Matthew Hodge: Do you think you could have made a difference if you had been contactable that day?
Peter: Why? He wasn't trying to call me, I mean, I'm not the Samaritans. In fact, apparently, tonally, I have a very depressing voice

Baroness Sureka (reading): 'How many Mr Tickles does it take to change a light bulb? He doesn't have a light bulb, he's in a tent.' 'How do you turn Mr Tickle into Mr Happy? Lithium.' 'What's the difference between Mr Tickle and Captain Oates? Captain Oates has a less stupid name.' Erm, and one I feel that is particularly cruel, Miss Messinger, given Mr Tickel's mental health issues: 'The fucker's a nutbag'.

Terri: No no, no no. No, I don't have a guilty conscience but I do have a guilty face, erm – I do blush a lot and that's a circulation thing, not a moral thing, though I do act guilty, erm – When I was a child, erm, my brother's hamster was put into a remote control aeroplane, tragic consequences, and, erm, unfortunately I was blamed for that, although I had nothing to do with it, it was that I just looked guilty, so I would ask you to bear that in mind.

Malcolm: You know Jackie fucking Chan about me. YOU KNOW FUCK ALL ABOUT ME! I am totally beyond the realms of your fucking tousle-haired, fucking dimwitted compre-fucking-hension! I don’t just take this fucking job home, you know. I take this job home, it fucking ties me to the bed, and it fucking fucks me from arsehole to breakfast. Then it wakes me up in the morning with a cup full of piss slung in my face, slaps me about the chops, to make sure I’m awake enough so it can kick me in the fucking bollocks. This job has taken me in every hole in my fucking body! MALCOLM IS GONE, you can't know Malcolm, 'cause Malcolm is not here! Malcolm fucking left the building fucking years ago! This is a fucking husk. I am a fucking host for this fucking job. Do you want this job?
Ollie: ... Yes.
Malcolm: Yes! You do fucking want this job. Then you're gonna have to fucking swallow this whole fucking life and let it grow inside you like a parasite, getting bigger and bigger and bigger until it fucking eats your insides alive and it stares out of your eyes and tells you what to do!

Malcolm: I'm gonna leave the stage with my head held fucking high, right? What you're going to see is a masterclass in fucking dignity, son. The audience will be on their feet. "There he goes," they'll say. "No friends - no real friends - no children, no glory, no memoirs." ... Well, fuck them.

Glenn: (grabs a desktop lamp) YOU STAY AND TAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT! I will lamp you, with a lamp!

Peter: Should we try and get him back?
Emma: Fuck no. He's gone completely mental!
Adam: He's gone Glenn-tal.

Malcolm: I want to say something. I want to say something! (long silence) Doesn't matter.