but it's a bit like asking if a dog can grasp the concept of Norway.

'Thanks, Terri, that's very helpful, bye.' Does he understand the...?

Oh, she's hung up. Ever the charmless minor royal.

And I keep a straight face, do I,

when I say to a room full of frog spawn, "Upload your future?"

That sounds great. No pronunciation traps.

You know what happened to the Chancellor at the Brits.

Tinny Tempah. It could have been worse,

I heard he opened his stag do speech with "Ma niggaz."

Oh, I can't get my head round this whole digital dividend element.

Kids design apps, whatever the hell they are.

Don't say, "What are apps?"

He knows what an app is. That Ocado thing I put on your iPhone's an app.

And the On This Day in Jazz History thing I gifted you. You love that.

The best thing is you just stick with that. "I call app Britain."

"I call up Britain."

"I call app Britain." App. "I call app Britain."

"I call app Britain."

Is there some whistle Fergus blows that only you can hear?

It's called being wanted, Terri.

Right, he can go for a start.

He makes more noise breathing than he does fucking talking.

What the fuck does a Statistical Procurement Officer do anyway?

Fuck all. Same as the rest of them.

Speaking of which, Glenn.

Always on the horizon like a fucking Antony Gormley statue.

Arms outstretched covered in rust. Just let it go to voicemail.

No, his messages are always so long and pleading. Hi, Glenn?

Where have you two gone?

We thought we'd go through the redundancies

away from the dead-eyed stare of the zombie army.

Ah, good thinking, yeah.

Look, I could help prioritise that kill list, you know?

There are some people who want out. Terri for instance.

'Oh, that's no problem, Mannion fucking hates her.'

It's one of the few things that brings us together.