Well, I bashed you. That was good, wasn't it? It was good for a bit of a giggle, anyway.
Silly boys, that's all that Chopper had to say, and poor little Sammy got blown away. 
You've written a best-seller... 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.
Even Beethoven had his critics. See if you can name three of them. 
It's all right, Jimmy. I don't hate you. You just broke my heart. 
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. 
I'm just a bloody normal bloke. A normal bloke who likes a bit of torture.
