[speaking to a White Supremacist after he claims himself superior]
Sam Tyler: Superior? You're not superior to an amoeba with special needs.
[looking at a body]
Chris Skelton: I wonder what killed him?
Gene Hunt: That'll be the bloody enormous hole in his chest where the bullet went in!
Gene: Now. Yesterday's shooting. The dealers are all so scared we're more likely to get Helen Keller to talk. The Paki in a coma's about as lively as Liberace's dick when he's looking at a naked woman, all in all this investigation's going at the speed of a spastic in a magnet factory.
Sam Tyler: [Sam Tyler, aghast, drops the radio he is holding]
Sam Tyler: Think you might have missed out the Jews.
Sam Tyler: I think we need to explore whether this attempted murder was a hate crime.
Gene: What as opposed to one of those I-really-really-like-you sort of murders?
Gene: You said he was dead!
Ray Carling: Well, he wasn't moving.
Gene: Chris doesn't move, but he's not dead!
Sam Tyler: I still think we need to entertain the possibility that this could be a racial killing...
Gene: Oh, well let's entertain it, let's take it out for a prawn cooktail, a steak and a bottle of Liebfraumilch, then let's kick it into the gutter where it belongs!
[looking at a body]
Annie Cartwright: Boss? There's a viscous yellow liquid in his ear.
Gene Hunt: No, that's a drip from my fried egg butty, love. Well done, Miss Marple. That's why we need women detectives.
Sam Tyler: There's no history of drug dealing amongst the Gujerati Ugandan Asians.
Gene Hunt: Blahdy blahdy history bloody blah! It doesn't take a degree in Applied Bollocks to know what's going on.
Sam Tyler: Go on, then. Amaze me with your insubstantial guesswork.
Gene Hunt: He's come over here, started dealing and Rocket or one of the other local drug boys has took offence and offed him.
Sam Tyler: That's better that even *I* expected. Copper leaps to a conclusion then finds the evidence to fit.
[Sam wonders whether the National Front planted drugs on the victim to make it look like a drug-related crime]
Gene Hunt: The NF are far too stupid for that. They could stick a shotgun up my arse and pull the trigger - they'd still miss!
[Toolbox Terry is questioning Rocket about drug dealers. His sidekick Big Bird is holding a large sack]
Toolbox Terry: So Rocket, what's going on.
Rocket: My business involves the sacred bond of trust. Geezer, I can't. I would rather have rabid ferrets munch on my testicles.
Toolbox Terry: You always say that, don't you, Rocket.
[Toolbox Terry nods at Big Bird who begins to pull something out of the sack]
Rocket: [gulping] What's in the sack?
[Big Bird reveals a ferret]
Big Bird: Not rabid, boss, but they are *very* annoyed.
[Toolbox Terry pulls down Rocket's Y-fronts. Big Bird takes a look]
Big Bird: Poor ferrets. Not going to be getting much of a lunch.
Sam Tyler: Because I loved her!
Gene: You great... soft... sissy... girlie... nancy... French... bender... Man United supporting POOF!
Gene: You've got fingers in more pies than a leper on a cookery course.
Gene: Look at her, she's as nervous as a very small nun at a penguin shoot.
Gene: Drugs, eh? What's the point. They make you forget, make you talk funny, make you see things that aren't there. My old grandma got all of that for free when she had a stroke.