M Maguire: You want answers?

R Simmons: I think I'm entitled to them.

MM: You want answers?

RS: I want the truth!

MM: You can't handle the truth! Son, we live in a world that has trophies. And those trophies have to be guarded by men with rugby skills. Who's gonna do it? You? You, Lt. Simmons? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for Tony Smith and you curse the Wire. You have that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Saints's defeat, while tragic, probably saved banter. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves tries...You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that touchline. You need me on that touchline.
We use words like tackling, leg drive, loyalty...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending trophies. You use 'em as a punchline. I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps in under the blanket of the very rugby I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it! I'd rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a rugby ball and play on the field. Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to!
RS: Did you order the code Saints?

MM: (quietly) I did the job you sent me to do.

RS: Did you order the code Saints?

MM: You're goddamn right I did!!


Sheer plagiarism but only a bit of a laff.

Ouch. Below the belt that FTV!

I can't remember to be honest. I've already mentally blocked that game out.

The stadium manager commented after the game that he had never know a sub bench seat so warm.

It doesn't surprise me he let out some warm gases. He had a curry and a few beers the night before, you might as well when you know you have the next day off.

Oops