— 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.
— 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.
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.
— You know, you're kind of pretty for a stuntman.
— That's what they tell me.
— This is... impossible.
— Those pyjamas are impossible. This happened.