[haggling with Tom]
Nick the Greek: What else does it come with?
Tom: It comes with a gold-plated Rolls Royce, as long as you pay for it.

You're not funny, Tom. You're fat, and look as though you should be, but you're not.

Soap

Soap: Rory Breaker? That psychotic black dwarf with an Afro?
Tom: That would be the same man, yes.

Tom: Well, he can afford to do the deal at the price we're selling. It's not worth him giving us any trouble cause he kows we'll be a pain in the arse.
Soap: I'd take a pain in the arse for half a million quid.
Tom: You'd take a pain in the arse for air miles.
Soap: Tom, the fatter you get, the sadder you get.
Eddie: Will you two stop flirting for a minute?

[Discussing their careers as marijuana growers]
J: I've a strong suspicion we should have been rocket scientists, or Nobel Peace Prize winners or something.
Charles: Peace Prize? Ooh. Be lucky to find your penis for a piss, the amount you keep smoking.

Big Chris: All right, son: roll them guns up, count the money, and put your seat belt on.

Little Chris: Fuckin' hell John, do you always walk around with this in your pocket?
Big Chris: Hey! You use language like that again son, you'll wish you hadn't!

John: Jesus, Plank, couldn't you have got smokeless cartridges? I can't see a bloody thi - Ah! Shit! I've been shot!
Dog: I don't fucking believe this! Can everyone stop gettin' shot?

Plank: Ah! They fucking shot me!
Dog: Well, fucking shoot 'em back!

We grow copious amounts of ganja here, and you're carrying a wasted girl and a bag of fertilizer. You don't look like your average horti-fucking-culturalist.

Winston

Gary: Shotguns? What, like guns that fire shot?
Barry the Baptist: Oh, you must be the brains of the operation. Yes, guns that fire shot.

If you don't want to be counting the fingers you haven't got, I suggest you get those guns. Quick!

Barry the Baptist

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