Michelle: Christ, I feel a bit bokey. [Michelle opens the curtains]
Clare: Sweet sufferin' Jesus, it's the morning already! What are we going to do?
Michelle: Well, maybe we could start with calming the fuck down.
Clare: Calm down? We're still on William of Orange, Michelle! We haven't so much looked at the famine!
Michelle: We've got the gist. They ran out of spuds. Everyone was ragin'.
James: Well, I can't tell my rebellions from my risings.
Michelle: And whose fault's that? If your lot had stopped invading us for five fucking minutes there'd be a lot less to wade through, you English prick!

Clare: Seriously, folks, I'm not feeling entirely comfortable with this!
Father Peter: One... [Philip chuckles] two... [Clare screams] three.
Clare: [screams] Stop! Stop it! Get me out of here! He's trying to kill me! He wants to kill us all! All of the Catholics! Look at his eyes, he's a madman! A Fenian-hating madman. Don't let the Jaffa bastard hurt me! Please!
Erin: Jesus, Clare!
Michelle: Fuck-a-doodle do!

James: Why doesn't someone just call the police?
Erin: Cos that's not how things work around here, James.
James: Well, how do things work here? How do they work? Will one of you please explain it to me, because sometimes I feel like I've gone through the fucking looking glass!
Clare: Calm down, James.
Michelle: Aye, don't be such a dick, James.

Michelle: Ssh! You'll scare Clive!
James: Who's Clive?
Michelle: Clive. Clive is a wee Prod from East Belfast. Clive came back from Ibiza, got on the wrong bus at Aldergrove Airport, then fell asleep. Clive woke up in Derry, surrounded by Russians and Fenians. Clive is absolutely shitting himself.
Erin: So where's the real Artem?
Michelle: Giant's Causeway, probably. Foreigners fucking love the Giant's Causeway.
Clive: I just want to go home! But she won't let me leave! She won't let me leave.
Michelle: I also think Clive may have had too many disco biscuits on his holidays.
Clare: [enters] Here you are!
Clive: Thank God! [hugs Clare in her Union Jack top] Whatever you do, don't slag off the Pope. We're outnumbered.

Erin: We also gave you a name.
Chief Inspector Byers: Nobody in Londonderry is called Hans, girls.
Colm: Well, you say that, now, but there's a young lad up in Pennyburn called Diego.
Chief Inspector Byers: Is this relevant?
Colm: The mother, she's a Derry woman, but the father, he was Spanish. Though not on the scene, by all accounts.
Chief Inspector Byers: Thank you, if we could just... [knock on door] Alex, don't leave me.
Police Officer: It's every man for himself, sir.
Colm: According to the mother, he - Diego's father, this is - well, he came over with the Spanish Armada, then cleared off, leaving her to raise the wean on her own. But that story didn't totally add up, was the thing.
Chief Inspector Byers: I need you to stop talking now.
Colm: The problem being that the Spanish Armada landed here in 1588, and that the son, Diego, as she called him, well, he was born more than four centuries later.
Chief Inspector Byers: I will caution you.

Colm: And, now, I don't mind a bit of a breeze, if anything I prefer it, but thon was aggressive. So, I says to myself, says I, "Colm, this is no day for a do..."
Sister Michael: What's happening?
Colm: ...for, when the bride arrived and, as I say, by this stage the wind was fierce...
Sister Michael: Am I dead?
Colm: ...I've never heard wind like it.
Sister Michael: Is this my wake?
Colm: Howling like a banshee, it was.
Sister Michael: Am I in hell?
Colm: So, the poor girl, the bride now, this is, she arrives anyway and isn't she no sooner out of the car than she's lifted up in the air like a paper doll and blown into a flowerbed.
Sister Michael: That's actually quite funny.