No.

And you never will be me.

I knew Malcolm F Tucker, sir.

And you are not Malcolm Fucking Tucker.

You're not even fucking Manchester's top Malcolm Tucker tribute band.

And trying to be me, you?

Trying to be me will fucking kill you. I give you 18 months

before you're a washed-out, weeping alcoholic

with no fucking bladder control.

Sleeping on your brother-in-law's sofa.

And so on and so on, it doesn't have to be like that now, Malcolm,

politics has actually changed.

Oh? Right. Yeah, yeah. And you probably haven't noticed because you've been on transmit

for the last fucking eight years Waa-waa-waa-waa-waa!

And whilst you've been doing that, everybody else has been changing,

and it's all a bit softcore now, it's all a bit algorithms now.

You don't have to be Malcolm Tucker to sit in that chair.

Oh, how quickly they grow up. You fucking think you know me?

Well, yeah. Yeah, I know you.

You know Jackie fucking Chan about me.

You know fuck all about me!

I am totally beyond the realms of your fucking tousle-haired,

fucking dim-witted compre-fucking-hension.

I don't just take this fucking job home, you know.

I take this job home, it fucking ties me to the bed,

and it fucking fucks me from arsehole to breakfast.

Then, it wakes me up in the morning with a cup full of piss

slammed in my face, slaps me about the chops,

to make sure I'm awake enough so it can kick me in the fucking bollocks.

This job has taken me in every hole in my fucking body.

Malcolm is gone, you can't know Malcolm,

because Malcolm is not here!

Malcolm fucking left the building fucking years ago!

This is a fucking husk.

I am a fucking host for this fucking job.

Do you want this job?