Lipstick on Your Collar

Captain:
Now, you've all got clearance. You don't need any reminding, I hope, of the hell on earth which will await you if you open your mouths about anything whatsoever that goes on in this little room. You'll have your balls cut off. But only after they've been fried in hot camel's piss.

Major Hedges:
Hopper, any pretty girls in the typing pool these days?

Private Mick Hopper:
Not really, sir.

Major Hedges:
Well, so long as none of them has a mustache, eh?

Major Hedges:
Bumholes. Bumholes, say I. In the plural!

Private Francis Francis:
Sir! I would like you to accept the proposal, sir, that I am not as big a fool as I must seem, sir!

Major Church:
Name? Say again?

Private Francis Francis:
Francis, sir. Francis, F.

Major Church:
What's the F?

Private Francis Francis:
Francis, sir.

Major Church:
Yes, yes, what's the F?

Private Francis Francis:
Francis, sir. Francis Francis.

Major Church:
How very economical. Well, Francis, get this clear. When we call you "Francis," we mean "Francis," not "Francis."

Sylvia Berry:
Do you like music?

Private Mick Hopper:
Do I like music?

Sylvia Berry:
Yeah, but what sort?

Private Mick Hopper:
The sort where "moon" don't rhyme with "June," and you're not up to your backside in bloody buttercups. Songs that aren't about your mum and dad. A bit rough. A beat that busts up the old way...the old stodge...the empire...and knowing your place, and "excuse me," and dressing up, and doing what you're told, and not once being asked!

First Soldier:
That Diana Dors.

Second Soldier:
What about her?

First Soldier:
I bet she's a good shag.

Second Soldier:
And I'll bet you never find out.