All language subtitles for Casd5rftg6hzu8jikolp

My old man says
cos he's a nigger and he's West Ham,

you got to kill the cunt twice.

So fucking kill the cunt twice.

I'm gonna take
the black bastard's fucking head off!

That was him.

Aim for his chest, yeah? Not his face.

Black West Ham cunt!

Look, mate...

Come on. You killed the nigger!

Last place I wanted to die
was south of the river,

in Millwall country, lowlife city.

I'd experienced more violence than
you'd ever want in a thousand lifetimes,

so I always thought I'd go out fighting.

I'd been shot, I'd been stabbed,
I'd been kicked senseless.

But I'd handed out
my fair share of retribution and all.

It'd all been part of the game up until then.

The film you're about to see
is based on a true story,

my story.

...with this bird, right? Up in her bedroom.

Her old geezer's fucked off down the pub,
so we thinks, "Lovely. "

So I started to try and get her bra off.

- What, so you could feel her tits?
- No, so he could put her bra on his head.

Of course so he could feel her tits,
you soppy bastard.

- All right, mate, I was only asking.
- I worry about you, mate.

If you remember oxblood and your DMs,
your monkey boots, your Squire shoes,

your Blakeys,
your Stan Smiths and your Trim Trabs,

then you remember the times
in the '70s and '80s

when football violence
was part and parcel of the beautiful game.

Maybe you wore an MAjacket
or a bubble coat,

an half-and-half ski hat or a beanie.

Maybe you even chanted the songs,
steamed in, kicked off,

and like the rest of us then,
glorified in the headlines.

Fuckin' hell!

- Come on! Do the Wolves nigger!
- We're West Ham, mate.

- We're West Ham.
- Who're you? Clive Best's little brother?

You ain't West Ham if you're on your toes
with them Wolves cunts.

They were a proper naughty firm, mate.
They just smashed a load of West Ham.

- They were pissed on, mate.
- Shut up, you little mug.

- Show us where they are, or I'll piss on you.
- They're only over there.

Come on, then. Let's go and fuck 'em!

Come on, then!

We knew we shouldn't have followed them,
but it was the South Bank Crew,

West Ham's top firm back in them days.

Stick together, yeah? Stick together.

Their leader was this proper hard geezer,
Stevie Hogan.

Back then, we all wanted
to grow up to be like Stevie Hogan.

For the first time in my life,
I felt like I belonged somewhere,

and it was here, with West Ham.

The Old Bill didn't have a clue, back then.

The couldn't believe I was only 14, after
they slung me in the back of a Black Maria.

Neither could Stevie Hogan.

That Saturday was the start of the good
times, because I became part of something.

But you know what?
It wasn't always like that.

¶ Get up in the morning,
slaving for bread, sir

¶ So that every mouth...

Hello. What's your name?

Aren't you lovely?

Let's have a look at you.

- Isn't he a sweetheart?
- Yes, love, he's a real darling.

They're still cute at that age, in't they?

Before they get that curly hair and big lips.

Bye, then, love.

Ignorant cow!

Come on.

The war never ended for Doll Chambers.

She survived the Blitz
and raised two kids of her own.

And now she was going into battle for me.

A 49-year-old white woman,
with only a mother's love to give,

she decided to foster a black baby
from Dr Barnado's orphanage.

¶ After a storm, there must be a calm

¶ Catch me in the farm,
you sound your alarm

¶ Poor me, the Israelite

By the time I was ten, all I ever wanted
was to look the same as everyone else.

No matter how hard I scrubbed,
I never got any whiter.

Come on, son.
You're going to be late again!

¶ Get up in the morning,
slaving for bread, sir

¶ So that every mouth can be fed

¶ Poor me, the Israelite ¶

Oh, ain't you going to sit down
and eat something?

I'm going to be late, Mum, like you said.

Oh, come on, son.
I made your favourite, specially.

Sorry, Mum. I ain't hungry.

You're never hungry.
What's the matter with you?

Cecil, tell him to eat something.

Yeah, come on, son.
Don't upset your mother.

I've got to go.

What? Just...
You behave yourself, you hear me?

Golliwog!

How the fuck
do you comb that fuzzy-wuzzy hair?

- Where'd you come from, chocolate face?
- Fuckin' blackie!

- Yeah, you tell him, Bill.
- Oi, nig-nog. I drew a picture of you.

- Want to see yourself?
- And he's got a granny for a mum, an' all.

What happened to your real mum,
monkey boy?

Don't you remember, lads?
We fed her last week, down London Zoo!

Ooo ooo ooo ooo ooo!

My dad says you lot should go back
to where you come from.

- Go on, fuck off back to the jungle.
- Fuck off, Billy, you gypo!

What you pair of cunts doing
hanging about with a darkie for, anyway?

Ain't you gonna say nothing? Carol!

- Go on, Cass!
- Do him, Cass!

From day one, Prentice and Freeman
were always there for me.

Come on! Fuck him up!
Come on, he's nothing!

Yeah, all right, all right.

That's another new school uniform ruined.
I can't afford to buy a new one every week.

You can't just go
bashing people up all the time.

What happens
if someone reports you to Dr Barnado's?

I'll tell you what happens. They'll say I can't
control you. They'll take you away from me.

Is that what you want?

Violence isn't going to solve anything, Carol.

- Stop fucking calling me that name!
- Oi! Don't you talk to your mother like that!

- You hear me?
- Well, don't you ever call me Carol again!

I'm sick of being tormented for it.

It's a girl's name.
Everyone knows it's a girl's name.

Well, don't blame me. Blame them
that give you away. I didn't give it ya.

Why can't you call me something else,
then?

Well, what am I supposed to call you,
you daft sod?

I can't just call you son all the time, can I?

- Call me Cass.
- Call you what?

- Call me Cass.
- Cass?

- What's that?
- That's what my mates call me.

Well, why on earth do they call you Cass?
That's worse than Carol.

No, it ain't.
It's after that boxer, Cassius Clay.

Oh, bleedin' hell! I might have known
it had something to do with fighting.

Yeah, but he's the toughest fighter there is.

Everyone likes him.

People don't like you
just cos you can bash people up, son.

Oh, all right, if it means that much to you
and it's going to make your life easier,

I'll call you... Cass.

Will you make the teachers
call me Cass as well, then?

But you got to promise me
to stay out of trouble, OK?

Yeah, but everyone apart from my mates
think that all I am is just a darkie.

That is just ignorant name calling.

That is not what you are.

I'll tell you what you are.

You are my special boy.

Special like Cassius Clay?

Yeah, special just like Cassius Clay.

Come here!

Right, you pair. Off you go.

And don't let him take you down the pub
with all them West Ham mates.

No bad influences, right?

You take care of him, Cecil.

I don't want him
getting into any more trouble.

It's all right, Doll. It's only the football.

¶ We're the North Bank,
we're the North Bank

¶ We're the North Bank Upton Park! ¶

- You all right, fellas?
- Yes, mate.

I don't know what
the fucking East End's coming to, do you?

- Yeah, I know, mate.
- Hey, steady on, lads. He's just a little kid.

Gonna fuckin' grow up though, ain't he?

You all right, son?

You looking forward to the match, son?

- What's the special occasion?
- Eh?

Well, why are you taking me with you,
all of a sudden?

Your mother thought
we ought to spend a bit more time together.

- Why?
- You know what your mother's like, son.

Anyway,
who's your favourite West Ham player?

- I'm not sure.
- Oh, come on.

Bobby Moore? Martin Peters? Geoff Hurst?

Don't know.

Yeah, well... Don't matter.

Just remember, stay close to me today.

Don't want you getting hurt, right, Cass?

Your mother'd kill me.

¶ I'm forever blowing bubbles

¶ Pretty bubbles in the air

¶ They fly so high, they reach the sky

¶ And like my dreams, they fade and die

¶ Fortunes always hiding... ¶

Upton Park was known
as the academy of football.

The Britannia was known as the heartbeat
of the hardcore West Ham following.

- Are we going in?
- Yeah, fuck it, we're half in the firm now.

You had to earn respect
to be accepted at The Britannia,

and after the Wolves fight,
we thought our time had come.

Oi! No fucking nig-nogs allowed in this pub.

You stick with the sambo snooker club
down the road.

Fuck off, you nonce.
He ain't a nig-nog, he's West Ham.

Don't just fucking' stand there, you little
cunts. Get in there and get me a pint.

By the time the 1980s arrived,

me, Prentice and Freeman had taken over
from Stevie Hogan's South Bank Crew,

and we were now some of the main faces
drinking in The Britannia.

Have a look. Duran Du-fuckin-ran, innit?

Look who it is.

- How are you, mate?
- All right, all right.

Ray, mate.
I thought you were in the nick, mate.

Got bail, didn't I?

How much did they fix your bail at, then?

- Twenty.
- Twenty grand?

No, twenty quid.
Of course, twenty fucking grand!

Yeah, the cunts. They proper stitched me up
this time. No way I'm getting out of it.

- How long do you reckon you'll get, then?
- Definitely a ten, but please God, out in five.

Five? Five years? Fuck that.

Anyway,
I thought I'd make the most of it while I can.

Here, you still wasting your dough chasing
them Hammers all round the country?

Too fucking right, mate.

Slice me open and you'll see my claret
is claret and fuckin' blue, mate.

Fuckin' right!

I just stick to the boxing now, mate.

Couldn't bear to watch them Hammers
get hammered every fucking week.

Yeah, well, you won't have to worry
about that for a while, will you, Ray?

What do you mean by that, then, son?

Nothing, Ray. I was only joking, mate.

You taking the fucking piss out of me?

No.

No, I'm really sorry, Ray.
I never meant nothing by it, mate.

Just as fuckin' well then, innit?

Fuck me, kid, you smell like you pebble
dashed that seat. What's the matter wi' you?

Pull yourself up!

Fuck me, Ray.

You fucking shit yourself.

- Anyway, look, good to see you, boys.
- Cheers.

Liven yourself up, you,
I'm telling you.

I need a brandy after that.

Ray was on a different level from us,
though.

When Monday arrived, we were no different
from any of the rest of Maggie's miserables.

An honest day's work
for a dishonest day's pay.

We were just another cog
in Thatcher's square wheel.

What is it with you people, eh?
Your sort are all the fucking same.

No good, and fucking lazy!

- Oi!
- Leave it.

Now, get a move on.

No wonder his fucking wife left him.

What a cunt!

Even office workers like Prentice couldn't
wait till the bell rang on a Friday afternoon,

so they could get
their weekly fix of the ultra-violence.

You had to give yourself something
to look forward to at the weekend.

Times have changed since the mid-'70s.

The football casual
had taken over the terraces,

so it was designer clothes
and designer violence.

We now called ourselves
the Inter City Firm,

the ICF.

The papers called us "les thugs nouveaux",

and West Ham's Inter City Firm, being
full of lads from East London and Essex,

were more nouveaux than anyone.

It wasn't only us Cockneys, either.

Aberdeen's Soccer Casuals,
Middlesbrough's Frontline,

Cardiff's Soul Crew
and the Portsmouth 6.67,

from the far north to the deep south,

armies of young men were battling on
the streets, in the pubs and on the terraces,

all in the name of their religion,
their football clubs.

There was always a bigger turnout when
you went up against one of your main rivals,

and they didn't come much bigger
than the Leeds Service Crew.

Come on. This is it!

The ICF were after their crown, and it was
going to take something special to get it.

Fucking kill 'em!

ICF, ICF, ICF.

Come on then, you cunt.

When half of our mob were
drawing them out into their own back yard,

the other half were taking liberties
redecorating their boozer.

We were the famous ICF,

and humiliation
was the business we specialised in.

Oi! Wake up, you lazy cunts.

Oi, come on, you pair of slags.

Get her!

All right, fuck's sake!

- All right?
- Morning. You cold?

No, I ain't, paperboy.

Oh, hello.

All right, you've had an eyeful.
What's all the fucking fuss for?

- Two page twos and a page four.
- Who fucking gave us a page four?

- Who'd you think?
- Typical. Posh cunts!

Chelsea got front pages again.

Fucking Chelsea!

"Notorious Chelsea hooligans. "

- What a load of fucking bollocks!
- Here, listen to this.

"Mindless thuggery
as West Ham mob attack Leeds pub. "

Mindless?
We fucking planned that for weeks.

Where's my fucking top, Freeman?

Renee! Renee!

My name ain't Renee. It's Tracey.

- Where is it, then?
- There you are. Oops!

- Oh, turn it in.
- Here you are, doll. Whoo!

Stop fucking about.

Get your filthy hands off it.

- Why, you horrible little slag!
- His fuckin' boyfriend, are you?

Look, this is all my fault.

Here you are. Come on, darling.

Here, bye-bye.
Don't forget to put your lead on.

- You all right, mate?
- Yeah, I'm all right.

"Chelsea tops thugs league. "

What the fuck's that about?

It's a fucking joke.

What are you...? Look here.

Open the door, you prick.

Open the door.

Come on, you wanker.

I'm sorry. All right?

Me, too.

Now fuck off and tell that pikey cunt
of a Millwall boyfriend of yours

that the ICF's just done his little Renee
up the 'arris again.

Ta-da.

Small cock, anyway.

- Don't worry about that slut, mate.
- I don't give a shit about her.

I'm pissed off with these fucking kiddie firms
stealing all the headlines again.

Right, that's it.
Newcastle away, week on Saturday.

We'll give them cunts
something to write about.

There.

I want revenge on those cunts for the petrol
bomb they threw in our end last season.

I'm surprised they even have fucking petrol.
Ain't it coal they use in motors up there?

Say what you want about them, they got fuck
all style, but do they fucking hate Cockneys!

They'll be waiting for us coming off the train,
as usual.

And it ain't the best sight, 500 mad Geordie
lumps waiting at the station for you.

Right. We'll put our fucking A-team on 'em,

right before the game,
when they ain't expecting it.

Have a squint at them, then.

Yeah, they're not bad.

Ain't you gonna put your name and address
on them as well, then?

- You cheeky bastard.
- Well, that's exactly what you need.

Something to let these cunts know
exactly who the fucking top firm is.

A little bit more fucking exposure.

You gonna have a drink, then, love?

No, thank you very much.

Are you ready? Now, please, don't forget
just to look at me and not the camera, yeah?

Welcome to News Agenda.

Our subject today is the English disease,
football hooliganism.

An international poll
recently claimed that now, in 1983,

after the Royal Family,
it's what Britain is most famous for.

We've spoken to several authorities
from the world of football,

but today we're going to talk
to actual, real hooligans.

They've asked to remain nameless,

but the gentlemen concerned are members
of one of Britain's most violent gangs,

the Inter City Force.

Erm... It's the Inter City Firm, love.

Now, you're actual, real hooligans.

Can you tell me what it's like?

We've spoken to several authorities
within the world of football,

but today we are going to talk
to some actual, real hooligans.

They've asked to remain nameless,

but the gentlemen in question are members
of one of Britain's most violent gangs.

I'm intrigued to know why you in particular
are so attracted to such a violent way of life.

Isn't football the hotbed of racism
we always hear about?

Maybe so. But it's the only place
I've ever been accepted.

This is the way I see it, right?

Why did you bring me on this show?
I'll tell you why.

Cos the media in this country
is obsessed with hooliganism.

Most of it's sensationalised, cos that's what
sells papers. You've got a lot to answer for.

Admit it, the middle classes get a thrill
out of watching working class men

knocking seven bells out of each other
from the safety of their own living rooms.

We're not hurting anybody else.

We don't go round mugging old ladies
or robbing for drugs or anything.

It's something
for young men to do on a Saturday,

let off the steam
they've built up during the week.

We're not real criminals.

Some of my firm wore army fatigues
in the Falklands not too long ago,

and you lot called them heroes.

We're a warring nation. We're born to fight.

There's three million unemployed out there,
with what to look forward to?

Everyone's got to have some sort of buzz,
ain't they?

Some people do drugs, some are alkies.

Some smoke 60 a day.

Are you telling me they're not a strain
on the NHS or the taxpayer? Are we?

Well, that's the informed view

of someone who has a clear notion
of why we have this problem.

Now let's see
what the other side have to say...

- All right?
- Yeah, all right, son.

You seen me on TV last week, then?

Yeah, we saw you, Cass.

So did half London.
Phone hasn't stopped ringing.

Yeah?
Anybody else after an interview, then?

Do you honestly think
the police aren't going to come after you

and your silly little West Ham mates?

Now that they've seen you
mouthing off on the television?

What are you talking about?
I never admitted to anything.

And anyway, I got good money for that.

- Yeah? How much?
- Fifty quid.

- Fifty quid, eh?
- Cecil!

Don't bloody encourage him.

Well, was it worth it?

Or are you going to tell me it's all for
that overblown ego you value nowadays?

Fifty quid I got, yeah?
That's half a week's wages.

Well, start saving, son.

Cos a good lawyer's going to cost you
a hell of a lot more than fifty piddling quid.

I never brought you up to be an 'ooligan.

Yeah, well,
nobody asked you to bring me up.

Well, nobody asked me
to bring you up, either.

I didn't mean to say that.

You don't know what it's like for me.
I'm not like you.

I don't want to be another worker bee.

I ain't settling for that.

I ain't settling for a life like he's got.

Well, he put food on your table.

And he put a roof over your head.

And until you realise that
that's what it takes to make you a man,

then you will never amount to anything.

Yeah.

No. No.

Yeah. Yeah.

No.

Yeah. Yeah.

Everything, but everything, must be done.

But in the end, it comes to getting hold of
the perpetrators of these terrible things.

Yeah.

No.

Yeah.

That requires action
by the Football Association.

If need be, it requires fresh legislation.

It will get the full cooperation of the police,

and it requires the full cooperation
of the people in those clubs,

because they know who are their supporters
and they know who are not.

Yeah. Yeah.

- Behave! We ain't Crystal fucking Palace!
- You what?

Maybe in a couple of years, eh?

I fucking hate them Geordie cunts, Cass.
I'll cut 'em to fuck!

- Oh, come on, Cass.
- Fuck off, mate.

Fuck me, that knife was nearly bigger
than him.

Are you fucking serious, mate? Piss off!

I wish we could get those responsible,
get them before a court,

and stiff sentences, so that they stop
anyone else in their tracks from doing this.

Now, that's what we want to do, because
we want to make it a wonderful game again.

Yeah, go on.

Yeah. Yeah.

It's the thugs that are destroying football.

Johnny Lyle's claret and Blue Army,
Johnny Lyle's claret and Blue Army!

Johnny Lyle's claret and Blue Army!

Johnny Lyle's claret and Blue Army!
Johnny Lyle's claret and Blue Army!

Who wants to have a fucking laugh?
Come on.

I said, who wants to have a fucking laugh?

All right, here we go.

How do you stop a dog shagging your leg?

Suck his cock.

Enjoy that, did you? You having a laugh?

Tell your fucking face,
you miserable cunt, eh?

ICF! ICF! ICF! ICF!

¶... East London, la la la,
East London, la la la, East London, la la la ¶

You all right, mate, eh?

Did you leave Spit the dog at home today,
did you?

All right, listen.
My wife's got two cunts, right?

I'm one of them.

Listen up!
We know who their top boys are, right?

So we go after them first,
and the rest of them will fucking crumble!

These cunts don't fuck about,
we saw that last season.

Any one of us goes down for this,
we all fucking go there.

This is the fucking big one. There'll be
no more talk after this on who's the top firm.

Well, come on, you cunts!

What's got eight legs and a big, black cunt?

The fucking A-team!

All right, you all like football, right?

Yeah? You all like football?

Listen to 'em. Fuck!

- Fucking let me out!
- Let's get on with it.

This is where we make
a real fucking name for ourselves, boys.

This is where we show
every other mob in Britain

who the real fucking daddies are.

Are we the famous ICF or what?

Well, fucking come on, then!

Ram it in!

He likes that one and all.

What do you call a lesbian Paki?

All right, Kunta Kinte, sit yourself down.

If Chicken George is coming in behind you,
tell him to shut his fucking gob an' all.

Come on, then, you dirty cunts!

Fucking hell!

Calm down, fellas.
This is Dennis's big night.

Jesus Christ!

Let's have some fucking lagers.

He's gone fucking mental!
Jesus fucking Christ!

I've had it here.

Right, well, good luck, Dennis.

Kiddy firm! Fucking Kiddy firm!

Come on!

Guilty.

Britain's first long-term prison
sentence for football hooliganism

was today handed to Cass Pennant,
a painter and decorator from East London.

Pennant was found guilty
of grievous bodily harm and affray

following the clash at
a Tyneside working man's club last month.

The jury heard how he was one of the
leaders of the infamous Inter City Firm,

a violent gang of hooligans who attached
themselves to West Ham United.

Weather now. In the north of the country...

Next.

- Hello, Harry.
- Good afternoon, Ron.

- What are you in for now, then?
- Got caught, mate.

- Well, that'll do it every time, won't it, mate?
- Certainly will.

Cheers.

Next.

Extra large, mate.

No, thanks. I'll take the Lacoste ones, pal.

Yeah? No, you fucking won't,
you cheeky bastard.

You'll have the ones
that I decide you're having.

Listen, mate, if I was doing your job,
I'd be a miserable old cunt an' all.

But look at it this way. At least you get to go
home and take a shower with a fucking bird.

Fucking hell,
you ain't seen my missus, mate.

You'll never get the fat old cunt
in the shower when I'm in it. Name?

Pennant.

Hold up. You're the hooligan on the news.

I used to go and watch QPR
back in the day.

Yeah.

Here, Pennant. Who was the best mob
you went up against, then?

Eh?

Eh?

Suit yourself.

Next.

Name?

Fuck me. Have a word.

They never said it was a five-star gaff.

All right, mate?

Suppose I'd better take the four poster,
then?

I want my draw.

When I ask you for a draw,
you give me a draw, you understand me?

Don't let me fucking ask you again!
I want a fuckin' draw, boy.

- Give it to me!
- Mate! Mate! Leave it out.

What you saying there choc-ice?

You what, mate?

You're not a brethren.

You can't talk to me, raasclat.

You talk like a white man.

Sorry, mate, me no understand you.

You're not a black man!

Black? Not fucking really black?

Well, what the fuck is that then, you cunt?

Black power gonna deal with all you
white devil...

All you Uncle Tom collaborators.

You've been watching too much
American TV. This is Britain, mate.

British colonial oppression!

Black man gonna rise up
and go back to Africa. One nation!

Haile Selassie!

Kill all the Babylon then!
Rastafarai!

You'd best leave your BMW
and gold chains behind, then, mate.

Cos there'll be no use for them
in a fucking mud hut.

Raasclat!

I fucking thought Jamaicans and Africans
fucking hate each other, anyway.

Go back to Africa, then,
where black man is killing black man.

And take that fucking chip on your shoulder
with you.

But there'll be no more playing the rude boy
in the nightclubs, and fucking white pussy,

you racist fucking hypocrite!

Fucking Dimlo!

Fucking put me in with fucking cunts like...

Come on, then, you cunt!

Come on, then. Fucking slice me.

Why fucking stop it?

I don't want to share my cell
with a white honkie hooligan.

I was fine
because of the colour of my skin again.

But hate was coming from another direction
this time.

Mmm, new boy always rolls.

What? Problem?

Sorry, mate. I don't know how.

All my years inside, me never meet
a black man that can't skin up.

I know, and it gets worse.

The fucking screws
think I'm a fucking schwartze,

and the rastas think I'm a fucking coconut.

You ever look in the mirror
to check what colour you are, hooligan?

Look, mate, I ain't no Uncle Tom, all right?

I bet I've had more stick for being black
than you.

- Hey, chill, chill it, hooligan.
- Look, mate.

My mum was a 50-year-old white woman

when she brought me home
from the orphanage.

Nobody gave her an instruction manual
on how to bring up a black kid.

How's she supposed to know about plaiting
up your hair and moisturising your skin?

I never thought about it like that, mate.

Well, I did. Every fucking day.

Oh, you don't understand patois, then?

Yeah, mate.
Just like you don't understand Japanese.

Why the fuck
do you still speak that bollocks, anyway?

It's in my heritage, man.

I mean, I only speak it with my mother,
you know,

and in here, just to piss off the screws.

You got a lot to learn about your culture,
Mr Hooligan.

The only culture I got
is West Ham fucking United.

When you get sent down,
they give you a number

and brand you
with Her Majesty's cattle prod.

But only after having the pleasure of some
nonce doctor playing with your balls

and sticking his hand up your arse.

No matter what anyone tries to tell you,
prison is a shithole.

And Wormwood Scrubs
was an old Victorian karzi.

Piss in a bucket, shit in a bucket,

and clean your teeth in a bucket.

Let's just say, it ain't the four-star treatment.

Someone wants a word with the hooligan.

Come on.

What the fuck's going on here?

I ain't done nothing.

Fucking hell!

Here he is, the big man.

How are you?

- Come on, sit down.
- I thought you was in Wandsworth.

Yeah, I am sometimes,
but you know what these fuckers are like.

They like to keep you on the move,
stop you from getting too cosy.

It don't seem to have taken you long to get
your feet under the table in here, though.

Yeah, well, you can talk.
In all the newspapers.

So what are you, then?
The world's first celebrity football thug?

- So, how are you settling in?
- Oh, don't.

Well, you know what they say. The first
couple of months are always the hardest.

- You'll be all right. How long did you get?
- Four year.

Fuck me. Four years
for fighting for a poxy football club.

I know. It weren't even a game, either.
Fucking liberty, mate.

Don't worry, you'll be out in two.

What's all this about an Inter City Firm?

Whatever happened
to the old South Bank Crew or the Mile End?

- What do you mean?
- Where's the money in it?

- Who's the guvnor?
- There's no real guvnor, really.

It's just a few of us who organise it,

and a few firms come together
under one banner.

Where does the money come from?
Protection? Gear?

No, there's no money in it.

Unless you count the under-fives
for taxing some poor cunt for his Burberry.

A bunch of fucking wannabes,
if you ask me, Cass.

How many bodies can you get together
at any given time?

Depends what's going on.
Anything from nifty to a carpet.

And that's hardcore. No hangers-on.
Another couple of ton if it's a big one.

Fuck me, that ain't bad.

So what are you, then? Some kind
of a black hooligan pope or something?

Or the Pied Piper of Plaistow?

Listen, I'm being serious here, mate.

If you're interested, I might have
a little bit of graft for you on the out.

Cheers for the offer, mate,
but I ain't into anything criminal, yeah?

What the fuck do you think
you're doing in here then, you silly bastard?

Anyway, who said anything
about it being criminal?

We're businessmen.

Right, go on. You better fuck off now.

I'll think about it, yeah?

In the shovel, there's a prison governor

and there's someone
who really runs the nick.

It was my good fortune that in the Scrubs
it was Uncle Raymondo,

so pens, paper and privileges
were never in short supply.

It was just a pipe dream, really,

but I'd always wanted to write a book
about the darker side of football culture.

They'd written about the punks,
the Teds, the Mods and the Skins,

so why not about the Casuals?

It was on the terraces where most working
class fashion influences came from.

This book was going to be my passport
to a new life outside the Firm.

This lot can't be all fucking true, Cass.

Fuck off, mate. Every fucking word.

It ain't half bad, you know.

Where was your family from?

Both from somewhere in London.
Not quite sure exactly where, though.

No, mate. Your real family.

They are my real family.
The only ones that ever wanted me.

- You never try and find the others?
- I ain't interested, mate.

What good would that do me?

Listen, don't take the wrong way, right?
But I think that's where your real problem is.

Don't take this the wrong way either, mate,
but fuck off.

Look, if you don't know who your father was,

and you don't know
who your grandfather was,

how are you supposed to know
where your roots are, who you are?

Who the fuck are you? Mother Teresa?

What the fuck would a petty criminal like you
know anything about stuff like that, anyway?

If you had any brains,
you certainly wouldn't be in here.

You might be right there, you know, mate.

But the one thing about being in here,
it gives you plenty of time to think.

During my sentence, the Tories
had smashed the fuck out of the miners,

with the biggest group of uniformed
hooligans the country had ever seen.

And after the Heysel Stadium disaster,

even the IRA was higher in the popularity
polls than the average football fan.

Thatcher's firm was seriously mobbed up

against anyone who mixed their football
with their violence.

Pennant.

Whoa, whoa. What's that?

- Just things I've been scribbling down.
- Give it here.

Prison rule 12.786

states that no inmate
is permitted to be discharged

with any possession
that he did not enter the prison with.

- Oh, come on, mate.
- I certainly am not your mate.

I've been writing that for ages.
That's my life.

What does that say, sonny?

- Her Majesty's Prison.
- Exactly.

Property of Her Majesty.

Not... Carol Pennant.

Come on, then. Let's see if we can find out
if you fight like a girl as well, Carol.

Cos if we do, then you'll be heading
straight back down that fucking corridor,

back into the cosy little cave
you've just crawled out of.

That's my future you just slung away.

Future?

Tell me, what fucking future is there,
exactly,

for a two-bit schwartze football hooligan
like you?

Hope to see you back here soon...

Carol.

I don't know why I ever agreed to come here.

My dad would kill me if he knew
I was coming to some football thug's party.

Sorry, Linda. I ain't waiting here all day
just to cheer on some released convict.

- Come on, Elaine, he's West Ham!
- What?

You think I give a shit
about your crappy little football team?

It's too late, anyway.

- Here he is.
- Hello.

- Welcome back, son.
- Good to have you back, son.

Is that him? That cocky-looking geezer?

- Go on, then.
- Speech! Speech!

Hey, hey, come on!

- Speech!
- Come on, Cass.

- Dunno what to say, really.
- That's a fucking first, then.

Glad to see you ain't lost it, mate.

Can't lose it if you never had it.

I'd just like to say thanks to everybody
for coming down here tonight,

and for everybody
who came to visit me inside.

When you're in there, even a stupid thing
like a postcard can help keep you going.

So, to all of youse that wrote,
and I know most of you can't...

I won't forget it.

That's about it, really.
Who've we got, Saturday, then?

- All right, sexy?
- All right.

You on your own, then, darling?

Yeah, you know how it is, I'm sure.

You want to come for a toot?

Sorry, I don't use that stuff.
I already have a personality, thank you.

You off, then, darling?

Yeah. You got me all flushed, darling.
I need a little breather.

- You dirty little cunt!
- What's wrong?

Cheeky bastard tried to stick his hands
down my knickers.

- Wanker.
- Calm down. I was only mucking about.

- Anyway, she looked like she was up for it.
- You fucking prick!

You fucking little slag! Shut your mouth!

Fucking cunts!

I think you'd better fuck off home, mate.

Home? Fuck off home?

This is my fucking home, mate. Where
exactly would you say yours was, eh?

All right, mate. No problem.

I don't want no fucking trouble, all right?

Yeah, walk on.

Ain't you going to do him? I thought you was
supposed to be this big fucking hard man.

- Look, he ain't worth it.
- That's fucking out of order.

Listen, are you all right?

- No.
- Listen, love, do you want a drink?

White wine.

I'm Cass.

Are you?

Come on.

Now remember, Doll. You promised.

What's for dinner, then, Mum?
Done me favourite, have you?

Hello, son.

Welcome home.

It's two weeks, that's all.

Didn't they feed you in there, then?

You want to get a job now,
keep your head down.

Give us a break. I only got out yesterday.

Well, I just hope you've learnt your lesson.

Learnt my lesson?
What are you talking about now, then?

Well, don't try and pretend
you was an angel, son.

It was only a matter of time before
you got put away for something or other.

Do you ever give it a rest?

They're saying they're going to make
a real example of you football louts,

now that them poor Italians got killed.

It's time you told him, Doll.

Told me what, Mum?

You've got to tell him, Doll.

What?

Well...

Trying to contact you.

Who?

Them that give you away.

They've been writing you letters.

Through Doctor Barnado's.

Fuck them!

Oi, language, son.
Not in front of your mother.

Don't you want to open them, then?

No, I don't want nothing to do with them.

You two are my family.

Are you sure?

You heard him, Cecil.

He don't want to know.

We're his family. Not them.

You need to settle down,

meet a nice girl, have a family of your own.

Well, I have met this one girl.

Oh?

See?

That's what you need,
love of a good woman!

You're better than
all this football nonsense, son.

You could really be somebody.

You're not stupid, Cass.

I hope she is, though.

Just you behave yourself.

- Look at the state of him.
- Yeah, I know.

- You all right, mate?
- Yeah.

So what does this bird do, then?

Fuck knows. Travel agent or something.

Oh, right.
Do you think she could get us a cheap deal?

Steady on, mate.
It's my first night, for fuck's sake.

Remember, Cass,
you can't trust none of them, mate.

You got to use the three Fs rule
with any Renee.

- What's that, then?
- Find em, fuck 'em, forget 'em.

- Yeah?
- Quid says he gets fuck all.

You cunts? Are you taking the piss? Yeah?

Are you taking the piss?

All right, lads, I got to shoot.

- And I'll have that, an' all.
- Good luck, Cass.

It's all right, I nicked it off him anyway.

- How's your mate?
- Who, Linda? Fine.

Her pride's hurt, more than anything else.
She'll be all right.

I'm surprised you never smacked
that geezer after what he said to you.

- Yeah, me, too.
- Are you the old-fashioned type, then?

"No-one hits a woman when I'm around. "

Yeah, must be.

I suppose I'm glad you never bashed
the National Front cunt.

Even if he probably deserved it.

Yeah, he probably did.

- Have you guys decided yet?
- Yeah.

I'll have the mezes, please,
and the shish kebab.

- And can I have an ouzo, please?
- And for you, sir?

Yeah, I'll have that as well, please.

Would you like any side dishes
with the shish?

- Some taramasalata, please.
- For you, sir?

- Same, please.
- Thank you.

Do you like mezes, then?

- Yeah. You?
- Yeah.

I like the sheep's testicles best.

Do you?

Mmm, yeah.

You've never had mezes before,
have you, Cass?

No, I've never been outside the country,

let alone eat
a pair of Greek sheep's bollocks.

They ain't seriously going to bring out
a pair of lamb's nuts, are they?

I don't want to sound too keen or nothing.

But I got to tell you, Cass,
I can't get involved with you

if you're going to still be running around
at weekends fighting like a bunch of kids.

My mum and dad would kill me.

What are your old pair like?
Are they all right?

God knows
how I'm going to explain you to 'em.

What, cos of the football thing?

That as well, but...

Well, let's just say they're old-fashioned.

What? Ain't they met
a big, scary black man before?

Not really.

It's more ignorance than anything nasty.

Where the hell are our drinks?

Calm down. Give 'em a chance to pour 'em.

You having a good look, mate? Don't want
to take a fucking photo or something?

Sorry, Cass.

Sorry, mate. I was telling the missus about
when we took the Holte End up in Villa.

Oh, shit. Sorry, mate,
I thought you were looking at us cos of...

No, no, not at all.

It's difficult to tell with some people
sometimes.

Not me.

When CCTVmoved into the stadiums,

the violence moved outside.

When you've built yourself a reputation
like we had,

every other wannabe mob wanted
to make a name for themselves against you.

Argh! Shit!

Fuckin' hell!

Prentice just took a right hiding
off some Gooners.

Gooners? Since when did they have
a fucking mob?

- I'm telling you, Cass, he's bad, mate.
- How bad?

They cut him to ribbons.
He needed over a thousand stitches.

A thousand? What'd they do him with,
a fucking chainsaw?

Poor cunt looks like he's been
in some fucking horror film or something.

- I'd better be off.
- Are you all right, Elaine?

- What the fuck are you playing at, Cass?
- You what?

I thought it was you that said
no slush on the firm.

She ain't that fucking special anyway, mate.

You fucking what?

Fuck's sake!

When we got Arsenal next?

Forget it, mate. They'll be all over it.

It'll need to be away from football.

They'll never show up after this anyway.

What firm done him?

Some little mob out of Islington.

Fucking liberty taking cunts!

They targeted him, Cass.
It's all getting personal, mate.

Just let the dust settle, right?

We'll pick our time carefully.

We got to do 'em, mate. We got to do 'em.

I know we got to do 'em.
Just take your fucking time, all right?

Who'd have thought
you'd end up with some ex-convict?

When's the wedding?
I should get a new hat.

Well, what's wrong, mate?

Just this whole stupid West Ham thing.

- Oi, steady on!
- I just mean all the violence.

They're like bloody kids in the playground.

What do you expect him to do when one of
his closest mates gets his face opened up?

What would you do if it was me?

Yeah, but where's it gonna end up, Lind?

It's just going to keep going on
until someone gets fucking killed.

You really do like him, don't you?

That's the whole bloody problem.

¶ It's a one shot magazine, give it a spin...

Morning, gentlemen.
Remember me?

¶ One in 36 is saying sorry through a bottle

¶ Say it's yourjob to scrape a living up,
that's all it does

¶ Well, thing it back over it,
hurts twice as much as living

¶ Itchy finger, finger, trigger, trigger

Cass?

Come on! You fucking...!

¶ One shot, this is it, did you delay?

¶ You call it a nightmare, now I call it a day

¶ You hold yourself steady
at the edge of the bed

¶ As you say finger, finger,
trigger, trigger... ¶

We fucking done 'em!
Fucking Gooner cunts! Eh?

Come on!

¶ One shot, this is it, did you delay? ¶

Fucking wankers!
He's cut me knuckles with his teeth.

You want to get up the doctor's
with that, mate.

No, it's just a little scratch.
I never saw the fucking cunt coming.

He jumped up from underneath me.
He could have cut my fucking balls off.

I wish he had cut your balls off, you bastard!

Elaine...

Sorry, mate. You're on your own. I'd rather
go with Millwall on me tod than face that.

Yeah. See you later, Cass.

- You all right?
- All right?

No, I ain't fucking all right!

Look at the state of you!

You promised me. You promised
you'd finished with all that shit.

What?

What? What?
Don't fucking what me, all right?

Can't you just give it up?

You're a grown man, Cass.

I'm not a fucking junkie, Elaine. You're
talking to me like I'm a fucking smackhead.

That's exactly what you are.
A fucking violence addict.

Fucking bollocks, Elaine.

I'm not your fucking mum, Cass.

I'm not there just to tend to your wounds
after every fucking fight.

I love you, but I don't want to bring up
my kids with a dad who ain't there.

Aw, look, I ain't going back inside.

I done me time.

And who said anything about having kids?

I'm not talking about going to prison.

You keep going the way you are,

it won't be a cell they'll be locking you
away in, it'll be a fucking wooden box.

And anyway,
too late about the kids thing, mate.

Eh?

Eh!

Eh!

I can't believe I'm having a baby
with a fucking football thug.

Fucking hell.

Yeah, fucking hell!

How're we going to survive on the dole
if I have to stop working?

You've got to at least try
and get some kind of a job, Cass.

How's a black, ex-con hooligan going to find
a job over the rest of Maggie's millions?

I don't bloody know. You're supposed
to be the one with all the big ideas.

You still running round
playing toy soldiers, then?

No, not really, Ray.

Trying to keep a low profile on that one.

They're talking long fucking stretches
if you get done at the football.

Chelsea got done the other day, dawn raids.

It's only a matter of time before
they start on us. The Old Bill got his own...

What do you want, then, mate?

I got a proposition for you.

I'm listening.

Remember you said
you'd have a bit of work when...

Cut the bollocks, Cass. What do you want?

Let me run your doors for you.

Go on.

- How many clubs you got now?
- Enough.

Well, say I supply all enough clubs
with the best doormen in London,

and you only have to deal with me,

saves you fucking about
with all the different firms you got.

Cuts out all that shit.
One contact, one invoice, one firm. Eh?

So who're you going on about, then?
Your five hundred football squaddies?

Some of them, yeah. But not just them,
all different kinds of cunts.

It's courses for horses, that kind of thing.
And it's not just a numbers game, mate.

You got to pick the right heads
for the right clubs. Eh?

OK. I'll think about it and let you know.

All right. I'll leave it with you.

- Three more, please, Joe.
- OK, Cass.

Only thing is, you got to wear a suit.

A fucking suit?

"A fucking suit?" Yes, a fucking suit.

I ain't got a suit.

Oh, come on,
you must have some kind of suit.

- I've got my court suit, but...
- There you go. It ain't a fashion show, mate.

Fucking suit!

And a bow tie.

Fucking cunt!

Look, just look fucking smart, all right?

You bastard. I'm always fucking smart.

Him, fucking smart? He's a joke, ain't he?

- Cheers, Joe.
- OK, lads.

Cheers, mate.

Having a good night, so far?

It wasn't the same buzz
as running with the Inter City Firm,

but none of us could take the risk any more.

The courts were promising ten years
for football-related violence,

and the police said they'd infiltrated every
mob in London with undercover Old Bill.

We're leaving Downing Street
for the last time,

after eleven and a half wonderful years...

As the 1980s were on their way out,
so was Mrs Thatcher.

The old girl got her wish, though,

and football hooliganism as we'd known it

had become a thing of the past,
thanks to her,

but more probably due to the Ecstasy era.

Who wanted to fight each other
with an E inside 'em, anyway?

You were more likely to get
a hug than a club at a football match.

Ray wanted the biggest, blackest,
baddest geezers on his roughest doors.

- Back of the queue, mate.
- Come on, mate.

- What?
- All right, fuck off!

It was a psychology move,
more than anything,

but it always worked, and kept Ray happy.

More importantly, I was making plenty
of clean dough and keeping Elaine happy.

Life had become quiet for me in the year
since I started running Ray's door empire.

Doll and Cecil were getting old and frail,

so it was Christmas at ours for the first time.

Where'd you get them crackers, dear?

Lovely!

Here, look at that, Cecil.

- I only picked 'em up cheap.
- Marks and Sparks, eh? Ooh!

That's quality, that is.

I'll be all embarrassed
when you come round to ours next year.

We only get ours out of the catalogue.

Ah, Cass!

Would you look at them!

What an 'andsome pair!

Look at the clobber on him, Cecil.

- So, work going well, is it, son?
- All right, Dad, yeah.

- Are you keeping out of trouble, though?
- I've always been a good boy, Mum.

He's doing really well, Doll.
You should be very proud of him.

He's a manager now, you know.

Manager, eh? Ooh.

If he can afford them crackers,
he must be doing something right.

A nice house, a beautiful wife,

a five-year-old son
and a daughter on the way.

I couldn't have been any happier.

Bloody hell! Who else?

You should've got a bigger turkey, love.

All right, it's me.

Yeah, Happy Christmas to you, an' all.

Who are we playing?

I'll probably watch it down the pub.
Listen...

Oi, listen.

You'll never guess
who I clocked on the door

at this shithole club
in south London last night.

That big black bastard.

No. Oi, you're not listening.

"That" big black bastard.

Are you going to be late again?

If I'm not back, tape Match Of The Day
for us, would you, Elaine?

Martin, tape the football for your daddy,
please.

Your mum don't know how to use the video.

Right, you. Bed.

Cheers, mate. Keep the change, yeah?

All right, lads? Full house again, yeah?

It was a full house
till he slung half of them out.

- Ray's looking for you.
- Eh?

Well, it better be
cos he wants to fucking up my wages.

You black West Ham cunt!

Look, mate...

Fucking hell!

Come on. You killed the nigger.

I done me best, yeah.

I got the wife, I got the kids,
I got the house and I got the fucking job.

It was everything
that Doll had ever wanted for me.

But sometimes, no matter how far
you try and run away from your past,

it always catches up with you
and bites you hard.

Where are the kids?

They're in bed. They're all right.

Let's sit down.

Well?

Doctor says he's very lucky to still be alive.

They reckon it's too early to say about
any permanent damage he may have.

Thank you.

We found him, you know.

Just give me the nod and it's done.

Look, I know it must be difficult,
what you're going through,

but just give it a bit of thought, let me know,
and I'll take care of it, all right?

How are you doing, then?

All right, Dad.

Where's Mum?

How are you doing?

Not bad.

Where's Mum?

I've got some bad news for you, son.

Delivery for Mr Pennant.

- Sorry for your loss.
- Thanks.

Let us pray.

Our Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come,
thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive them that trespass against us.

Lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.

For thine is the kingdom,
the power and the glory,

for ever and ever, Amen.

It's at this point

that I should like to invite any family member
who wishes to say a few words

to please come forward.

I'm dreadfully sorry,
but it really is only family members

who we permit to speak
at this point in the service.

But I'm her son.

Please.

Dear Mum,

I never, ever thanked you
after all that you did for me.

I never once told you that I loved you,
after all the love you gave me.

I never even said goodbye
when I knew it was near the end.

You need to hear this, Mum.

Thank you.

Going for a drink, then?

No, I'd best be off.

I'm going to miss her, son.

You must open those letters now, Cass.

I threw them away.

You look after yourself, right?

Don't go doing nothing stupid, do you hear?

You all right, mate?

We're going to get that cunt.
You know that, don't you?

This one's down to me.

I'll be in touch, all right?

Hello?

Hello.

Hello.

- Hello!
- Hello, Carol.

Did you like the flowers, Carol?

Fucking bastards! You fucking bastard!

Fucking...!

Go on, Cass. Do him, Cass.

Elaine, would you get the door?

Elaine!

I'm coming!

It's the police again.
Do you want me to stay?

Go upstairs.

- Are you sure?
- Go upstairs!

How many times have I got to repeat it?

I told you already,

I got no idea who the cunt is.

With all due respect, sir,

we've got an attempted murder suspect
out there, running around with a firearm.

He must know half of East London
visited you in hospital,

so who's he going to fear most?

You suit yourself, Sherlock, but this
is all coming from you, not me, all right?

I ain't got a clue.

That'll be all for now, then, sir.

Black West Ham cunt!

Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!

Bloody hell, Cass.
You can't just shout at him like that.

Fuck off!

Leave me alone!

All right, I will leave you alone.
I'm going to take the kids to Linda's.

And I am warning you, Cass,

if you're planning on doing that no-mark runt
that shot you, I ain't coming back.

Hello, Carol.

What's wrong, Carol?

I thought you were the tough guy.

You were when you nearly killed my brother.

Ain't you gonna do me an' all, Carol?

Shoot me in the head, Carol, eh?

Eh? What's wrong?
Aren't you man enough, Carol?

Come on, then.

Fucking finish me off.

Didn't you like the flowers, Carol?

Another one, Dave, yeah?

- And for me.
- Where's me fucking nuts?

Shall we go and tell Daddy we miss him?

Yeah? Gonna be nice to him?

He's left the bloody door open.

Cass?

- Dave! Where is it?
- Come on!

- Come on.
- Fucking hurry up.

Cass?

Smiles mate,
she don't fuckin' smile.

She only smiles when she's got one
right up her.

Did you hear that? You ain't
gonna fucking stand for that, are you?

Oh, my God!

Cass?

¶ Wheels turning around

¶ Into alien grounds

¶ Pass through different times

¶ Leave them all behind

¶ Leave them all behind

¶ Leave them all behind

¶ Leave them all behind

¶ Leave them all behind

Sit down and fucking behave yourself
before you catch a cold. Now!

You said this one's down to you.

Do him, Cass.

Go on, fucking do him.

Ain't you gonna do him?

I'd always thought
that trouble followed me around,

and that I was the victim.

But I didn't have to be there, did I?

I had caused all this.

I could do the life sentence,
but I knew Elaine and the kids couldn't.

They didn't care about
the rules of gang culture.

They didn't care about the tough guy image.

They just loved me for me.

That was the day I discovered who I was.

That was the day I became a man.