— You take sugar?
— No, thank you, Turkish. I'm sweet enough.

Boris the Blade, or Boris "The Bullet Dodger." As bent as the Soviet sickle, and as hard as the hammer that crosses it. Apparently, it's just impossible to kill the bastard.

— So, what you doing here?
— I'm taking the dog for a walk. What's the problem?
— What's in the car?
— Seats and a steering wheel.

— What's happening with them sausages, Charlie?
— Five minutes, Turkish.
— It was two minutes five minutes ago.

That's Tommy. He tells people he's named after a gun, but I know he's named after a famous 19th century ballet dancer.

— We've lost Gorgeous George.
— You're gonna have to repeat that. We've lost Gorgeous George. Well, where'd you lose him? He ain't a set of fucking car keys, is he?

It turned out that the sweet-talking, tattoo-sporting pikey... was a gypsy bare-knuckle boxing champion. Which makes him harder than a coffin nail.

— Fuck me all, Tom! What's that?
— It's me belt, Turkish.
— No, Tommy, there's a gun in your trousers. What is a gun doing in your trousers?
— It's for protection!
— Protection from what? Zee Germans?

Everybody knows Doug The Head. If it's stones and it's stolen, he's the man to speak to. Pretends he's Jewish. Wishes he was Jewish. Even tells his family they're Jewish, but he's about as Jewish as he is a ****ing monkey. He thinks it's good for business. And in a diamond business, it is good for business.

— Oh, and hope he doesn't notice?
— Who the f*ck will we replace him with?
— What about John The Gun? Or Mad Fist Willy?
— You're not Mr. Current Affairs, are you?
— Mad Fist went mad...and The Gun shot himself.

— We'll need a proper office. I want a new one. You're going to buy it for me.
— Why me?
— Well, you know about caravans.
— How's that?
— You spent a summer in one. Which means you know more than me.