W walce idei Gin? ludzie.

A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone, a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey’s Gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the autumn wind.

If your honour disna ken when ye hae a gude servant, I ken when I hae a gude master, and the deil be in my feet Gin I leave ye.

Gin was mother’s milk to her.

I should just put it bluntly, because we’re all sort of friends here now – it’s exceedingly likely that my greatest success is behind me. Oh, so Jesus, what a thought! You know that’s the kind of thought that could lead a person to start drinking gin at nine o’clock in the morning, and I don’t want to go there.

The only time I ever enjoyed ironing was the day I accidentally got gin in the steam iron.

I like to have a Martini, two at the very most; three, I’m under the table, four I’m under my host!

I would like to observe the vermouth from across the room while I drink my martini.

And the sooner the tea’s out of the way, the sooner we can get out the gin, eh?

I exercise strong self control. I never drink anything stronger than gin before breakfast.