Jean: I'm going to say something very rude to you: fuck you.
Reginald Paget: [to a class of teenagers] Opera is: when a guy's stabbed in the back, instead of bleeding, he sings. It seems to me, after much research, that rap is when a guy is stabbed in the back, and instead of bleeding, he talks. Er, rhythmically, even with feeling. But because rap's *spoken*, the feeling is sort of held in check: all on one note.
Jean: Oh Reg, please, this is the first time we've seen each other in God knows how many years.
Reginald Paget: Ninety-seven.
Cissy Robson: [gasps] Is it really that long? God, how time flies.
Jean: Are you telling me to go out and smell the roses?
Cissy Robson: Oh no. We're telling you the roses are long gone. But the chrysanthemums are magnificent.
Wilf Bond: When you're finished being a croquet expert, Nigel, a pound I'll kick your arse.
Nigel: The way you play you probably will. You forget I saw your Barber of Seville, your singing brought tears to y ears.
Wilf Bond: Saw you in Carmen. I'll never forget it, but I'll try.
Wilf Bond: I read somewhere that the average man thinks of sex every seven seconds.
Reginald Paget: Do you?
Wilf Bond: I wish, it was only every seven seconds.
Dr. Lucy Cogan: [Showing a picture] This is Sir Thomas Beecham. He was one of Britain's greatest composers.
Jean: Yes, I know who he was. He inherited a fortune. His grandfather made laxatives. Naming a nursing home after him is frighteningly apt.