Danny

• I don't advise a haircut, man. All hairdressers are in the employment of the government. Hair are your aerials. They pick up signals from the cosmos and transmit them directly into the brain. This is the reason bald-headed men are uptight.

• If you're hanging on to a rising balloon, you're presented with a difficult decision — let go before it's too late or hang on and keep getting higher, posing the question: how long can you keep a grip on the rope? They're selling hippie wigs in Woolworth's, man. The greatest decade in the history of mankind is over. And as Presuming Ed here has so consistently pointed out, we have failed to paint it black.

Dialogue

Withnail [reading from the paper]: "In a world exclusive interview, 33-year-old shotputter Geoff Woade, who weighs 317 pounds, admitted taking massive doses of anabolic steroids, drugs banned in sport. 'He used to get in bad tempers and act up,' said his wife. 'He used to pick on me. But now he's stopped, he's much better in our sex life and in our general life.'" Jesus Christ, this huge, thatched head with its earlobes and cannonball is now considered sane. "Geoff Woade is feeling better and is now prepared to step back into society and start tossing his orb about." Look at him. Look at Geoff Woade. His head must weigh fifty pounds on its own. Imagine the size of his balls. Imagine getting into a fight with the fucker!

Marwood: Please, I don't feel good.

Withnail: That's what you'd say, but that wouldn't wash with Geoff. No, he'd like a bit of pleading. Add spice to it. In fact, he'd probably tell you what he was going to do before he did it. "I'm going to pull your head off." "Oh no, please, don't pull my head off." "I'm going to pull your head off, because I don't like your head."

Withnail: You've had an audition. Why can't I have an audition? It's ridiculous. I've been to drama school. I'm good-looking. I tell you, I've a fuck sight more talent than half the rubbish that gets on television. Why can't I get on television?

Marwood: Well, I don't know. It'll happen.

Withnail: Will it? That's what you say. The only programme I'm likely to get on is the fucking news.

Marwood: What about what's-his-name?

Withnail: What about him?

Marwood: Why don't you give him a call?

Withnail: What for?

Marwood: Ask him about his house.

Withnail: You want me to call what's-his-name and ask him about his house?

Marwood: Why not?

Withnail: All right. What's his number?

Marwood: I've no idea — I've never met him.

Withnail: Well, neither have I. What the fuck are you talking about?

Danny: Has he just been busted?

Marwood: No.

Danny: Then why's he wearing that old suit?

Withnail: Old suit! This suit was cut by Hawke's of Savile Row. Just because the best tailoring you've ever seen is above your fucking appendix doesn't mean anything.

Danny: Don't get uptight with me, man. Because if you do, I'll have to give you a dose of medicine. And if I spike you, you'll know you've been spoken to.

Withnail: You mean we've come out here in the middle of fucking nowhere without aspirins?

Marwood: Where are we?

Withnail: How should I know where we are? I feel like a pig shat in my head.

Taglines

• You are invited to spend an hilarious weekend in the English countryside.

• If you don't remember the sixties, don't worry — neither did they.