, the editor-in-chief at the mail, is discussing the news of who's standing for leadership with Angela.)
Right, Ollie's our source on this, is he? Ollie Reeder? Shallow Throat? Brilliant.
Yeah, I know you don't rate him.
You can say that again. Ollie Reeder is, to quote Robert F. Kennedy, a complete fucking spazmaloid. 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.
(Downstairs at Number 10, Malcolm has an awkward run-in with Cliff Lawton.)
Elvis! Sorry, sorry. Cliff, Cliff. Where are you off to?
I'm actually off to, uh, to see an old colleague, you know, from the old days, from, uh...before you asked me to resign.
Oh, lovely, lovely. Well, look, I'd love to stop and chat to you, but you know, I'd rather have Type 2 diabetes.
(As Malcolm enters his office, he finds, to his surprise -- or is it dismay? -- Geoff Holhurst. Geoff stands up to greet Malcolm.)
Right. Hi, Geoff, don't stand.
GGeoff
Oh. (Geoff sits back down)
No, no, I mean, "Don't stand against Tom." Now do you see what I did there? I was both being funny and also deadly serious.
GGeoff
Yeah, now where did you hear that, Malcolm? I'm not standing.
Never mind where I heard it from. The thing is, Geoff... (Malcolm sits down in his chair) You're gonna waste everybody's time.
GGeoff
I'm not standing, Malcolm. I'm just trying to start a debate, you know, a policy debate, about the future direction of the party and of the government.
Because first, you've got no credentials. I mean, you're so back bench you've actually fucking fallen off. You're out by the fucking bins where I put you.
GGeoff
Hello? Are you listening to me? I'm not standing.
Secondly, I'm gonna tell the Mirror about all the drinking.
GGeoff
(laughing) I'm not drinking.
And thirdly, I'm gonna tell the Mail about the affair. And fourthly, you've got a tiny head.
GGeoff
(offended) No I haven't!
Yes you have. It's out of proportion, everybody mentions it.
See? You're shaking it, and I can hardly see it move. Are you shaking it now? Are you shaking it now? I can't tell.
GGeoff
I'm not standing, okay? My head is the right size, all right?
It is very petite. So you're not standing...
Right? You will not stand against Tom.
GGeoff
I've said. I've bloody said.
Okay, thank you, Geoff. Let's go. Arriva-fucking-derci. (Geoff gets up from his chair, and he and Malcolm shake hands.) Let's have lunch sometime, yeah? We'll have a tete-a-tiny-tete.
GGeoff
(leaving the office) Jesus...
(And now, Nick Hanway, a government press relations officer, is entering his way into Malcolm's office.)
(seeing Nick enter) Oh, Nice Nutter Nick!
(standing up again) Just, you know, putting out a fire.
Definitely out. Pissed out. Steam and cinders, pal. Does Tom know you're here?
So how's the rebrand going?
Okay, we've, um, booked him for a photo op on Tuesday. He's taking the family to a Harvester.
(chuckling) Oh, Jesus Christ, really?
(jokingly as a reporter) "Have you been to a Harvester before, Prime Minister?" (and now as Tom) "No, in fact, I've never actually been outside the fucking house with my family before."
Anyway, um, look...do you know the name of the bod who's booked to go on Today in the morning?
Yeah, we just found out. So -- you know who it is?
Well, of course I know. I mean, there's nothing that you know that I don't know. I'm Dr. Fucking Know.
Is this, are you...Are you testing me now? Is it, 'cause I mean, I could test you. I mean, we could have a big match or testostethon. I mean, how do I know that you've got the fucking name, anyway?
Because Hugo at Today told us.
(A bit of a pause...)
So what name have you got?
(Another hide-and-seek pause...)
Oh, okay, so you do know.
Look, um, Tom's announcing his team in the morning, and I've just got to stop Dan Miller announcing his team two hours before we announce ours, so...if you want to get on the bus, that's...
That is my mission? You, Mr. Nutty Bar, have given me a task? Jesus Christ, who the fuck does Tom think he is?
The next Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Malcolm.
(And with that cool, steely-eyed shot, Nick gets ready to leave Malcolm's office...but Malcolm isn't done with Nick yet.)
Nick. (beat) Tell the mighty fucking Tom that his transition will be as smooth as a Brazilian's fuckh--
(But just before Malcolm can finish his comeback retort to Nick, Jamie enters the office from out of nowhere and interrupts the party.)
(to Malcolm and Nick) 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.
So you're backing Dan Miller, are you?
No, I'm not backing Dan Miller! Don't you fucking ever ask me a question again!
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!
Oh, what, Mr Baby New Potato Head? Fuck off.
(Jamie is backing Cliff Lawton for leadership. And now, Jamie and Cliff are traveling in a car, discussing strategy.)
Um, I don't...I don't know what you mean. What?
Okay, no, I'm not a horse.
You've got a pretty fucking horsey face -- and a bit of a horsey wife. Are you a fucking horse? Are you?
Okay, leaving the wife aside...
I can categorically say that I am not a horse.
Exactly, you are not a fucking horse. You are no horse, and you are not a stalking horse. You are the real thing.
(nodding in agreement) Oh, right.
And we are going to ram you up Tom's are so hard that he has to shit out of his lying mouth.
It's not a very nice image, really, is it? (beat) But it's very motivating.
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!
Right, um, Jamie. Look, I just have to say at this point that I do find him just a little bit frightening.
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.
Actually, Malcolm? We still have no word on Dan Miller. I mean, he's gone dark, he's not answering his phone –
Maybe he's in a hotel with his own huddle. Ring around, try and find him.
What, ring every hotel in London and ask if Dan Miller's booked in?
Yeah! Although he could be using an assumed name.
So you want me to ring round every hotel in London, and ask if anyone, of any name, has booked in?
Well it will keep you busy, you know, you need to keep the mind active at your age.
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?
