A.J. Brown: So, you made it in OK, right?
Malcolm Tucker: Yeah, hunky-dory, thanks. Can I get a coffee?
A.J. Brown: Sure, sure. If we just get started, my assistant should be bringing in coffee shortly.
Malcolm Tucker: Your assistant?
A.J. Brown: Yeah. So, item. We need to have a conversation about the mood of the British Parliament, the bumps in the road ahead and what not.
Malcolm Tucker: I'm sorry, I don't... This situation here is... Is this it? No offence, son, but you look like you should still be at school with your head down a fucking toilet.
A.J. Brown: Your first point there, the offence? I'm afraid I'm going to have to take it. Your second point, I'm 22, but item, it's my birthday in nine days, so... if it will make you feel more comfortable, we could wait.
Malcolm Tucker: Don't get sarcastic with me, son. We burned this tight-arsed city to the ground in 1814. And I'm all for doing it again, starting with you, you frat fuck. You get sarcastic with me again and I will stuff so much cotton wool down your fucking throat it'll come out your arse like the tail on a Playboy bunny. I was led to believe I was attending the war committee.
A.J. Brown: Yes, Assistant Secretary of State Linton Barwick asked me to brief you on the work of the Future Planning Committee.
Malcolm Tucker: I'm away.
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...