There would be no fucking Beatles, that's what.

I don't give a fuck about that. I've had to sit next to Paul McCartney at fucking Chequers.

The data loss wasn't my fault.

I tell you what, it came out pretty fast once you were in there, didn't it?

Which makes me wonder should I just go and talk to the boss,

should I tell him I don't think she's up to the job.

You said if he sacked me after a week it looks like he's fucked up.

But that was before, when your only problem was a shit pun in a newspaper

and a face like Dot Cotton licking piss off a nettle.

OK. I messed up. I messed up but...

I will from now on listen to every bit of advice you give me.

I'll go on Question Time wearing a push-up bra and a fez.

I'll do the hustings on stilts if that is what

you tell me the strategy is because you know about that stuff, Malcolm.

I know that. It's just that I've got things that I want to do, all right?

Of course you do. You want to sort out rocking horses?

No. The Mail have the mother lode on this, right.

That means there is a way through this for us but it entails

you, my dear, eating a complete concrete mixer full of humble pie.

What's the strategy?

The Kraken awakes. No, it's just that this is the first bit of the meeting

there hasn't been without expletives and fezzes and stilts and tea bagging.

This is the bit that relates to media management.

I didn't say anything about tea bagging.

D'you know what that is?

Not really, no.

I'm told it's unpleasant. Who do you want me to call?

The Mail. Get them in.

OK, Cheeky Girls, back on tour.

Love your work.

This is Marianne from the Mail.

I've told you who I want you to fire.

I want you to do it, not me, because I'm

relatively popular around here and frankly you've got nothing to lose.

This is it, Robyn. This is me true to my word.

Andrew, mate. Sorry, nothing personal. Clear your desk and go.