Mary: Right, so that's five cups of tea, a juice for the wean.
Gerry: And I'll take a KitKat.
Fra: No KitKats, I'm afraid.
Gerry: Yeah, there's some there.
Fra: Those are display KitKats.
Gerry: Display KitKats?
Joe: They're for display purposes only, bird brain.

Aideen: I'll get these.
Mary: Indeed you will not. Put your purse away.
Joe: I've got it. Here, son. Ah. [receives change] Here, hold on, son. You've done yourself. That's 50p too much.
Aideen: [to Mary] God, you'd never know he had dementia.
Mary: Aye, it comes and goes.

Gerry: Do you have freckles?
Aideen: Yes.
Gerry: Think I'm getting warmer.
Joe: Well, you're not getting any bloody wiser, that's for certain.

Aunt Sarah: Look, Mary. Are they for Mammy's grave, Da?
Joe: Aye.
Mary: Ten years gone, would you believe it?
Joe: I don't know why I bother. That Kitty O'Donnell next door, sure her plot's like a jungle.
Aunt Sarah: It is a disgrace.
Joe: If that useless bloody husband of hers doesn't get his finger out soon, I'll give it a going over myself.
Aunt Sarah: Daddy, how many times? You can't strim the grave of another man's wife. It's inappropriate.
Joe: You could rear cattle in it, Sarah.

Mary: Ten years, and not a peep out of her.
Gerry: Who?
Aunt Sarah: Mammy.
Mary: Ten years, and nothing.
Joe: I don't know what she's playing at. There's no excuse for it, love.
Gerry: Her being dead is sort of an excuse. No?
Joe: She couldn't give us a sign? She couldn't rattle a teapot or something?

Mary: Even so, Sarah, wouldn't you like to know that Mammy's happy, that she's at peace now?
Joe: I'd give anything to speak to her again.
Mary: Ach, Daddy.
Joe: Love to know what the hell she did with my good electric razor.

Carlos Santini: [gasps] There's someone else here. A woman. A family member?
Mary: Mammy?
Joe: What did you do with my razor?!

Joe: Well, girls, you weighed in yet?
Gerry: Why can't I have normal food? I'm not trying to drop a dress size!
Joe: Oh, that's a lovely attitude, isn't it? That's very bloody supportive!
Mary: Orange, Daddy?
Joe: Nah, you're grand, love. Jim across the road is doing me a fry-up.
Gerry: Interesting.

[flashback to 1977:]
Wee Mary: Thanks for the lift, Daddy.
Joe: No drinking tonight, you hear me?
Wee Mary: Aye, Daddy.
Joe: Or smoking.
Wee Mary: No, Daddy.
Joe: And no drugs.
Wee Aunt Sarah: Course not, Daddy.
Joe: And no dancing with boys.
Wee Mary: No dancing with boys? But it's a disco, Daddy!
Joe: Oh, you're right. Scratch that. No talking to boys.
Wee Mary: What?!
Joe: Actually, don't even look at the boys. Which reminds me, if one of the wee bastards won't take no for an answer, use this. [hands over a hockey stick]
Wee Mary: Thanks, Daddy.

Joe: Wait till you hear this! You won't believe this! Tell them what you are, son. Go on. This is great.
Rob: I'm a photographer.
Joe: No, not that! What's so great about that? The other thing!
Rob: Uh...
Joe: He's a gay.
Rob: Oh, right. Yes, I'm a raging homosexual. This is correct.
Deidre: He is.
Sean: Seriously? Our daughter's a gay!
Joe: That's what I said! That's what I told him. I mean, what are the chances, eh?