Fat Slags

Sandra:
[Pulls out a cigerette] All right, Trace?

Tracey:
No. I hear this welding is bad for your health!

Sandra:
[Checking mail] Bill, bill, bill, bill... I don't know why this bloke keeps writing to me!

Tracey:
Who?

Sandra:
Bill. There's no way I'm meeting him: Strangeways.

Tracey:
I could do with a snack, chips with curry sauce

Sandra:
I fancy a bag o' crisps!

Tracey:
Ooh, what flavour?

Sandra:
Prawn cocktail?

Tracey:
Ooh, you posh git!

Foreman:
Hey, you two! Now, what would you say if I thought you two were doing a terrific job, and you both deserve a raise?

Sandra:
Really?

Tracey:
Really?

Foreman:
NOOOOOOO! You're bloody awful! You're rubbish! The deliveries are weeks behind, your timekeeping stinks, and as for your safety record, you're worse than that bloke with Parkinson's down at the nitroglycerine factory! You two are a couple of useless, brain-dead seacows. Just give me one more excuse to fire your fat arses. Go on!

[a fire that Sandra unknowingly started earlier reaches some gas tanks, causing an explosion that demolishes the factory]

Dave:
We're lookin' for our birds, ain't we, ya wazzock!

Immigration 1:
I think their interest in them is sexual.

Baz:
Too f***in' right it's sexual. Our Sandra gives him a hard-on!

Immigration 1:
What did he say? What did you just say?

Baz:
[speaking slowly] Our Sandra. Him. Hard-on!

Immigration 2:
Osama Bin Laden? [Baz and Dave are shown being deported to Afghanistan]