Linton! Linton! Mr Tucker, isn't it? Nice to see you again. Are you fucking me about? Is...

Malcolm Tucker: Linton! Linton! Linton Barwick: Mr Tucker, isn't it? Nice to see you again. Malcolm Tucker: Are you fucking me about? Linton Barwick: Is there a problem, Mr Tucker? Malcolm Tucker: I've just come from a briefing with a nine-year-old child. Linton Barwick: You're talking about AJ. AJ is one of our top guys. He's a Stanton College Prep, Harvard. One of the brightest and best. Malcolm Tucker: Well, his briefing notes were written in alphabetti spaghetti. When I left, I nearly tripped up over his fucking umbilical cord. Linton Barwick: I'm sorry it troubles you that our people achieve excellence at such an early age. But could we just move on to what's important here? Now, I understand that your Prime Minister has asked you to supply us with some, say, fresh British intelligence, is that true? Malcolm Tucker: Yeah, apparently, your fucking master race of highly-gifted toddlers can't quite get the job done... Linton Barwick: All right. Malcolm Tucker: ...between breast feeds and playing with their Power Rangers. So, an actual grown-up has been asked to fucking bail you out.