Top of the list is Kelly Peters. No.

Why not? She's a very nice girl, Kelly Peters. She's very kind.

She often lends me hardbacks. Terri, the Mail is on the phone.

Christ. Don't worry, I'll deal with it.

I'll deal with it.

Robyn?

What? Yeah. No, absolutely not. There are too many implications.

We simply cannot go with the idea of sacking Robyn. OK?

Are you sleeping with her? What? No!

Although every time he does see her in his head he just hears...

# Bam-chicka-bam-bam... #

Ollie! It just seems to me that all we'd be losing if we got rid of

Robyn is somebody who makes a week cup of tea.

Shit. Malcolm. Hello.

Get over here, now.

It might be advisable to wear brown trousers. And a shirt the colour of blood.

It has all gone HBO.

I have got to go to Number Ten now. Now? Need a coat and you, Terri.

Really? Fuck shoes!

Do you want me to come with you too? Yes.

Shit. OK, we're off.

I'm wondering whether to take the lift, no I can't.

I just wanted to see to you by the way of introductory remarks that I'm extremely miffed about

today's events.

In my quest to try and make you understand the level of my

unhappiness, I'm likely to use an awful lot of what we would call violent sexual imagery.

I just wanted to check that neither of you would be terribly offended by that.

I could actually do without the theatrics, Malcolm. Enough.

E-fucking-nuff.

You need to learn to shut your fucking cave, right?

Today, you have laid your first big, fat egg of solid fuck.

You took the data loss media strategy and you ate it with a lump of E-coli.

Then you sprayed it out of your arse at 300 mph.

I simply made a mistake, Malcolm.

You got on the record and off the record mixed up.

What would have happened if George Martin had done that?