Mary Carroll: Look at Anthony's hair. He looks like a little choir boy.
Jim Royle: He looks like a little gay boy.
Denise Royle: Dad! Your flies are undone.
Jim Royle: Ah, the cage might be open, but the beast is asleep.
Barbara Royle: Beast my arse.
Norma Speakman: Is this hat too far forward?
Jim Royle: No, we can still see your face.
Denise Royle: Dad, stop fiddling with yourself.
Jim Royle: I'm not fiddling with meself, I paid a quid for these underpants and I've got about 50 pence worth stuck up me arse.
Barbara Royle: She's right. If you're not picking you're arse, you're pecking you're teeth.
Jim Royle: I'll pick what I want in me own house and when she gets her own house she can pick what she likes - her nose, her arse, her teeth. Just go and treat yourself.
Barbara Royle: Oh, I'm ashamed of this family, I am really.
