(Neil and Vyvyan are digging a hole by alternating Neil swinging a pickaxe and Vyvian headbutting the ground.)
Neil: (stabs Vyvyan in head with a pickaxe) Oops, sorry Vyv.
Vyvyan: That's okay Neil. It was bound to happen sooner or later. (Collapses.)
Matchbox prop: Don't look at me, I'm irrelevant.
Rick: (at TV) Shut up you fascist Tories! No one tells me what time to go to bed!
Man on telly: Go to bed, spotty!
Rick: Well that'll teach you to mix you drinks.
Vyvyan: I already know how to mix my drinks, Rick!
Mike: Yeah, paint stripper and bleach. Lethal.
Fisher: Next Tuesday I'm gonna blow up a panda in Croydon.
Rick: Yeah, right on! Bloody zoos, who needs 'em.
Fisher: No! A police car, you terminal wally!
Rick: What, the pigs?
Fisher: Bastards! If pigs could fly Scotland Yard would be London's third airport.
Rick: I AM NOT SHOUTING! If you want to hear shouting matey, this is it: AAAAAAAHHHHH!
Vyvyan: It's funny, but being ill makes me lose my usual tolerant and easy-going approach towards communal living. (Throws his newly made Molotov cocktail)
Hey, kids! It doesn't matter what you are—punks, skins, rastas, Mods, Rockers, Keith Chegwin, even! Everybody everywhere, stop smoking and pay attention to me! Because if you're a wild-eyed loner at the gates of oblivion, than hitch a ride with us, because we are riding on the last freedom moped out of nowhere and we haven't even told our parents what time we're coming home!