Bertie Masson: Three fucking nil, you fucking bunch of fucking useless wankers! They're not even a proper fucking team! They're a bunch of fucking coal men, and they're fucking beating you three fucking nil!
Alan Hardy: It's not our fault, is it? They've got twelve players playing for them. They've got eleven men and gravity!
Bertie Masson: What the fuck are you talking about, you fucking bone idle twat?
Alan Hardy: Fucking gravity is playing for their team, isn't it? Isaac fucking Newton's playing for their team, that's the fucking problem! If you give the ball a little tiny tap on the halfway line, next thing you know it's flying past you into the fucking net.
Bertie Masson: I have never heard such a fucking load of bloody bollocks in my life!
Alan Hardy: It's true! Look, in the second half, we can just shoot from fucking anywhere, and we'll score.
Bertie Masson: You wanna manage the team? You wanna manage the fucking team, Hardy?
Alan Hardy: Yes, I fucking do!
Bertie Masson: Well, *I'm* the fucking manager! And god fucking help me, you'll do what I fucking say!
Alan Hardy: We can't fucking understand a fucking word you're saying!
Bertie Masson: What the fuck's your problem, lad?
Mick Wallace: Yeah, what the fuck is your fucking problem?
Alan Hardy: Oh, it's a fucking joke this is. That's what it is, it's a fucking joke!
Pontefract referee: [opens the dressing room door] Alright, come on. Time for the second half, you bunch of fucking cunts.
