Life on Mars (UK)

Sam: I need a drink. Hunt: That's the first sensible thing you've said since you got here.

Skelton: Someone needs to take a look at you, boss, you're as white as a ginger bird's arse!

Sam: We're looking for this woman, Dora Keens. Approximately five foot two, curly brown hair, hazel eyes, fake topaz necklace… Hunt: We're looking for a short skinny bird, wears a big coat. Lots of gob.

Nelson: Drink ain't gonna fix things. What am I saying? I run a pub. Of course it'll fix things! Sam: I'm lost. Nelson [ adopting a serious tone ]: You're not lost, pal. You're where you are. And you have to make the best of it. It's all you can do… Keep it to yourself, eh? Folks just seem happier with the other Nelson.

Sam: None of this is real! You're just some… thug that crawled out of some dark little pit in the back of my mind. Hunt: You gonna report me? Sam: See ya, Gene. Give my regards to the id. Hunt: You're new, and you've got something big crammed up your jacksy. But don't worry - you'll learn.

Witness: I want a lawyer! Hunt: I want to hump Britt Ekland!

TV Presenter: …But the Glasgow Scale does put him at a deep level of coma. Sam: Hey! You're talking about me. I'm here! I can hear you! Look at me! I'm here! Presenter: At times, however, he moves, murmurs, has motor responses as though caught up in some deep R.E.M. sleep from which he cannot wake. This gives us some hope, despite the brain stem bruising. Sam: Hey! I'm here! Look at me! Does this look like low responsiveness to you? I'm here!

Sam: I had an accident, and I woke up thirty-three years in the past. Now that either makes me a time traveller, or a lunatic, or I'm lying in a hospital bed in 2006 and none of this is real. Annie: D.I. Tyler, you don't seem like the rest of them, and you're clever enough to know that what you're saying can't be true.

Skelton: The motive doesn't seem to be robbery. There's 27p in her purse, plus a couple of Green Shields. Sam: Well, he might have taken the notes. I mean, who's going to take 27p? Skelton: Well, I would! (There is general agreement from all.)

Sam [ on the telephone ]: I need you to connect me to a Virgin number, a Virgin mobile number… Operator: Don't you start that sexy business with me, young man, I can trace this call.

Sam: This isn't my car. I was driving a jeep. Constable: You were driving a military vehicle?

Sam: Wait, don't leave me… I'm in BUPA!

Hunt: Anything happens to this motor I'll come around your houses and stamp on all your toys. Got it? Good kids.

Hunt: Right we've pulled a bird in. Dora Keane. She was the last person to see the victim alive. Sam: Is she a suspect? Hunt: Nope, just a pain in the arse. Sam: Okay, alright, brief me in full. What do I need to know? Hunt: She's a pain in the arse.

Hunt: They reckon you got concussion, but I couldn't give a tart's furry cup if half your brains are falling out; don't ever waltz into my kingdom acting king of the jungle. Sam: Who the hell are you? Hunt: Gene Hunt, your DCI, and it's 1973, almost dinner time. I'm 'aving hoops.

Sam: This is my office. Here. This is a door. Right here. And my desk is here. Where's my desk? A chair. PC terminal. Carling: Who? You want a constable up here? Sam: What the bloody hell is going on here?

(At the morgue.) Sam: What have you learned from the stomach contents? (The two detectives look at him blankly.) Sam: Well, uh… Chris, have a look. (Chris picks up corpse's arm, raises sheet from body, and begins to look underneath it.) Sam: In the file, in the – post mortem file.