— This is... impossible.
— Those pyjamas are impossible. This happened.
— You know when you go on like this what you sound like?
— I sound like a sensible fucking man, that's what I sound like.
— You sound like a duck.
— You know, you're kind of pretty for a stuntman.
— That's what they tell me.
Max: — We really are the most desperate lot of under-achievers. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. In fact, I think it's something we should take pride in. I'm gonna give the last brownie as a prize to the saddest act here.
William: — Bern.
Bernie: — Well, obviously it's me, isn't it? I mean, I work in the city in a job I don't understand and everyone keeps getting promoted above me. I haven't had a girlfriend since, well, since puberty. And nobody fancies me. And if these cheeks get any chubbier, they never will.
Honey: — Nonsense. I fancy you.
Bernie: — Really?
Honey: — Yeah.
— And unless I'm much mistaken your job still pays you rather a lot of money whilst Honey here earns 20 pence a week flogging her guts out in London's worst record store.
— Yes! And I haven't got hair, I've got feathers. And I've got funny goggly eyes and I'm attracted to cruel men. Actually, no one will marry me because my boosies have actually started shrinking.