Could you keep your fucking opinions to yourself, please!

Sorry, Nicola, just got to take this. Ollie Reader.

Nicola, just got a text from Malcolm. He says he knows Mannion was here.

Text reads, "I know about your fucking meeting with that aging flamenco guitarist.

Shit. He wants you at Number 10, ASAFP. Come on, let's go!

It's called politics, Peter. We're trying to do it from your office.

I've told Nicola Murray I'm not capitalising on that story.

If you have to wade through all this shit to win the election then I'm happy to lose it, all right?

Hi Nicola, thanks very much for coming over. Can I get you something?

You should see it now! It's like a fucking butcher's slab and just as graphic!

But? I'm sensing there is a "but", probably be the size of a fucking house.

"head teacher bends the rules and gives preferential treatment to Cabinet minister."

Yeah, I'm afraid it's "fuck off, Mr Chips!".

If you resign now, you'll be up there with the fucking shaggers and the expenses fiddlers

your Ella, she would be publicly, and very, very fucking horribly, humiliated.

It's a fucking war.

That's what this is all about for you, isn't it? It's just about fighting and fucking...power!

which is making people despise politics and, by the way, don't ever fucking call me Nicky!

Spare me a fucking psycho-fanny, right?

What do you think fucking Mannion is doing right now?

Michael Aspel's cooler fucking younger brother?

They're telling very fucking nasty jokes about your family!

They're playing fucking pin the cock on the fucking donkey's face

with your face there cos you're the fucking donkey, right!

So you should just fucking count your blessings!

Yeah! Yes! I really wanted Ella to be able to stay at a shit school, the only redeeming feature of which

That was Nicola Murray. She says from now on,

Do you remember that, Peter, when the pregnant mistress story broke?

You and Mrs Mannion standing on your doorstep, her never gonna touch little Peter again?

Relationship crisis. He has to go and cook Emma a meal.

I'm in the fucking BBC, aren't I?

Right, yeah, I remember, yeah. Peter, how are you? That was great at the Oval, wasn't it?

No swearing? Oh, we can all thank our fucky stars for that!

Nicola. Thank you.

I didn't realise you had to cook lamb shanks for a fucking fortnight.