Mortdecai: Your mother and father only knew each other for a day, and money changed hands.
Mortdecai: Have you heard the expression, "open your balls"?
Jock: No, sir.
Mortdecai: It made me feel dirty.
Mortdecai: I had no idea I was so deep in Her Majesty's hole!
Martland: The fact that you're as drunk as a fiddler's bitch in no way obviates the fact that you very nearly caused an international incident. A man your age has no excuse for looking or behaving like a fugitive from a home for alcoholic music hall artistes.
Mortdecai: I will have you know that I am not an alcoholic. I am a drunk, and there is a vast difference.
Mortdecai: ...kissing a man without a mustache is like eating an egg without salt.
Johanna: Uhh, don't point that thing at me.
Jock: Told ya!
Mortdecai: [upon viewing a murder victim] Ugh. I think this women has need of a chiropractor.
Martland: Bronwen Fellworthy, Oxford art restorer. Did you know here?
Mortdecai: Slightly. I do recall a vague memory of her having once, involuntarily, one would hope, releasing a fart of such frightening power and timbre that I feared she had done herself a horrible mischief.
Mortdecai: Oh, my darling, I tried desperately to be unfaithful to you, I really did. But I just couldn't do it.
Johanna: It's a terrible moment when you finding yourself falling in love with your own spouse, isn't it?
Mortdecai: Now that is the look that softens every bone in my body, except one.
Mortdecai: [calling through the door] Johanna. Are you all right in there, darling? It is I, Charlie... Your husband.
Johanna: What is it?
Mortdecai: Oh, moon of my delight. This is your own personalized Sheik of Araby who seeks admission into your tent. I have come to carry you off to the burning desert, and work my greasy will upon you under the tropical stars. Send your camel to bed, damn it!
Johanna: [sighs] My Sheik, does this mean you have excommunicated that mustache of the Prophet?
Mortdecai: ...I'll trim it... Darling. I am embarking on a very dangerous escapade, from which I may not well return. And it is customary in these situations for, you know, a proper send-off. Quick session of congress. Sink the Bismarck, if you will. And by the way, did I mention it is a matter of national security.
[forces his way in]
Mortdecai: Your mother and father only met once. And money changed hands.
Dmitri: [punches him]
Mortdecai: Probably less than a 20. And they say she was dressed as a man at the time.
Martland: [to Mortdecai] What is that infernal thing on your lip?
Mortdecai: As you may well know, I am many things. An arts dealer, an accomplished fencer, fair shot with most weapons. I am loved and respected by all who know me - slightly. But I have always felt as if there's something missing, you see. Some final piece of my personal puzzle. I needed something bold, distinctive.
[his cocktail arrives]
Mortdecai: Ah, thank you. The work of art with which I could declare to the heavens, I am Lord Charlie Mortdecai. And this is a little bit of magic is my mustache...
Mortdecai: Oh, how I long for the rain and indifference of Europe.
Maurice: [to Martland] Of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these "It might have been".
Spinoza: [spewing at Mortdecai] What's the matter, you one book short of a library?
Mortdecai: [arrives hotel] Jock. Dear, sweet, sperm-heavy Jock. Behold this America, this new colossus, this fair land of the free!
Mortdecai: [entering hotel lobby, sees girls on bikinis] What kind of hell-place is this? I feel as though we've made a wrong turn and arrived on the set of a pornographic film.
[asks hotel clerk]
Mortdecai: Have we taken a wrong turn and arrived on the set of a pornographic film?
Hotel Clerk: Checking in?
Mortdecai: I am Mortdecai, Lord of Silverdale. I should like to request a bucket of ice, "Do Not Disturb" sign, and a bulldozer.
Hotel Clerk: - Checking in?
Jock: - Yeah, we're checking in.
Mortdecai: I suspect I may need to redecorate.
Hotel Clerk: Room 326, overlooks the pool.
Mortdecai: [holds hotel door card] So all I must do is show up, and I'm presented with a credit card. No wonder your country's in financial ruin.
Hotel Clerk: Do you need help with your bags?
Mortdecai: No, I do not need help with my bags. I have a fucking manservant. Strange country.
Mortdecai: I should probably mention, this is not the first time I shot Jock.
[shifts to skeet shooting scene]
Mortdecai: [receiving his room key] So, all I must do is show up, and I'm presented with a credit card. No wonder your country's in financial ruin.
Maurice: For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have been!" by John Greenleaf Whittier
Mortdecai: No, I do not need help with my bags, I have a fucking man-servant!
Martland: Can you think of a good reason why I shouldn't arrest you right now?
Mortdecai: I eschew discomfort?
Mortdecai: [calls hotel front desk] Hello, American? The rooms here are made of cement. Very good in case of an air raid. But for those of us trying to get a bit of rest after an arduous crossing, a bit of an acoustic nightmare. So would you please stop grunting like wildebeests and allow me to get some sleep, man? Please! Please!
Jock: Sorry, sir. We'll try and keep it down.
Mortdecai: Good God, Jock! Put that thing away, man!