(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.
Sorry.
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.
Are you OK?
Sit down.(deleted scene)
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.
They are big wreaths.
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.
Yeah.
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