You're a fucking human dartboard.

And Eric fucking Bristow is on the oche, flinging a million darts made of human shit right at you.

Can you take that?

Can you? You, the all-swearing eye, you didn't even know how many kids I had. You had to ask me.

So who on earth in the press is going to either know or care?

Do you remember The Big Breakfast? You remember it?

You remember how Chris Evans started that?

You remember it was a big success?

And then they had that guy Johnny Vaughan. Remember?

Everybody loved him. Fuck knows why, but they did.

Do you know what this is here?

This here is fucking series 10 of The Big Breakfast. And do you know what you are?

You're the fucking dinnerlady that they have asked to come and present the show.

The reason that I didn't know about you and your children is cos you were so low down

on the list of candidates for this job I didn't even have the chance to look into you.

So low.

Way, way, way, way, way...

Low.

You are now being scrutinised for what you wear, what you say, for your hair, your shoes,

your fucking earrings, your fucking cleavage and your dress - which, by the way, is WAY too loud.

Too loud?

Yeah, I'm getting tinnitus here.

Look, your crooked husband, I can make go away.

But your crooked husband combined with you being worried

about your under-age daughter coming home up the duff

from some truanting bastard, I cannot.

She goes to the comp, OK?

Oh, God!

You, Glenn. And or Ollie.

Terri, just a quick update, really. How did it go?

Em, it was all very positive.

We sort of know where we all stand now. The PFI thing you know about.

Not a problem. Malcolm's fine.

Second thing I've just apprised Malcolm of

is that my 11-year-old daughter will be going to a private school.

Oh, for fuck's sake.