At a home for retired musicians, the annual concert to celebrate Verdi's birthday is disrupted by the arrival of Jean, an eternal diva and the former wife of one of the residents.

Jean: I'm going to say something very rude to you: fuck you.
Simon: We were not doing anything...
Jean: Neither were we.
Jean: This is not a retirement home, it is a madhouse!
Reginald Paget: [to a class of teenagers] Opera is: when a guy's stabbed in the back, instead of bleeding, he sings. It seems to me, after much research, that rap is when a guy is stabbed in the back, and instead of bleeding, he talks. Er, rhythmically, even with feeling. But because rap's *spoken*, the feeling is sort of held in check: all on one note.
Jean: Oh Reg, please, this is the first time we've seen each other in God knows how many years.
Reginald Paget: Ninety-seven.
Cissy Robson: [gasps] Is it really that long? God, how time flies.
Jean: Make up your mind, dear.
Jean: Are you telling me to go out and smell the roses?
Cissy Robson: Oh no. We're telling you the roses are long gone. But the chrysanthemums are magnificent.
Dr. Lucy Cogan: [Showing a picture] This is Sir Thomas Beecham. He was one of Britain's greatest composers.
Jean: Yes, I know who he was. He inherited a fortune. His grandfather made laxatives. Naming a nursing home after him is frighteningly apt.
Wilf Bond: When you're finished being a croquet expert, Nigel, a pound I'll kick your arse.
Nigel: The way you play you probably will. You forget I saw your Barber of Seville, your singing brought tears to y ears.
Wilf Bond: Saw you in Carmen. I'll never forget it, but I'll try.
Wilf Bond: I read somewhere that the average man thinks of sex every seven seconds.
Reginald Paget: Do you?
Wilf Bond: I wish, it was only every seven seconds.

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