- 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: [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.
- [first lines]
- 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...
- Maurice: [to Martland] Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: "It might have been."
- 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.
- Johanna: Mmm.
- [Mortdecai forces his way in]
- Mortdecai: [arrives at hotel] Jock. Dear, sweet, sperm-heavy Jock. Behold this America, this new colossus, this fair land of the free!
- [sees bikini-clad girls in the lobby]
- Mortdecai: 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.
- [hands over a room card]
- Mortdecai: 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: [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!