DOCTOR: A sad old man once told me, what survives of us is love.

RUBY: Why does a land mine have lights on it?

DOCTOR: Oh, capitalism.

RUBY: Excuse me?

DOCTOR: Flashy lights play well in a showroom. Modern warfare. Death by salesman.

DOCTOR: I thought that was non-diegetic.

DAN: And they've got this obsession with Japanese food. I heard one of the big chief potatoheads talking about Tempura Command. Tempura Offensive. What's that all about?

MISSY: Exciting, isn't it? Watching the Cybermen getting started.

DOCTOR: They always get started. They happen everywhere there's people. Mondas, Telos, Earth, Planet 14, Marinus. Like sewage and smartphones and Donald Trump, some things are just inevitable.

RIVER: How do you know me?

DOCTOR: Well, it's a tiny bit complicated. People usually need a flowchart.

OHILA: We restored you to life, but it's a temporary measure. You have a little under four minutes.

DOCTOR: Four minutes? That's ages. What if I get bored? I need a television, couple of books, anyone for chess? Bring me knitting.

DOCTOR: Charley, C'Rizz, Lucie, Tamsin, Molly. Friends, companions I've known, I salute you. And Cass, I apologise. Physician, heal thyself.

That was when the telephone rang. The Doctor picked it up grumpily, knowing exactly who was on the other end.

‘You know, Brigadier, a chap can’t be expected to do any useful work if⁠ —’

‘[…] We’ve found something. I’d rather like you on site before we bring in the big guns.’

‘The big guns, Brigadier? I bet you can barely contain yourself.’

‘There’s a helicopter on standby. I’d like you aboard it, with me, in five minutes.’

‘For pity’s sake, man. Aren’t you going to give me at least some explanation?’

‘Crabs,’ the Brigadier said succinctly.

LOKI: As far as I can tell, I am… beyond… restoration. I’m afraid—

(He pauses.)

LOKI: I—

NYSSA: What…?

LOKI: I am… afraid.

DOCTOR: You have to remember; it's very important: “Frankenstein” is the name of the monster, and not the name of the doctor.

ROBERT: You’ve given us everything we ever wanted. But at what cost to my soul?

SARA KINGDOM: You’re a rationalist, Robert. You don’t have a soul.

DOCTOR: Revenge is a dish best left to go cold, and then thrown in the kitchen bin.

THE VOICE: This is the voice of Light City. Welcome to your new work day. Today is High Productivity Day. Your state loves you. Happiness through acceptance.

EVELYN: Oh no. You are going to sing.

DOCTOR: Well, yes, I am.

BRIGHAM: I'll transfer [his mind] onto a couple of mega-gig quantum CD-ROMs…

CHARLEY: I show a smidgen of interest in the plight of the underclass, and what do I get in return? Held at knife-point, dressed up in an admittedly fabulous but impractical frock, and then I end up being forced to marry some ancient madman as the city collapses around us!

BREGMAN: You want to go there? Why, for God’s sake?

DOCTOR: I’m half-stupid. On my mother’s side.

The face moved as she watched. The skin broke open before her eyes. Folds unfolded, wrinkles readjusted themselves. Sharp white objects, hard and solid, emerged from the flesh. Smiling. That was all it was doing. Smiling. Oh, God. The face was just a face, a normal face, but everything that made a human being really human had been sucked out of it.

After the Doctor had left, Sam had sniffed around the console room for a bit, for the simple reason that she didn’t often get the chance to fondle the controls without having the backs of her hands slapped.

[…]

Sam reached for the lever which, experience had taught her, activated the scanner. The Doctor slapped the back of her hand, and reached for an entirely different lever that did exactly the same job.

[The Doctor] reached into his jacket pocket. Over the years, people had often commented on his ability to produce exactly the right item from his pockets at exactly the right time. Some had speculated that his pockets were extensions of the TARDIS, others had guessed he was just lucky. But then, they’d never read Yeltstrom’s Karma and Flares: The Importance of Fashion Sense to the Modern Zen Master.

They didn’t appreciate the things a sentient life-form could achieve, if he was totally at one with the lining of his jacket.

The Doctor pulled a sink plunger out of his pocket, thrust it into the mechanism in the wall, and twisted it a little.

Homunculette found Marie’s body in the main corridor, at the junction between the guest room passage and the ziggurat entrance. He didn’t recognise it as a body, to begin with. The first thing he saw was the hatstand, propped up against the wall between the torches. After that, he saw the tiles, patches of off-white flooring torn out of the TARDIS interior and scattered along the corridor. A sofa clogged up the side-passage to Homuculette’s right; he identified it as the shabby red one from Marie’s secondary console room, but only half of it seemed to be there, the other being embedded in the corridor wall. An upturned bookcase lay beyond the sofa, vomiting out shredded pages covered in scrawls of High Gallifreyan. […] [A] filing cabinet squeezed itself out of Marie’s wound and shunted itself across the corridor. The matter left inside her was forcing its way out, piece by piece. Pus from the wound.

The Doctor looked back at Qixotl. Qixotl was breathing heavily, his eyes popping out of his head. ‘I nearly killed you,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’m terribly sorry. It seemed like such a good idea.’

POLICEMAN: Sir, ma'am, go back to your vehicle.

GRACE: What? Stop! He's er, he's British.

DOCTOR: Yes, I suppose I am. Jelly baby, officer?

POLICEMAN: Jelly baby?

GRACE: Just take it.

(The policeman takes a sweet and sniffs it while the Doctor makes lip-smacking noises. When he bites into it, the Doctor takes his gun and points it at his own chest.)

DOCTOR: Now, would you stand aside before I shoot myself.