Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels

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Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels is a 1998 film about four London working class stiffs who pool their money to enter a high stakes card game, but things go wrong and they end up owing half a million pounds, with one week to come up with the cash.

Written and directed by Guy Ritchie.
A Disgrace to Criminals Everywhere. Taglines


  • Anyway, fuck it. The battle is over and the war is won.
  • No, fuck that. You can think about it. I am panicking and I'm off.
  • [To Tom about the guns] So, the only thing connecting us to the case is in the back of your car, which is parked outside?


  • They're lacking in criminal credibility, ain't they? I might get laughed at.
  • There's no money, there's no weed. It's all been replaced by a pile of corpses.


  • Let me tell you about Hatchet Harry. Once there was this geezer called Smithy Robinson, who worked for Harry. It was rumoured that he was on the take. Harry's invited Smithy 'round for explanation. Smithy didn't do a very good job. Within a minute, Harry's lost his rag. Reached out for the nearest thing at hand, which happened to be a 15-inch black rubber cock. He's then proceeded to batter poor Smithy to death with it. Now, that was seen as a pleasant way to go. Hence, Hatchet Harry is the man you pay if you owe.
  • [To Dog holding up a gun] Bend over the fucking desk!


  • Oi! Keep your fingers out of my soup!
  • You're not funny, Tom. You're fat, and look as though you should be, but you're not!
  • Cupid, stupid!

Rory Breaker

  • If the milk turns out to be sour, I ain't the kind of pussy to drink it.
  • What do you want, a medal? I'll shoot you in the fucking throat if I don't get my ganja back!
  • Mr. Breaker. Today, my name is Mr. Breaker!
  • This white shite thinks he can steal my cannabis and sell it back to me? He's got less brains than you, Lenny! Get Nick, the greasy wop, shistos, pesevengi, gamouri Greek bastard, round here now, if he's still stupid enough to be on this planet!
  • We're gonna do a proper decoration job. I want the grey skies of London illuminated. I want that house painted red.
  • If you hold back anything, I'll kill ya. If you bend the truth, or I think you're bending the truth, I'll kill ya. If you forget anything, I'll kill ya. In fact, you are going to have to work very hard to stay alive, Nick. Now do you understand everything I've said? [Nick nods head] Because if you don't, I'll kill ya. Now, Mr. Bubble and Squeak, you may enlighten me.

Barry the Baptist

  • No mortgages, no debts – lock, stock, the fucking lot.
  • [Trying to stop his monitor switching off] Come on! Not now, please, not – [monitor goes off] oh, you fucking bastard.
  • Hello boy, feeling a bit poorly? I know your friends are responsible for most of the cash, so I'm gonna give you one week to find it. Otherwise, I will take a finger of each of you and your friends' hands for every day that passes without payment. And then, when you run out of digits, your dad's bar, and who knows what then. All right, my son?
  • If you don't want to be counting the fingers you haven't got, I suggest you get those guns. Quick!
  • When you dance with the devil, you wait for the song to stop, know what i mean?


  • Barfly Jack: Rory? Yeah, I know Rory. He's not to be underestimated. He's a funny-looking fucker, I know, but you've got to look past the hair and the cute, cuddly thing – it's all a deceptive facade. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron's rusted, so he's gone down the battlecruiser to watch the end of the football game. No one's watching the custard, so he switches the channel over. A fat geezer's north opens, and he wanders up and turns the Liza over. "Now fuck off and watch it somewhere else!" Rory knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the end of the game. So, calm as a coma, he picks up a fire extinguisher, walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action, and plonks it outside the entrance. He then orders an Aristotle of the most ping-pong tiddly in the nuclear sub and switches back to his footer. "That's fucking it," says the geezer. "That's fucking what?" says Rory. And he gobs out a mouthful of booze covering fatty. He flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the geezer's lit up like a leaking gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turns back to his game. His team's won, too: four–nil.
  • Big Chris: It's been emotional.
  • Big Chris: All right, son. Roll them guns up, count the money, and put your seat belt on!
  • Dog: Golf – the best way to spoil a good walk. Winston Churchill said that. I say it's a dog-eat-dog world. And I got bigger teeth than you two.
  • Hatchet Harry: I don't want to know who you use, as long as they're not complete muppets.
  • J.D.: You're lucky you're still breathing, let alone able to walk. I suggest you take full advantage of that fact.
  • Winston: Charles, get the rifle out. We're being fucked!


Bacon: Right. Let's sort the buyers from the spyers, the needy from the greedy, and those who trust me from the ones who don't. Because if you can't see value here today, you're not up here shopping, you're up here shoplifting. You see these goods? Never seen daylight, moonlight, Israelite; Fanny by the gaslight. Take a bag, come mon, take a bag. I took a bag home last night. Cost me a lot more than ten pound, I can tell you. Anyone like jewellery? Look at that one there. Handmade in Italy, hand-stolen in Stepney. It's as long as my arm; I wish it was as long as something else. Don't think because these boxes are sealed up, they're empty. The only man who sells empty boxes is the undertaker, and by the look of some of you lot today, I'd make more money with me measuring tape. Here, one price. Ten pound.
Eddie: Did you say ten pound?
Bacon: Are you deaf?
Eddie: That's a bargain. I'll take one.
Bacon: Squeeze in if you can. Left leg, right leg, your body will follow. They call it walking. You want one as well, darling? You do? That's it, they're waking up! Treat the wife. Treat somebody else's wife. It's a lot more fun if you don't get caught. Hold on. You want one as well? Okay, darling, show me a bit of life, then. It's no good standing out there like one o'clock half-struck. Buy them, you better buy them. These are not stolen, they just haven't been paid for, and we can't get them again, they've changed the bloody locks. Here, one for you. It's no good coming back later when I've sold out. "Too late, too late" will be the cry when the man with the bargains has passed you by. If you got no money on you now, you'll be crying tears as big as October cabbages.
Eddie: Bacon, cozzers!
Bacon: Shit. [quickly throws all the goods inside a suitcase and starts running]

Nick the Greek: [haggling with Tom] What else do I get with it?
Tom: You get a gold-plated Rolls Royce, as long as you pay for it.
Nick the Greek: Dunno, Tom. Seems expensive.
Tom: Seems? Well, this seems to be a waste of my time. That is a 900 nicker in any shop you're lucky enough to find one in. And you're complaining about 200? What school of finance did you study? It's a deal, it's a steal, it's the sale of the fucking century. In fact, fuck it, Nick, I think I'll keep it!
Nick the Greek: All right, all right, keep your Alans on!
[Nick pulls a massive wad of money out of his pocket and peels off a few notes]
Nick the Greek: Here's a ton.
Tom and Eddie: Jesus Christ!
Eddie: You could choke a dozen donkeys on that! And you're haggling over one hundred pound? What do you do when you're not buying stereos, Nick, finance revolutions?
Nick the Greek: 100 pounds is still 100 pounds.
Tom: Not when the price is 200 pounds, it's not! And certainly not when you've got Liberia's deficit in your skyrocket. Tighter than a duck's butt, you are. Now, come on, let me feel the fiber of your fabric.

J: [discussing their careers as marijuana growers] I've a strong suspicion we should have been rocket scientists, or Nobel Peace Prize winners … or something.
Charles: Peace Prize? Be lucky to find your penis for a piss the amount you keep smoking.

Winston: Charles, why have we got that cage?
Charles: Uh, security.
Winston: That's right, that's right – security. So what's the point in having it if we're not going to fucking use it?
Charles: Well, I would've used it, but this is Willie, and Willie lives here.
Winston: Yes, Charles, but you didn't know it was Willie until you opened the door, did you?
Willie: Chill, Winston, it's me. Charlie knows it's me, what's the problem?
Winston: The problem is, Willie, that Charles and yourself are not the quickest of cats at the best of times. So just do as I say and keep the fucking cage locked! … What is that?
Willie: That's Gloria.
Winston: Yes, I know that's Gloria. What's that?
Willie: Uh, fertilizer.
Winston: You went out six hours ago to buy a money counter, and you come back with a semi-conscious Gloria and a bag of fertilizer? Alarm bells are ringing, Willie!
Willie: We need fertilizer, Winston.
Winston: Mm-hm, we also need a money counter. This money's got to be out by Thursday, I'm buggered if I'm gonna count it. Oh, and, uhm, if you do have to buy sodding fertilizer, could you just be a little more subtle?
Willie: What do you mean?
Winston: We grow copious amounts of ganja, yeah?
Willie: Yeah.
Winston: And you're carrying a wasted girl and a bag of fertilizer. You don't look like your average horti-fucking-culturist! That's what I mean, Willie.

Big Chris: I've got some bad news for you, John.
John: What the fuck?
[Chris slams the top of the tanning bed on John]
Big Chris: Mind your language in front of the boy!
John: Jesus Christ!
[Chris does it again]
Big Chris: That includes blasphemy as well!

Little Chris: Fucking hell, John, you always walk around with that in your pocket?
Big Chris: Hey! You use language like that again, son, you'll wish you hadn't!

Barry the Baptist: [turns around from stripper] Right, where was we?
Gary: Shotguns? Well, like guns that fire shots?
Barry the Baptist: Oh, you must be the brains, then. That's right, guns that fire shots. Make sure you bring everything from inside the gun cabinet. There'll be a load of old guns, that's all I want. Everything else, outside the cabinet, you can keep, it's yours.
Gary: [sarcastically] Oh, thank you very much. There better be something there for us.
Barry the Baptist: It's a fucking stately home. Of course there'll be something there.
Dean: Like what?
Barry the Baptist: Like fucking antiques.
Dean: Antiques? What the fuck do we know about antiques? We rob post offices …
Gary: … and steal cars.
Dean: What the fuck do we know about antiques, mate?
Barry the Baptist: If it looks old, it's worth money. Simple. So stop fucking moaning and rob the place!
Gary: So who's the Guv? Who we doing this for?
Barry the Baptist: You're doing it for me is all you need to know. You know because you need to know.
Gary: I see. One of those "on a need to know basis" things, is it? Like one of those James Bond films.
Barry the Baptist: Careful. Remember who's giving you this job. … Right, I'm off. Call me when you're done. Ta-ta.
[He gets up and walks off]
Barry the Baptist: Fucking northern monkeys!
Gary: I hate these fucking southern fairies.

Security #1: [upon seeing Eddie and friends] Invitations.
Eddie: Invitations?
Security #2: Yeah, invitations. You know, four pretty white pieces of paper with your names on.
Eddie: Well, we've got a 100.000 bits of paper with the Queen's head on. Will that do?
Security #2: All right, just you. The others, they can wait next door in Samoan Jo's.
Eddie: Samoan Jo's, you mean the pub? Hold on …
Security #2: [interrupting Eddie] Hold on to your fucking tongue, and I will hold on to my patience, okay, sonny? No one in here tonight but card players, and I do mean no one.

Hatchet Harry: You must be Eddie, J.D.'s son.
Eddie: You must be Harry. Sorry, didn't know your father.
Hatchet Harry: Never mind, son. You just might meet him if you carry on like that.

[At Samoan's Jo's]
Bacon: What's that?
Barman: It's a cocktail. You asked for a cocktail.
Bacon: No, I asked you to give me a refreshing drink! Wasn't expecting a fucking rainforest. You could fall in love with an orangutan in there!
Barman: You want a pint, go to the pub.
Bacon: I thought this was a pub!
Barman: It's a Samoan pub.

Don: Fold.
Phil: Fold? Is that the only word they taught you at school, Donald?
Don: No, Phil. They also taught me the word "cunt"!

Bacon: The odds are a hundred to one. All we need is five grand.
Soap: I'd rather put my money on a three-legged rocking horse. The odds are a hundred to one for a good reason, Bacon. It won't win!

Tom: Listen to this one: you open a company called the "Arse Tickler's Faggots Fan Club".
Soap: You what?
Tom: You take out an advert in the back page of some gay mag, advertising the latest in arse-intruding dildos. You sell it with, I dunno, "does what no other dildo can do until now", "the latest and greatest in sexual technology", "guaranteed results or your money back", all that bollocks. Now, these dils cost twenty-five quid a pop. That's a snip for the amount of pleasure they're gonna give the recipients. But they send their cheques to the other company name – nothing offensive, er, "Bobbie's Bits" or something – for twenty-five quid. You take that twenty-five quid, you stick it in the bank until it clears. Now, this is the smart bit. You send back the cheque for twenty-five pound from the other company name, "Arse Tickler's Faggots Fan Club", saying we're sorry, we couldn't get the supplies from America because they ran out of stock. Now, you see how many people cash that cheque: not a single soul, because who wants their bank manager to know they tickle arse when they're not paying cheques?
Bacon: So how long do you have to wait until you see a return?
Tom: Probably no more than four weeks.
Bacon: A month? So, what fucking good is that if we need it in six – no, five days?
Tom: Well, it's still a good idea.

Barry the Baptist: Hello, my son. Do you want a lolly?
Little Chris: Piss off, you nonce!

Barry the Baptist: (points at Gary's hair) Oi, is your hair supposed to look like that? Alright, short stuff?
Dean: Never mind short stuff. Listen, the next time we do a job like this we gonna want more money Barry, or we are going back to post offices and cars, fuck that. (opens the trunk with the guns)
Barry the Baptist: Where's the others?
Dean: There we no others.
Barry the Baptist: Stop fucking around. The others, the old ones?
Dean: I don't know what you mean.
Barry the Baptist: There were two old guns there. Where're they now?
Dean: Not in the cabinet there wasn't. There was a couple of old hammer-lock muskets the butler was carrying, but they were ours - were sold 'em!
Barry the Baptist: Well you better un-sell 'em, sharpish.
Dean: We had to sell 'em, we needed the money!
Barry the Baptist: I'm not fucking interested! If you don't want to be countin' the fingers you haven't got, or sharing a bed with the Anti-Christ, I want those guns! QUICK!
Dean: ...Alright, Barry. Calm down. We'll get them, alright?
Barry the Baptist: Now fuck off, you scouse cunts!

Eddie: Right. We hit them as soon as they come back. We'll be prepared, waiting. And they're armed …
Soap: What was that? Armed? What do you mean, armed? Armed with what?
Eddie: Er, bad breath, colourful language, feather duster … what do you think they're gonna be armed with? Guns, you tit!
Soap: Guns? You never said anything about guns. A minute ago this was the safest job in the world. Now it's turning into a bad day in Bosnia!
Eddie: Soap, stop being such a mincer. I've thought about that, and …
Soap: And what, exactly?
Eddie: And, all we have to do is find out who's carrying them.
Soap: Carrying them? Well, they could all be carrying them for what we know!
Eddie: No. Only one of them carries them going to the job, so I assume the same one will be carrying them when they come back from the job.
Soap: Oh, you assume, do you? And what did they say about assumptions being the brother of all fuck-ups?
Tom: It's the mother of all fuck-ups, stupid.
Soap: Well, brother, mother, or any other sucker! It don't make any difference. They're still fucking guns, and they still fire fucking bullets!

Nick the Greek: Weed?
Tom: No, it's not normal weed. It's some fucked-up skunk, class A, I-can't-think-let-alone-move shit.
Nick the Greek: Doesn't sound very good to me.
Tom: Well, neither me. But it depends what flicks your switch. And the light is on and burning brightly for the masses. Anyway, do you know anyone?
Nick the Greek: I know a man, yes. Rory Breaker.
Tom: Not that madman with an afro? I don't want anything to do with him.
Nick the Greek: You won't have to. Just get me a sample.
Tom: No can do.
Nick the Greek: What's that? A place near Katmandu? Meet me halfway, mate.
Tom: Look, it's all completely chicken soup.
Nick the Greek: It's what?
Tom: It's kosher. As Christmas.
Nick the Greek: The Jews don't celebrate Christmas, Tom.
Tom: Well, never mind that. I'm gonna need some artillery too, couple of sawn-off shot-guns.
Nick the Greek: This is a bit heavy. This is London, not the Lebanon. Who do you think I am?
Tom: Think you're Nick the Greek.

Big Chris: He likes your bar.
J.D.: Yes.
Big Chris: He wants your bar!
J.D.: And?
Big Chris: Do you want me to draw you a picture?

Soap: Have a look at these. [hands Tom a ski mask]
Eddie: And what are we supposed to do with these?
Soap: [puts it on] Put them on your head, stupid!
Eddie: [pulls it off him] Christ.
Soap: If you think I'm gonna turn up there clean-shaven and greet them with a grin on my face, you've got another thing coming! Now, these fellas, they are your neighbors. I thought it might be a good idea to disguise ourselves a little!
Eddie: Right. Er, yeah, good thinking, Soap, well done.
Soap: I brought weapons as well.
Eddie: What do you mean, weapons?
Soap: [pulls a bundle from his coat and unrolls it, revealing large knives] These.
Eddie: Jesus! [grabs the bundle and rerolls it] Let's keep them covered up, eh? Couldn't you get anything bigger?
Soap: [pulls a big ass machete from his trousers] What, like that? What do you think?
Eddie: … I think you need help.

Soap: Where'd you get these? A fucking museum?
Tom: Nick the Greek.
Bacon: How much did you part with?
Tom: 700 for the pair.
Soap: Drachmas, I hope. I'd feel safer with a chicken drumstick. These are gonna do more harm than good.

Eddie: Oh, and if Tom or anyone else for that matter feels like giving them a bit of a kicking, I'm sure it won't do any harm.
Soap: Yeah. Little bit of pain never hurt anybody, if you know what I mean. Also, I think knives are a good idea. Big, fuck-off shiny ones. Ones that look like they could skin a crocodile. Knives are good because they don't make any noise, and the less noise they make, the more likely we are to use them. Shit 'em right up. Makes it look like we're serious. Guns for show, knives for a pro.
Tom: Soap, is there something we should know about you?
Bacon: I'm not sure what's more worrying, the job or your past.

Soap: Where the fuck are they going? Shift a piano? I thought this was meant to be a robbery.
Eddie: Where did they get those outfits?
Tom and Bacon in unison: Not a bad idea, that.

Dog: [indicates massive gun] What the fuck is that?
Mickey: It's me Bren gun.
Dog: Don't you think you could have thought of something more practical?

Plank: [gets hit with an air rifle] Ah! They fucking shot me!
Dog: Well, shoot them back!
Plank: [shoots wildly]
John: Jesus, Plank, couldn't you have got smokeless cartridges? I can't see a bloody thi– ah! Shit! I've been shot.
Dog: I don't fucking believe this! Can everyone stop getting shot?

Paul: Look. Come have a look.
Traffic Warden: Take a look at what, exactly?
Paul: Well, the van's half-full.
Traffic Warden: So?
Paul: So all I've got to do is fill it up, put you in it …
Traffic Warden: What?
[Paul knocks the warden out]
Paul: … and I'm off.

Eddie: The entire British Empire was built on cups of tea …
Soap: Yeah, and look what happened to that.
Eddie: … and if you think I'm going to war without one, mate, you're mistaken.

Eddie: Where the hell are we gonna hide?
[Long pause]
Bacon: Don't complicate things, just hide!

Dog: I'll find ya.
Bacon: 'Course you will, sweet'eart.
Dog: I'll find ya.
Bacon: What do you think this is, hide and seek?

Tom: [after having just robbed Dog and his crew] Jesus, that wasn't too bad, was it?
Soap: When the bottle in my arse has contracted, I'll let you know.
Eddie: Bacon, see what we've got.
Bacon: Let's have a butcher's, eh?
[He inspects the loot]
Bacon: We've hit the jackpot, lads! We've got God knows how much of this stinking weed, a shitload of cash … and a traffic warden.
Tom: What?
[Bacon holds up an unconscious man]
Tom: Jesus, Ed, we've got a traffic warden!
Bacon: I think he's still alive – he's got claret coming out of him somewhere. What did they want with a traffic warden?
Eddie: I don't know, but I don't think we need him! Knock him out and dump him at the lights.
Bacon: Knock him out? What do you mean, knock him out? Knock him out with what?
Eddie: I don't know. Use your imagination!
[Bacon punches the Traffic Warden, who moans in pain]
Tom: Don't touch him up. Knock him out!
Bacon: I'll knock you out in a minute! Look, you want to knock him out? You knock him out.
Eddie: I fucking hate traffic wardens.
[Tom and Eddie jump into the back of the van with Bacon; all three proceed to batter the Traffic Warden senseless]

Rory Breaker: What did you shoot him with? An air gun?
Winston: Look, we grow weed. We're not mercenaries.
Rory Breaker: You don't say.

Rory Breaker: Your stupidity may be your one saving grace.
Nick the Greek: Uh?
Rory Breaker: Don't "uh" me, Greek boy! How is it that your fucking stupid soon-to-be-dead friends thought they might be able to steal my cannabis and then sell it back to me? Is this a declaration of war? Is this some white cunt's joke that black cunts don't get? 'Cause I'm not fucking laughing, Nich-ohl-arse!
[Nick shrugs with a stupid look on his face]
Rory Breaker: I have three interests in life, Nick. No, four: football, music, money, and the annihilation of anyone that interferes in that short list. I know you couldn't have known my position, 'cause you're not that stupid, that if you did, you wouldn't have turned up here scratching your ass with that "what's going on here?" look slapped all over your chevy-chase! But what you do know … is where these people live.
[Rory swings around his chair, gets up and straightens his jacket]
Rory Breaker: If you hold back anything, I'll kill you. If you bend the truth, or I think you're bending the truth, I'll kill you. If you forget anything, I'll kill you. In fact, you're gonna have to work very hard to stay alive, Nick. Now, do you understand everything I've said?
[Nick nods in fear]
Rory Breaker: Because if you don't, I'll kill you!
[Rory puts on a gentle smile]
Rory Breaker: Now, Mr. Bubble and Squeak, you may enlighten me.

Soap: Rory Breaker? That psychotic black dwarf with an afro?
Tom: That would be the same man, yes.

Tom: Well, he can afford to do the deal at the price we're selling. It's not worth him giving us any trouble, 'cause he knows we'll be a pain in the arse, and who needs a pain in the arse?
Soap: I'd take a pain in the arse for half a million quid.
Tom: You'd take a pain in the arse for air miles.
Soap: Tom, the fatter you get, the sadder you get.
Eddie: Will you two stop flirting for a minute?

Dean: He's got the guns. Go ahead, you get them.
Gary: Why me?
Dean: You're supposed to be the hard case.
Gary: [shrieks] You get the guns. I drive the car!

[After shooting each other]
Gary: What the fuck are you doing here?
Barry: What the fuck are you doing here?

Eddie: They’re armed.
Soap: What was that? Armed? What do you mean armed? Armed with what?
Eddie: Err, bad breath, colorful language, feather duster… what do you think they’re gonna be armed with? Guns, you tit!


  • A Disgrace to Criminals Everywhere.
  • They lost half a million at cards, but they've still got a few tricks up their sleeve …