Before we finish, I just want to throw one more pebble into the thought pool.
Ploop.
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.
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