Oh and keeping in context of the subject:
Rory Breaker: If the milk turns out to be sour, I ain't the kinda pussy to drink it.
"A coaches reply to an import that wants to be recruited, promising the world."
Rory Breaker: If you hold back anything, I'll kill ya. If you bend the truth or I think your bending the truth, I'll kill ya. If you forget anything I'll kill ya. In fact, you're gonna have to work very hard to stay alive, Nick. Now do you understand everything I've said? Because if you don't, I'll kill ya.
"A treasurer questioning the Vice President over the missapropriation of funds."
J: I've a strong suspicion we should have been rocket scientists, or Nobel Peace Prize winners or something.
"A team after the winning the ABL NAtional Title."
"Hatchet" Harry: You must be Eddie, J.D.'s son.
Eddie: Yeah. You must be Harry. Sorry, didn't know your father.
"Hatchet" Harry: Never mind son, you just might meet him if you carry on like that.
"Hatchet is a 15 yr veteran, Eddie is a 1st year rookie."
Bacon: Harry didn't think that he did a very good job, so he grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which just so happened to be a 15 inch black rubber cock, and proceeded to beat poor old Smithy to death with. And that was seen as a nice way to go. Now, that, is why you pay Hatchet Harry, when you owe.
"Harry is Bobby Knight."
Barry the Baptist: When you dance with the devil, you wait for the song to stop.
"A Div 2 team playing out of their depth, when they should be in Div 4."
Tom: Listen to this one then; you open a company called the Arse Tickler's Faggot Fan Club. You take an advert in the back page of some gay mag, advertising the latest in arse-intruding dildos, sell it a bit with, er... I dunno, "does what no other dildo can do until now", latest and greatest in sexual technology. Guaranteed results or money back, all that bollocks. These dills cost twenty-five each; a snip for all the pleasure they are going to give the recipients. They send a cheque to the company name, nothing offensive, er, Bobbie's Bits or something, for twenty-five. You put these in the bank for two weeks and let them clear. Now this is the clever bit. Then you send back the cheques for twenty-five pounds from the real company name, Arse Tickler's Faggot Fan Club, saying sorry, we couldn't get the supply from America, they have sold out. Now you see how many of the people cash those cheques; not a single soul, because who wants his bank manager to know he tickles arses when he is not paying in cheques!
"just something professional bench players do to make some money."
