Cone: How much cash have you got?
Roote: Oh, about 40 quid. Why?
Cone: I got an idea.
Roote: What?
Cone: Well the way I see it, it's like this ... if we don't get off with a Dutch girl, then I reckon with nip off to Amsterdam and get ourselves a "tart."
Roote: You mean a prossie?
Cone: Of course I mean a bloody prossie! Find one, hand over the cash and *click* how's your father?
