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Fragments of overheard phone conversation during the latter half of December 2018.
“Oi you—what? Who is this? Yeah it’s your aunt Mabel—it’s fucking Malcolm Tucker you barely human-shaped fungus, who the fuck did you think it was?!“Fuck you too. Oh, how’re the kids? Fuck it, I don’t care. Listen, listen, are you up to speed on the Gatwick drone shit-storm? Why the everliving fuck not? What’re you paid to do, stare into space like a fucking brain-dead pigeon on heroin? No? Are you fucking having a fucking laugh right now? They’ve got the metropolitan police and the bleeding army out there and you’re what, examining the underside of a particularly interesting stone you found out in the woods? Get your fucking arse in gear, you absolute waste of oxygen, this is being handed to you on a fucking platter. Like just about every fucking thing the Government is doing right now. On a fucking silver platter!!“No, don’t get me started on the leader of the Opposition, Jesus Christ. It’s—yeah, JC, hah hah, very funny, you twat—it’s like, it’s like a game of fucking tennis—no, worse, it’s like one of those robot fucking serving machine thingies, stuck on fucking easy mode, this should be mindless for crying out loud, he should be able to do this in his fucking sleep faced with that malfunctioning excuse for a tin can PM, but no, it’s apparently all he can do to stay in the game, it’s like—hey, no, you listen: if I ripped his balls off, planted them in his fucking allotment and watered them with my own fucking piss I’d have more chance of cultivating some fucking brain cells than by rooting around in his skull.“Get on the drone thing. Get on it now. We’re looking at days of disruption, milk it for all it’s fucking worth.”
A little later. A little louder, too.
“Listen up you useless piece of shite, it gets better. Remember the Transport Secretary making a huge fucking deal about a horde of drones? Well now I’m getting reports that it’s one drone—one fucking drone—who would win, cream of London’s fucking police force or one supermarket kiddie’s toy, place your bets now—yes I know it sounds fucking ridiculous, that’s because it is fucking ridiculous, the whole situation is deserving of fucking ridicule, that’s the entire fucking point.”
I swear his voice has just gone up an octave.
“‘Oh we’ll take back control, oh yeah we can handle a fucking no-deal Brexit,’ like fuck they can, brought to their fucking knees by some fat cunt in a basement with a remote control, having a power wank over shutting down a fucking airport all by himself—honestly, I wish him well, he’s clearly the only person around here with a shred of fucking competence—why are you not all over this already? Do I have to do everything myself?! This entire Government’s like a clusterfuck and an omnishambles had a bastard lovechild that spends its time flailing about smearing shit all over the walls, and in the face of all that you lot are barely managing to look halfway capable of finding your own fucking arses with your hands tied behind your fucking backs—aw Sam, you’re a treasure—no, just a fucking well-timed cup of tea, God knows I need it—why the fuck are you still talking to me?! Get the fuck on it and fuck off!”
Later. He is... I think he is honest-to-God cackling right now.
“Sit on your arse, now. I said sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up! Don’t say a fucking word. Not one fucking word out of your fucking cunt mouth, you hear? Don’t you dare sabotage the Government while they’re in the middle of spouting top-quality gold-plated weapons-grade dogshite. Just let them spout, just let them get on with their fucking verbal diarrhea. ‘Barking dogs deter drones’, fuck me, I don’t have to lift a fucking finger, do I? You just let them open their mouth in the House of Commons and off they go like a fucking shit-spreader. Weee! Let those fuckers fly! It’s Christmas come early for Malcolm Tucker! Merry fucking Christmas! Hah!”
Later still. He is literally wheezing. I think he’s in full on hysterics. I am scared.
“Fuck me. Listen to this: the Sussex police—fuck me, I can’t breathe, listen—the Sussex police just told the BBC, and I quote, ‘we cannot discount the possibility that there were no drones at all’. Fucking—yeah, that’s right, ‘working with human beings saying they have seen something’—I can’t—the world no longer needs me. I can just retire. I’m going to retire to the fucking Bahamas—Sam! Sam, get me some shades and a cocktail, will you lass? I am going to live out the rest of my days on a fucking beach knocking back fucking Bacardis and watching the world fucking do my fucking work for me. No, don’t let the BBC paper that over, yes, make sure that quote gets picked up, are you completely stupid? The Express? Fan-fucking-tastic. Has someone called for an inquiry yet? You’re on it? That’ll do, pig, that’ll do. Fuck me. I’m going to bed.”