Fiona: Where's Gareth?
Matthew: Torturing Americans.
Fiona: How thoughtful of him.
Charles: What turn off? Better not be the B359.
Scarlett: It's the B359.
Charles: Fuck it.
Fiona: There's a sort of greatness to your lateness.
Charles: Thanks, it's not achieved without real suffering.
David: How are you doing?
Charles: You remember the time you started dad's boat and the propeller cut my leg to shreds?
Charles: This is worse.
Young Bridesmaid: What's bonking?
Scarlett: Well, it's kinda like table tennis, only with slightly smaller balls.
Charles: Any idea who the girl in the black hat is?
Fiona: The name's Carrie.
Fiona: Used to work at Vogue. Lives in America now. Only gets out with very glamorous people. Quite out of your league.
Charles: Well, that's a relief. Thanks.
Charles: Why am I always at, uh, weddings, and never actually getting married, Matt?
Matthew: It's probably 'cause you're a bit scruffy. Or it could also be 'cause you haven't met the right girl.
Charles: Ah, but you see, is that it? Maybe I have met the right girls. Maybe I meet the right girls all the time. Maybe it's me.
American wedding guest: Do you actually know Oscar Wilde?
Gareth: Not personally no. But I do know someone who could get you his fax number. Shall we dance?
Carrie: Having a good night?
Charles: Yes. It's right up there with my father's funeral for sheer entertainment value.
Bernard: How's it going, Lyds?
Lydia: Bloody awful.
Bernard: Oh dear, what's the problem?
Lydia: I was promised sex. Everybody said it. You'll be a bridesmaid, you'll get sex, you'll be fighting 'em off. But not so much as a tongue in sight.
Bernard: Well, I mean, if you fancy anything, I could always.
Lydia: Oh, don't be ridiculous, Bernard. I'm not that desperate.
Scarlett: They say rubber's mainly for perverts. Don't know why. Think it's very practical, actually. I mean, you spill anything on it and it just comes off. I suppose that could be why the perverts like it.
Charles: How do you do, my name is Charles.
Old man: Don't be ridiculous, Charles died 20 years ago.
Charles: Must be a different Charles, I think.
Old man: Are you telling me I don't know my own brother.
Charles: No, no.
Charles: Yes, it's odd, isn't it? All these years we've been single and proud of it and never noticed that two of us were, in effect, married all this time.
Tom: Traitors in our midst.
Charles: Do you think there really are people who can just go up and say, "Hi, babe. Name's Charles. This is your lucky night?"
Matthew: Well, if there are, they're not English.
Tom: Splendid, I thought. What did you think?
Bernard: I, thought, splendid! What did you think?
Tom: Splendid, I thought.
Carrie: First of all, l'd like to thank all of you who've flown in from the States. I'm really touched. As for the rest of you, l'd have thought that lots of frightful Americans flying in was an excuse for staying away, so I thank you, too.
Tom: The great advantage of having a reputation for being stupid: People are less suspicious of you.
Charles: All these weddings, all these years, all that blasted salmon and champagne and here I am on my own wedding day, and I'm... eh... em... eh... still thinking.
Matthew: Well, can I ask about what?
Charles: No... no... I think, best not.
George the boor at The Boatman: If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am as a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal.
Gareth: Good point.
Gareth: A toast before we go into battle. True love. In whatever shape or form it may come. May we all in our dotage be proud to say, "I was adored once too."