Erin: There's lots we could talk about.
James: Like?
Erin: Like our hopes, our ambitions, our dreams.
Orla: OK, so last night there was this lion chasing me, but it had wee, tiny legs. It was a full size lion but it had the legs of a sausage dog.
Erin: Not those type of dreams, Orla.

Michelle: What is taking you so long, dick splash?
James: This isn't my bag.
Erin: Are you sure?
James: Unless I forgot the fact that I packed a shit-ton of cash and a gun.
Erin: What?
Orla: And a pair of pliers, some hairspray, a toothbrush, and one of those wee face hats.
Michelle: A face hat? [Orla puts on the balaclava]
Erin: Jesus Christ, Orla. [grabs the balaclava]
Orla: [gasps] And a bag of Tayto.
Michelle: What flavour?
Orla: Salt and vinegar.

Orla: [drops KitKats on the table] You're welcome.
Erin: Huh. The display KitKats? How did you get the display KitKats?
Orla: I made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
Erin: What sort of offer?
Orla: Let's just say everybody has their price.
Erin: Orla. You know the money that was in that bag with the gun?
Orla: Go on.
Erin: Please tell me you did not swap that money for those KitKats.
Orla: No.
Erin: Oh, thank God.
Orla: I mean, not all of it.
Erin: How much of it?
Orla: 500 or something.
Michelle: Fucking hell, Orla.

Soldier: So how long do you plan to stay in the Republic of Ireland?
James: Just overnight.
Soldier: The purpose of your visit?
Orla: We're gonna go ride some farmers.
Soldier: Right, fine. Go on.

Erin: We're gonna have to take him back to the village.
Michelle: I am not carting him all the way down that road again.
Clare: Well, someone has to run and get help.
Orla: I'm the fastest.
Erin: This is true. She's like a whippet.

Erin: Be careful, girls. Head trauma causes memory loss, and he might not know who we are.
Orla: How many fingers am I holding up?
James: None.
Orla: Very good! It was a trick question.

Orla: Excuse me, Finfin. The sweets, the crisps, the drinks, you know, etc. They're free?
Fintan: Absolutely.
Orla: See you in a bit, lads.

Clare: [on the phone] At least I'll be back for your 18th.
Erin: It's not my 18th, is it? It's Orla's 18th. My 18th was three months ago, but our tight hole mas wouldn't pay for two parties, so instead they've just amalgamated them.
Clare: Is there a theme?
Erin: Oh, yeah.
Orla: Totally.
Clare: Well, come on then, what is it?
Erin: Literary greats.
Orla: Monkeys...

Erin: OK, we need some balloons, streamers...
Orla: Inflatable bananas.
Michelle: And two bottles of that ropey tequila that you keep under the counter. It's dirt cheap cos it fell off the back of a lorry.
Dennis: Jesus, take an ad out in the Derry Journal, why don't you? Right, don't go mad now. I drank a quarter bottle of this on Saturday night, ended up having an argument with a fucking squirrel.
Orla: Squirrels are such arseholes.

Michelle: Jesus Christ!
Erin: What was that?
Clare: Did we hit something?
Orla: My God, it's the polar bear!