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.)
Man on telly: Go to bed, spotty!
Vyvyan: I already know how to mix my drinks, Rick!
Mike: Yeah, paint stripper and bleach. Lethal.
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.
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)