It's like a fucking boat, Tommy. Full of heavy cargo, like coal or iron. Sometimes it slips to one end. And the boat tips. I can feel it slipping. And I can feel the boat tipping. But there ain't nothing I can do about it. It's like me fuckin' head's just like this fuckin' black fucking barge! And it just fucking drifts in and out, in and out.
— Thomas Shelby was a tunneller. His demand is rather amusing. He has asked that the Colonial Office grant him an Empire export licence. And specifically a licence covering India, Malay Peninsula, Canada and Russia. He plans to transport certain manufactured goods from Birmingham to the Poplar Docks.
— And you plan to agree to this demand?
— Dear God, Major Campbell... We will be asking this man to carry out an assassination on behalf of the Crown, once more risking his life. These demands by comparison are slight and easily met with a few quiet words over lunch with the appropriate ministers.
— Sir, with the greatest respect, Thomas Shelby is a murdering, cut-throat, mongrel, gangster.
— And yet, the tunnels were dug beneath our feet to silence the guns pointed at our heads.
— I'm supposed to treat you like a fucking kid again, uh? Keep you away from guns and fucking rope, is that it? You think I haven't got enough on?! You think I haven't got enough on? The war is done! Shut the door on it. Shut the door on it like I did, eh?... Like I fucking did.
— Like you? But I'm not fucking you! I am not fucking you! Everyone fucking knows it!