I wanted to give him (Fitz, not Phil) a damn good slap tonight.
Showing his warm, paternal side, he talked loudly all over his daughter's wedding reception about the dead and maimed in the Iraq war; showing his wife due respect and affection, he affirmed that, after a pause, he 'thinks' he still loves her; exposing the feminine understanding we know he secretly harbours, he then said he'd blamed her for his erectile dysfunction and helpfully added that he might've got Mr Winkle up (lucky her if she can find it in all that baleen) if he'd been 'handling young, firm flesh'.
Later, ever the caring patriarch, he averred that yes, he really would prefer to help out the inept and over-ambitious fools at Manchester Police Station than spend another moment in his beautiful little granddaughter's company. I hope she grows up and stabs him to death - mind you, she'll need a Life Guards sword to poke through all that very unyoung and unfirm 'flesh'.
Very sensibly, his wife has boarded the plane back to Oz, his residence for the past seven years which he couldn't wait to heap calumny upon the moment he was back in a rainy Manchester. Yes, folks, a rainy Manchester, because we know there's never a sunny day oop nawth, ee, bah goom.
So many ridiculous coincidences tonight, so many cliches. And the worst of it is, the fat bastid is last seen mooning into his 350th Scotch of the show, presumably setting himself up for a long sojourn delighting in the death and destruction Oop Nawth will have to offer.