Chopper: Why would I shoot a bloke BANG, then drive him to the bloody car and wizz him off to the hospital at a hundred miles an hour? It defeats the purpose of having shot him in the first place. Chopper: I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture. Chopper: Oh, Keithy. I always thought I was a good bloke. Keithy George: Ha. What did you ever do that was good? Chopper: Well, I bashed you. That was good, wasn't it? It was good for a bit of a giggle, anyway. Chopper: Jimmy, if you keep stabbing me, you're going to kill me. Chopper: Look, all I can tell you is what I've already told Mister Beasley: none of us saw anything. It was just one of those things: Bluey Barnes was reading a magazine; Ambrose Hatcheson was taking a piss; Johnny Price was washing his hands; Jimmy Loughnan was watching a bullant crawl across the table, and I was watching Jimmy watching the bullant. Chopper: Aw, look. The bloke's been my best mate since 1975. We've had our fall-outs from time to time. It's no big deal. It's like... if your mum stabbed you. Chopper: Look, you're not still angry at me about the leg, are you? Neville Bartos: Nah, forget about it. Chopper: Because I don't know if you remember, Neville, but I had that bloody shotgun pointed at your head. I reconsidered and dropped it down to your kneecap. Remember? Neville Bartos: Forget about it. All right? Chopper: I mean, what the bloody hell were you doing getting lippy at me with a bloody shotgun? I had a bloody loaded shotgun. Neville Bartos: The leg is okay, all right? Interviewer: You've written a best-seller... Chopper: Yeah, I know - and I can't even bloody spell. What about those poor bloody academics, those college graduates, battling their guts out to write some airy-fairy piece of exaggerated artwork? And here's a bloke, sitting in a cell, who can't spell, and he's written a best-seller. It's sold two hundred and fifty thousand copies. And it's still selling. And he's writing another one. And I can't even spell. I'm semi-bloody-illiterate. Chopper: Even Beethoven had his critics. See if you can name three of them. Chopper: Beethoven had his critics too, Keithy, see if you can name three of them. [Keithy continues walking back and forth, confused] Chopper: That's right, you can't. Chopper: You don't much like me, do you Keithy? Keith Read: [to Chopper, who's ears have been sliced] Cheers, big ears! Chopper: [Jimmy has stabbed Chopper seven times] It's all right, Jimmy. I don't hate you. You just broke my heart. Chopper: You've probably read all the newspaper stories about me, and you've heard the word on the street about me, and you've probably got a picture in your head of what Chopper Read's like and we're sitting here at this bar all very nice and cosy and I'm a bit of a let down to you. Chopper: No, I did not drive him to the hospital! Do I look like Mother Teresa to you? Mandy: Jimmy and the boys are bringing the car. You help set up the big fellow, it'll make you a star. Sammy the Turk: They said they had it farmed out, they had it ghosted. But when I walked out the door, they just left me posted. Jimmy Loughnan: The gun was for real, it was not a lark. But the twit took him out to the wrong car park. Chopper: Silly boys, that's all that Chopper had to say, and poor little Sammy got blown away. Neville Bartos: There's no cash here. Here there's no cash, alright? Cash *no*, Robbo? Robbo: No cash. Chopper: Look. The bloke's been me best mate since 1975. We've had our fallouts from time to time, it's no big deal. Y'know, it's like... if ya mum stabs ya, whaddya do? Y-ya don't get upset. Ya don't get angry, ya go, "Shit, mum's stabbed me, I better get off to the hospital." Chopper: He couldn't knock the fluff off a cappuccino.