[Tyler and Hunt have forced a henchman to strip to his underwear in a cold store, to encourage him to answer their questions]
Gene Hunt: My friend is going to ask you some questions. Personally, I hope you don't answer them, because I want you to die in here and end up inside a pork pie.
Gene Hunt: You think you know everything, don't you?
Sam Tyler: I know the stench of rotten apples.
Gene Hunt: Yeah? And I know your slag is lying through her teeth, and do you wanna know why?
Sam Tyler: Yeah, why?
Gene Hunt: Because Stephen Warren is a bum bandit. D'you understand? A poof. A fairy. A queer. A queen. Fudge packer. Uphill gardener. Fruit picking sodomite.
Sam Tyler: He's gay?
Gene Hunt: As a bloody Christmas tree! Mind you, he is a little touchy on the subject, being a twisted Catholic with an elderly mother and all, so I wouldn't go mentioning it to him... You challenged his authority so he stitched you up like a kipper. Pretty girl appealed to your vanity as the only decent sheriff in Dodge City. Slipped you a Mickey, tied you up and bounced on your ding-a-ling.
Sam Tyler: Why?
Gene Hunt: I suspect the answer will lie in the post. Photos, you idiot.
Gene Hunt: I'm not a Catholic meself, Mr Warren, but isn't there something about thou shalt not suck off rent boys?
Stephen Warren: How dare you come in here?
Gene Hunt: You could've said that to the boy!
Gene Hunt: [the Sweet is playing loudly in a club] Do you like this music?
Sam Tyler: Yeah, I do, don't you?
Gene Hunt: It's just a lot a noise, really. Me and the wife like, eh, Roger Whitaker. Well, lot more her than me. D'ya know him?
Sam Tyler: Not intimately.
Gene Hunt: Keep it to yourself. We all have our dirty little secrets.
Sam Tyler: Indeed we do.
Gene: It's a horrible concept, ain't it? Huge psychotic hippies fencing stolen tellies.
Sam Tyler: This has nothing to do with me.
Gene: Oh, stop being such a girl. Think of it as a tax on bad people.
Nelson: What is that, mon brave?
Gene: It's a television.
Nelson: In a pub?
Gene: Yeah, ask the boy wonder here.
Sam Tyler: It's nothing to do with me.
Gene: Tell him what you told me.
Sam Tyler: I can make some brackets, I can put it on the wall, and watch the sports.
Nelson: In a pub?
Gene Hunt: Don't talk to me! Trousers!
Gene Hunt: A month later I took my first back hander.
Sam Tyler: How did it make you feel?
Gene Hunt: Like shit.
Sam Tyler: How do you feel now?
Gene Hunt: I try not to think about it. I do the best that I can, to take care of my men and the people in my city.
Sam Tyler: But when you do think about it, how does it make you feel?
Gene Hunt: Like there's an animal eating away at me insides.
Sam Tyler: Fancy doing something about it?
Gene Hunt: Thought you'd never ask.
Gene Hunt: How did you know Red Rum was gonna win the national?
Sam Tyler: Just a hunch.
Gene Hunt: No inside information? No tip off from someone in the racing fraternity?
Sam Tyler: I wouldn't do that would I?
Gene Hunt: I didn't think you'd lock a murder suspect in a giant fridge.
Sam Tyler: He wouldn't answer my question.
Sam Tyler: [after unwittingly taking a bribe] I've always despised bent cops.