Where actually are you, Malcolm?

Where are you on holiday? Where?

Right, OK, I'm in Thailand in a sex bar. About to get an fucking facial.

Right, quick summary, Andy Murray, famous tennis player, also lovely Scotch person,

face of healthy lifestyle choices.

Nicola Murray, slightly panicky

Andy Pandy, fucking Gandhi had a

hand shandy, what ever, just fuck off out of my life, OK?

Okey-dokey.

The man from Hell Monte, he say, "Fucking aye."

Sorry about that, everybody's heard about the cooking, so...

Malcolm, what's all this about?

Well, I know these are hard times for print journalists, yeah?

I read that on the internet. One day you're writing for the papers and the next you're sleeping under them.

Right, so this is like Malcolm Tucker's soup kitchen.

Well, it is kind of in a way.

I just think you should have one, big square meal before you end up fucking

living off White Lightning and your own faeces. Come on, get stuck in.

bringing back Steve Fleming, kind of makes you old news, doesn't it?

Are you repositioning yourself, Malcolm?

This is about a guy sharing his ghee, that's it. OK.

So you're not currying favour, then? SHE LAUGHS

Sorry! Fuck you, get out of my house, get out of my house.

No wonder nobody's fucking buying your paper.

holiday for 10 years.

Malcolm's got to keep moving or he's dead. He's like a shark or Bob Dylan.

Who's driving the bus? Morning, morning, DoSAC.

Bollocky bollocks. It's the Ghost of Christmas Shit.

There's your answer, Terri. There's the man driving the bus.

That's Reg bloody Varney, all stops to electoral oblivion, ding-ding.

Get into my office, come on, it'll buy us a bit of time.

I've never seen Steve Fleming in the flesh. You're lucky.

He looks like a Lego policeman.

Look at him. Super Mario.

Morning, campers! Hi!

Steve Fleming! Hello...OK!