Alan: Let's see how much time will be allocated for stoppages to replenish their bodies with much-needed nutrients...Five minutes? Where on earth are they getting five minutes from? Yet another atrocious decision. (Exasperated) They'll never learn, will they?
Mark: They've gone soft. What a bunch of jessies.
Alan: Incredible. Absolutely incredible. What d'you reckon they're feeding the dogs?
Mark: Probably some specially-made stuff for the tough Antarctic conditions. Tell you what -- it's not Pedigree Chum, that's for certain.
Alan: It's not like it was in your day, is it, Mark?
Mark: They'd have been lucky to get the crust from my chicken curry pie in my day. They'd have been lucky to get any of your pie any day.
Alan: I've lost weight, I'll have you know. Been on the Atkins Diet.
Mark: More like the Ron Atkinson diet.
(Pause as Mark basks in his own comic genius.)
Alan: Oh, now one of them has gone down clutching his hand...
Mark: It's his finger, I think.
Alan: (Sarcastically) Yeah, I'm sure he's at death's door alright. Looks like his finger has fallen off.
Mark: Look at him pretending to be in agony. Just gaffer-tape it back on and get on with it.
Alan: He was the same way earlier when he took off his sock and three of his toes didn't come out. Disgraceful. You don't know you're born, son.
Mark: I'm telling you Alan -- soft. They've all gone soft.
Alan: Too right. What's the world coming to? And would you look at that: they're all wearing gloves! Every single one of them! Typical!
Mark: I'll tell you what: if Bob Paisley had caught me wearing gloves, he'd have made me eat them, there and then in front of the rest of the team. And if I hadn't finished by the time the lads were showered and dressed, he'd have driven me to my house, made me watch while he slaughtered my first-born and then urinated on my begonias.
Alan: Quite right.
Mark: (Disbelievingly) Is that a scarf? (Angrily) Is that bloke actually wearing a scarf?!
Alan: Lord, give me strength...
Mark: Tell you what: in my day...