Thomas Shelby : I'm not a traitor to my class... I'm just an extreme example of what a working man can achieve.
Alfie Solomons : All right, the problem, right, between rum and gin, yeah, is that gin, right, it leads to the melancholy, whereas rum incites violence, you know? And it also allows you to be liberated from your self-doubt. Now, I hear you're probably more in need of the ol' rum at the moment rather than gin, mate, hmm?
[a bird flies past]
Alfie Solomons : Oh, dear, Tommy, you've got fucking starlings, mate, you know that? That shit'll rot your pipework.
[he pulls out a pistol]
Alfie Solomons : These bastards only understand one language.
Thomas Shelby : It's all right, Alfie. No need. It's all right, I'm, uh, I'm getting a kestrel.
Alfie Solomons : I hear that you've got Italians, mate. You got a kestrel for them and all?
Thomas Shelby : Yes. I'll have a kestrel for them, as well.
Alfie Solomons : Well, everything is confirmed, innit? Yeah, weakness behind the eyes. Didn't blink too much, all right? You smell of smoke, and coal, and horses. Hmm? You are back where you belong, Tommy.
[Tommy pours a glass of gin and hands it to Alfie]
Thomas Shelby : I know you don't touch it, but you have a good nose.
Alfie Solomons : Right, well, you gotta ask yourself seriously, though, you know, did I even want to piss and shit indoors, or was I actually born, you know, to defecate in the fields and the outhouses? This is a serious issue, though, Tommy, you know? 'Cause your people, your class, and my religion is quite similar actually, because you just cannot wash it out, right, because it, it come out your mother's tits.
[he dips a finger in the glass, sniffs it, and puts it under Tommy's nose]
Alfie Solomons : Hmm. No. The Americans want it sweeter.
Alfie Solomons : What have you heard, Alfie?
Alfie Solomons : I heard a cop got shot. Who shot him?
Thomas Shelby : My kestrel.
Alfie Solomons : Right, oh, up the stakes, very good.
Thomas Shelby : Where are the Sicilians?
Alfie Solomons : They're still using Sabini for vehicles and for places to stay.
Thomas Shelby : Mm-hmm. And reinforcements?
Alfie Solomons : Ah, no, they're Sicilians, aren't they, they don't trust nobody who ain't fucked a goat on the morning of their first pubic hair, they've got traditions.
Thomas Shelby : How many are here?
Alfie Solomons : Eleven. Enough to drop a man who wrapped his balls in an O.B.E., 'til they fell off.
Thomas Shelby : The real question is, Alfie... which side are you playing for, eh?
Alfie Solomons : [chuckling] Fucking hell. What kind of world is it to bring up children when your own mate can ask you that question, eh? But the truth is, Tommy, you're gonna be fucking dead soon, yeah? And then your starlings, right, they will peck out your blue eyes, won't they? And the jackdaws, they will steal your gold and your medals, and pretty soon it'll be as if you never even fucking happened, mate.
Thomas Shelby : I'll pour you some gin that I made myself. My father's recipe. Distilled for the eradication of seemingly incurable sadness.