Gordon: I knew you’d be down here at 3 in the morning, shagging a rum baba.
Marcus: You read Waitrose magazine then?
Gordon: Ballsy choice for a mutiny that, you ungrateful, sniveling shit whippet.
I taught you every fucking swear word you know.
Marcus: Well, I think you’re a big, nasty bully and now everyone in Berkshire knows it.
And when nice Mr. Michelen sees how well I press my whites I’m going to get another shiny gold star, so there.
Gordon: You’re a piece of out-of-date, tinned, processed, smoked cheese embedded with a child’s fingernail, left on a motorway Little Chef toilet seat.
Marcus: You’re that wobbly jelly bit of the chicken carcass, next to the knuckly, bloody, bony bit.
Gordon: You’re the deep-fried oozing mayonnaise puss on a KFC Tower Burger, that’s really a rat’s brain tumour.
Marcus: You’re the sweaty scotch egg left in the polythene bag next to the radiator, that the family remember when they get to Magaluf.
Only you’re the egg when they come home 2 weeks later.
Gordon: You’re the warm breakfast muffin in an airline meal.
Marcus: You’re the festering liquid mass fermenting in the stomach of the passenger who just ate it.
Gordon: You’re a Pizza Hut salad.
Marcus: Your toad-in-the-hole isn’t as good as Marco Pierre White’s.
Gordon: You’re a mean little fucker, you know that?
Marcus: Yes chef, sorry chef.
Gordon: Will you co-host Britain Sucks Cooking Cock with me?
Marcus: Yes chef. Of course, chef.