All language subtitles for Twin Town

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You are fucking dead.

Fucking dead as fuck!

- How did much you get Mrs Mort?
- Hang on, darling.

It says here on the bottle… 25.

- Now, diazepams you wanted, wasn't it?
- Aye.

B.M.W, fantastic Jeremy.

Very comfy. Company car, is it?

Aye… probably.

Now the boys have these
with their cider, Charlie.

They're diazepam, dear.

I know that but the kids
likes it with their cider

to have a good time see.

Look at the dashboard on her.

12 quid, all right, Mrs Mort?

Ah, thank you, boys.

Now, don't forget, there's a welcome
for you both in the choir practice.

Your father is a fine tenor.

- Be a shame to break the mould, innit?
- Aye.

Listen, boys, I was wondering if you
could get me more of those mushrooms.

- Mushrooms?
- The magic ones.

I sprinkle them
on Charlie's fish fingers,

and he gets a good relief
from them.

- We'll try.
- Thank you, boys.

- What the fuck does that mean, Greyo?
- What?

That, "Ambition is fucking critical,"

It says, "Ambition is critical."
There's no "fucking" in it.

- It's a play on words.
- What?

- Dylan Thomas.
- Who?

The poet, Dylan Thomas.

He said, "Swansea is
the graveyard of ambition."

- And he was right.
- Did he write that?

No. The council wrote that.

Or they probably employed
another poet to do a little ditty

and he or she came up with that.

"Ambition is critical."

Three words.

They got a poet
to do three fucking words.

You can have as many words
as you like in a poem. It doesn't matter.

Is it supposed to be funny?

No, it's supposed to be clever.

Dylan Thomas also called Swansea
an ugly, lovely town.

I'd call it…

… a pretty shitty city.

Dylan Thomas didn't do as much
fucking cocaine as you, did he?

Yeah, well,
at least mine fucking rhymes.

Three words as well.

Pretty… shitty… city.

Yeah, I fucking like that.

Pretty shitty city.
Three fucking words. I like that.

Can you get some headphones
for that thing?

I can fucking skip.
I can move on to book five now.

Let Cantona in, Adie.
There's a good girl.

Don't 'good girl' me, you fat bastard.
I'm busy on my nails.

Why do you speak to him in Welsh,
Mam?

You got him in Bristol.

He can't understand a fucking word.

How did you get on today, Fatty?

A roofing hobble for Cartwright
at the club.

- What's he paying?
- Adie, don't bloody start.

- How much?
- Look, it's a little bit of cash.

- It's no big deal.
- What's he giving you?

- 30.
- 30?! Fucking charlatan!

You be careful up that roof,
you hear me?

Could you take us
to Cwmdonkin Bowls Club, please?

- Fuck off. I'm busy.
- Righty-ho. Thank you very much.

Won't keep you from a coal mine, lads.

Fuck me. Everyone's got shoes
on their fucking feet.

Not a rugby ball in sight.

Yeah. And I've been picking leeks
all fucking morning, boyo.

Here… Welsh farmer counting sheep.

One, two, three… five, six, seven.

- All right.
- All right.

All right?

No, I am not all right.
Thank you very much.

What time do you call this
coming home?

Blinking carry on you call all this.

Cup of tea, boys?

Cup of tea, boys?

It's not tea they want,
it's a fucking good hiding.

Ask them who was kind enough
to lend them

the two-tone BMW they've been driving
through the fucking night.

- Go on, ask them.
- Fuck off, you nosey bitch.

Charming.

Don't forget you two are seeing
that probation fella Monday.

- Did you hear me?
- Oh, Christ!

He'll probably give them
two weeks in Lanzarote.

There's plenty of jeeps
for them to nick over there.

Look at the state of you.

You can get into the bath now.
The pair of you.

The bath is for washing in.
Not for rinsing out your fucking bong.

And this glue is for my submarine

and not for putting up
your fucking noses.

And don't think I don't notice 'cause I do.
Buy your own fucking glue.

Well, if you leave it hanging
around the place all the time,

they're bound to take advantage.

It's probably them models that got them
on this stuff in the first place.

You want a sausage, Adie?

She'll be having plenty of sausage
in the massage parlour, innit, Adie?

Oi! Now cut it out.

Adie is only a receptionist.

And it's an executive health spa,
not a massage parlour.

The choker-woof dog collar.

Damn, I'm late.

Ta-ra, love.

So long babes.

And you two behave now, today now.

Health spa!

Well, while that fat git is earning
30 quid a day

up on Bryn Cartwright's roofing ladders

and you two fucking vegetables
are killing yourselves in nicked cars,

I'm earning decent money,

so I can get out
of this pithole fucking dockyard.

You call that
earning decent money, do you?

- How much is a wank, Adie?
- Oi!

Oh, don't worry love,
you can have family discount.

You'll have to find where
your wee little willies are first.

Now, cut it out.

- Cut it off, more like.
- Fuck off, Adie!

I'm going.

Oh, hang on. I'm coming.

Oh, Christ! He's left
his bloody dinner box again.

Take his sandwiches
up to the club for me, please.

Feed Cantona, have a bath
and leave your father's glue alone.

Right.

So long.

Hey, big night on Friday.
West Wales semis. Bring the missus.

He knows 80 numbers solid now.

81 with my weird fucking Welsh.

- What's your big number, then Chip?
- Like a fucking virgin.

Only one he knows off by heart.

No, there's a lot of mileage
in this karaoke lark, Fatty.

Hey, Karaoke's what's killing
the fucking Welsh choir music, Dai.

Can't beat a male voice choir.

That's what you call
proper fucking singing.

Oh, well… we're going to be
the karaoke kings soon, aren't we Dai?

The king and fucking queen more like.

Whoa!

What the fuck
are you laughing at, you twat?

- Sorry, Terry. Didn't see you.
- You fucking blind or what?

Terry, you weren't fucking looking.

What the fuck are you laughing at?

I'm not laughing, Terry.
Honest, look.

- Fucking don't.
- You still on for this stuff, Dai?

- You got the gear?
- You got the cash?

At the club…
See you there.

Hang on, Dai.

- What?
- Put your seatbelts on.

- Huh?
- Clunk, click, every fucking trip.

I said, what's the best colour top
in the Premier League?

You said Man U, black.
And I fucking had you.

Right then.
You got to do a toke under water

and hold it in 5 seconds.

One, two, three, four,
four and a half, five.

All right then.
This will fucking have you.

Why is it that some teams corner flags
and halfway flags are triangular

and some are fucking square?

Go on then.

Never fucking get this one.

Fucking hell, I know this.

I fucking know it.

I know it's something to do

with Premier and Endsleigh League
stadium capacities.

No, it's not.

I know. It's so that
if they've got square flags on the pitch,

the crowd knows they're on fucking telly.
Innit?

Because the square flags
is like a telly.

Then the crowd can tell
the fucking game's on telly.

You don't fucking know, do you?
You haven't got a fucking clue!

Go on then!

If you've won the FA cup…

it means you can have triangular flags
on your fucking pitch

'cause you've won the fucking cup.
And that is fucking right.

That's why Cardiff has got triangles
and Swansea's got fucking squares.

So if Swansea wins the cup…

… we get triangular flags?

Fuck off!

It's in the book.
Come on. 10 fucking seconds.

Nice bit of sheep dip, by the way.

- You got a Versace down here, Taff?
- No.

Kwik-Fit?

Right… better catch a choo-choo
back to civilisation.

Be lucky and if you can't be lucky,
top yourself.

Here…

And if all else fails…

… try Wales.

Two World Wars
and one World Cup they won,

you'd never fucking believe it.
Prick.

Give us a look.
Come on, man.

- Wait.
- Come on.

Fucking murder you are, Terry.

Steady on, Terry.

- That is a cheeky bit of Charlie.
- Hang on, Terry.

There's more than two.
There's loads of them!

- There's half a fucking ton of it!
- Shh…

Don't fucking shush me!

There's eight packets
of the fucking stuff!

I know.

How much cash did you just give
to that fucking idiot, Terry?

40 grand.

- 40 fucking grand!
- Shut the fuck up.

Chances are we won't be getting snow

But even if the sun shines
from now till Christmas day

As far as I can say I know

It's gonna be
a cold, cold Christmas without you…

- Fuck off, you prick!
- Catch the ball.

George,
in the middle, catch the ball.

Poetry in bloody motion, Dewi, eh?

Who needs to go to the ballet when
you got that on your fucking doorstep?

Any one of those boys
could play for Wales one day, Bryn.

What at? Darts?

Listen… if my heart
wasn't as big as a fucking rugby ball,

I wouldn't be sinking pennies
into this slag heap.

But I can't help it, Dewi.
I can't.

I built this club from nothing.

And I fucking love it.

I know it, Bryn.
I know you do, man.

Williams, you're a wanker.
Say after me, "I'm a wanker."

- Come on, now.
- I'm a wanker!

Greyo, it's all right.
It's fucking sorted.

Sorted with who?

I don't want to shift
a whole fucking kilo of this stuff.

This isn't fucking Miami, Terry.
It's fucking Swansea.

We're in the third fucking division.

What the fuck are we supposed to do
with all that, you jock twat?

I got someone else
shifting bigger batches, that's all.

Keep your fucking hair on.

I don't want to shift bigger fucking
batches. I'm happy shifting little batches.

What's wrong
with the little scam we got?

I want to move on a bit. I don't want to do
a little gram here, a little gram there.

Shifting a few worn microwaves
and a bit of bent old bollocks

until I'm fucking 45.

Just moving onto a bigger operation,
that's all.

Who the fuck
has given you 40 grand, Terry?

I got someone with proper money.

- Be careful, Terry.
- You can come in with me if you want.

I just didn't think you'd want to get into
shifting larger fucking lumps.

- I don't want to know.
- Ex-fucking-actly.

You're getting out of your depth.

Al Pa-fucking-cino!
You're pushing it Terry boy.

Bollocks.

Oi Fatty, we down for
new guttering on this or what?

Never mind about the fucking guttering.
Get the kettle on, Chip.

Go and get some Hobnobs.

Where the fuck
do you think you're going?

- When?
- Now!

- What?
- Don't 'what' me you pillock.

- Where are you fucking going?
- When?

Now, you fucking moron!

Fatty told me
to get some Hobnobs, Bryn.

Fuck Fatty. Get back on the ladder.
Get on with the fucking job man!

Hey… and don't 'Bryn' me.

It's Mr Cartwright to you, all right?

Mr Cartwright, right.

Oi, Bryn! Are we down
for the whole macongy up here?

What's the existing schlamonga like?

Not looking too clever.
They could be tacked up.

Well, fucking tack them up then.

Oi, Bryn,
you put this old schlamonga up here,

I'm not putting my name
to this job, right.

- Now I can't be seen…
- Oi, Fatty…

… your name's got bog all
to do with this job, right?

So just keep those boards up.

Take the 30 nicker
I'm so very generously bunging you.

Try and remember that
you're working for Cartwright Roofing

not the Salvation fucking Army.
Now get on with it.

And you two plonkers
can look lively an'all.

Couple of fucking slugs,
the pair of you.

- Fucking cowboy.
- Fucking starving me.

Oh, shut up, you, and pass me
a piece of two and a half.

- Hey, that's dodgy as fuck, Fatty.
- I know it is, so come and hold it then.

I'm busy, man.

Oh, for Christ's sake.
Now where's that two and a half?

- Right here.
- No, you've got to get it over here.

- I can't come no fucking closer.
- Of course you fucking can.

- Bring it over!
- I can't.

Oh, what's happening?
Dai, I'm going…

Hang on.

You fucking twat.

- Bollocks.
- Fuck's sake!

Come on!

What the fuck are you looking at,
you little cunt? Move over.

Fuck off, you wanker.

Right, then.

- Oh, you…
- Fuck off.

- You fuck off.
- Leave him alone.

Don't fuck about with me,
you little prick.

- Oi, leave him alone.
- Get the fuck…

Detective Constable Terry Walsh.
Swansea West.

Now get this fucking lot off the road
before I book you all for obstruction.

Now. Move it!

And that little prick's lucky I'm not
doing him for assaulting a police officer.

- Fucking bully!
- Fucking move it you, Welsh bastards!

Get back in the fucking car.

Fuck's sake.

- You're a twat, Terry.
- He kicked me.

That was fucking childish.
And fucking stupid.

- He couldn't have been more than 10.
- He was about 14.

- Jesus Christ.
- Chopsy little shite.

- He's a fucking kid.
- All right. Don't go on.

Twat.

Remember you're a fucking cop
now and again, Terry.

- Oh, what are we doing?
- Fucking Lewis twins.

Hurry up.
We've got to go up the club.

Oi, Dai!
Fatty forgot his fucking hotdogs.

What the fuck is that?

- It's a fucking Cobra!
- He's down the hospital.

He come off the ladder. They took him
down the hospital in the ambulance.

Fucking leg, looked like.

What the fuck are you two doing, huh?

Get this car off my fucking club now!

Or you'll be joining your father
in the fucking hospital.

Look at the fucking pitch.

- Down the hospital?
- Aye, with his leg.

Eh, pass us that fucking paratha,
will you?

Do they have a little hospital
in aircraft carriers, Dad?

- Sick bay, they have.
- Whereabouts?

Right there, just below the galleys,
in front of midships.

What happens
if you pop your clogs on a ship?

They helicopter you out
if you're dead, innit, Dad?

Or they put you in a freezer
like a fucking choc ice.

Well, it depends where you are.

Sometimes you're buried at sea.
No choice if you're at war.

Carrier or a sub… no time.
Push… over the side.

A quick fucking prayer
from the chaplain, bit of a singsong

and you're in with the jellyfish.
Plop. Goodnight, fucking Irene.

- In a coffin?
- If you're lucky. Or in a hammock.

Eh, chuck us that chutney, will you?

Oh, babes.

All right, Dad?

I got you a bottle of Isotonic,
clean pants, and a Wispa.

- "Express"?
- "Evening Post".

You're on page 5.
It's a lovely picture.

Huh… the SS are going to love that.

What did the specialist say, Dad?

He said the leg is more complicated
than he'd thought…

… but he'll live.

And if I don't,
I've told the boys what I want.

He wants to be buried at fucking sea.

With a Welsh flag
and a big choir singing as I go down.

I won't tell him again,
sea burials are illegal.

- You won't listen to me.
- Ah, bless him.

He wants to be dumped in the water
with his little submarine.

Well, he can't,
because you need special permission

and special coffins
that cost a fortune.

There's nothing wrong with cremation.

Have you heard from Cartwright, Dad?

- Of course I haven't.
- We'll go and see him.

Don't get any funny ideas
about Bryn Cartwright.

He'd have you for breakfast.

Maybe we'll have him
for fucking breakfast.

Oh, what are you
two shitheads going to do?

Going to let his fucking tyres down?

Oi! Language.

Oh, look. It's the coppers.

What is it with you and kids?

- Evening all.
- Oh, very funny, Dai.

You should be on the fucking stage.

We will be tomorrow.

- You coming down to Semis?
- Baron's Karaoke.

Grab a fucking granny.

You should be all right then, Terry.

Did you hear about Fatty's leg?
It's fucking fucked.

Swinging off ladders at his age.
About time he called it a fucking day.

I wish his twins
would call it a fucking day.

Twins were up here earlier.
Fucking headers.

- What were they driving?
- A black kit car. AC fucking Cobra.

You know, like a copy type thing.
Flash as fuck.

Like a two tone 525?

No, fucking Cobra.

- Hell of a fucking bonnet on it.
- Drove through the whole fucking pitch.

So it wasn't a two tone 525.
You do know the difference

between a two tone 525
and a fucking AC Cobra?

Course I fucking do, man.

One's got a roof
and the other fucking hasn't.

Twins were in an AC fucking Cobra.

A two tone 525 took a lump
out of Terry's 635 this morning.

Whole wing. Bang. Joy riders.
Terry was very upset.

Hey, you sure it was a two tone 525?

You telling me I don't know
the difference between a two tone 525

and a fucking Cobra?

No.

You're having a fucking laugh,
aren't you, Dai?

I'm not having a fucking laugh.

Just a two tone 525 this morning
could have been a 523

or a 528. You might have made
a mistake with its shape.

I don't make mistakes
with fucking shapes.

It was a two tone 525 and if it was
the Lewis twins behind the wheel,

I'll take their fucking heads off.

See, now, the 520 looks a bit like
the old Fiat 132 an' all.

Prick.

Let's sort this fucking sherbet out
then lads.

- You buying expensive?
- I'm sorting some stuff out.

- Charlie, is it?
- Shut up, you twat.

Two lines of that and you'll be
in the Betty fucking Ford, Dai.

Immaculate.

That is rock and roll
fucking lovely, that is.

- Greyo?
- Not for me. I just sell the fucking stuff.

Eh, Terry give me a line, man.

Fucking hurry up then.

- That's my note, Terry.
- What?

My note. It's my note. The 20.

What are you talking about, Dai?
It's my fucking 20, you twat.

- My fucking throat's numb.
- It's his note Terry.

Don't fuck about, Terry.
It's my note.

Give it here.
Greyo, tell him it's my fucking 20.

- Give it back to him, Terry.
- It's my fucking 20!

- It's fucking mine.
- Cut it out, the pair of you.

Give it him back Terry.

Have it then, you prick.

You're the fucking prick.
Always were.

What the fuck has got into you, Dai?

What time does it start tonight?

Of course, I've been practising.

Of course, I do.

What?

Not here. I'm in the hall.

Dad's here.

You're terrible, you are.

No, I just got out of the bath.

Nothing.

Oh, go on then.

I am.

Oh… where's your hand?

Go on then.

Oh, so am I.

Oh.

I've got to go.
There's someone at the door.

I'll see you later, yeah?

Bye. Me too.

All right.

- What?
- Is Bryn in?

- Dad!
- Yes.

- Fatty's boys are at the door.
- Who?

- The Lewises.
- Who?

Fatty's boys!

Yeah.

- Well?
- What?

- Fatty's leg…
- Insurance.

Insurance?

Hey, your father
was working for himself.

He was doing a little hobble.

If he wants to go chucking himself
off the roof, that's his problem.

He knows the crack.

Oh, insurance. Jesus.

- You're off your fucking trolleys, man.
- Fucking compensation then.

Compensation now?

Well, what about the mess
you made of my fucking rugby pitch?

What about Fatty's fucking leg?

If Fatty sent you over here
with all this compensation bollocks,

he's a bigger twat than I thought.
Now, do me a favour, boys,

- I've got a race to get on with.
- Giving him fuck all then, is it?

Now hang on, Bonzo.
I actually quite like the old prick.

Though how he managed
to use his little cock

to create a couple of knobheads
like you two is beyond me.

Look…

Here's 20 quid.

Now buy yourselves a nice big tin
of sticky-sticky

and fuck off back to Noddyland.

- What was that?
- A pair of lard heads.

- What did they want?
- After money.

- Fatty Lewis' boys, after money.
- After money?

What, is he out of hospital?

Out of his fucking head, if you ask me,
sending those two over here for compo.

You could give him a little something,
send something to the hospital…

Yeah, a bill for wasting my fucking time.
That's what I should be sending him.

- Well, you could send him something.
- I'll send him a little fucking something.

Look, I resent getting bunny
from those two, all right.

Thinking of their father, I am.
That's all.

Well, fuck them. Fuck them all.
So don't you fucking start.

- I'm not starting.
- Well, don't then.

- I'm not.
- Well, fucking don't!

Oh, shit!

Full massage £10.
Full massage with hand relief, 15.

Hand relief, top exposed, 20.

Oral, 25.
Oral and all in, 45.

Or we can talk about any combination
or dressing up, whatever you fancy.

What can I have for 20 again?

£20. Top exposed, hand relief.
Tits and hand shandy, is it love?

Right. Go ahead, you.

Right-o then, Ivor.

Bon voyage.

- How's that, boy?
- Oh, marvellous. Good one.

Hitting the spot?

Jesus Christ. It's Pinky and Perky.

- Which one's which?
- I give in. You all look alike to me.

Adie, no two pork chops
are ever the same.

- Like butter and margarine?
- Exactly.

- You can always tell the difference.
- Ivor, don't forget your inhaler.

Cup of tea, boys?
Or do you fancy a bit of executive relief?

Oh, I can't decide.

You haven't seen those
lovely little twins of yours

in the last 24 hours, have you?

They're not twins.
They're brothers.

Why are they called
fucking twins then?

Because my mother was very big
in pregnancy and only one came out.

She had to wait another 3 years
for the other little bastard.

So we call them twins, all right?

They're out of order
with all this driving malarkey, Adie.

Somebody's going to get fucking hurt.

Well, send them off
to a nice little remand centre

for about 15 years.
Do us all a fucking favour.

Adie, driving cars
that don't belong to them at 90mph

on the wrong side of the road
is just starting to take the fucking piss.

- Well, fucking nick them then.
- They're not worth nicking.

What were they driving
the night before last?

Oh, now let me see.

Night before last?

Oh, yes, of course.

They were playing bridge
at the Black Hills Country club

night before last.

So it must have been the pillar box
red Lamborghini Countach.

Tell them they're in line
for the biggest kicking

from whatever copper catches them
at the wheel of the next fucking motor.

Adie, have a word, that's all,
because they're riding for a fucking fall.

- Bit of advice. Okay?
- Thanks.

Maybe you could give them
a little apprenticeship on the force.

They could learn a lot from you two.

50.

Sorry to hear about Fatty's accident.
Send him my regards.

I will.

- See you again, Sid?
- Yes.

What you doing tonight?

- Very fucking ambitious.
- But I said, "What you doing tonight?"

Rollerblading with Keanu Reeves…
What have you got in mind, Terry?

Two tickets to the policeman's ball?

I'll have the full monty.

Now.

Flash and flush.
I like your style, Terry.

Hang on to the receipt.
You can claim it on expenses.

Right then…

Fuck of the month coming up.

Madeleine…

Take Mr Walsh through.
All in, 50. Ta ta, Terry.

Break a leg. Or a neck.

I don't want her. I want you.

Terry, I don't fuck bent coppers.

And anyway,
I'm just the receptionist.

When you're alone
and life is making you lonely

You can always go

Downtown

When you've got worries
all the noise and the hurry

Seems to help I know

Downtown

Don't hang around
and let your problems surround you

There are movie shows

Downtown

Maybe you know
some little places to go to

Where they never close

Downtown

Just listen to the rhythm
of a gentle bossa nova

You'll be dancing with 'em too
before the night is over

Happy again

The light's so much brighter there

You can forget all your troubles,
forget all your cares

So go downtown

Things will be great when you're

Downtown

Don't wait a minute more

Downtown

Everything's waiting for you

Downtown
Downtown

Downtown
Downtown

Downtown
Downtown

Downtown
Downtown

Downtown

Thank you! Thank you.

Big hand for Chip on backing vocals.

He's a lovely boy from Penclawdd.

And if any of you girls are feeling
hungry, he's a very tasty geezer.

I suppose a shag
is out of the question, is it?

- No fucking chance.
- Out.

- What do you mean, "out"?
- It means not fucking in.

- Why not?
- There's no why not.

- Out!
- Come on, man.

- No jeans.
- They're not jeans, they're cords.

- No polo necks.
- It's a fucking roll top.

- It's a fucking polo neck.
- It doubles as a roll top.

- It's not a fucking proper polo neck.
- Look, you can turn it down like this.

- It's a polo neck. Now fuck off.
- I'm going to say out one more time.

- Out!
- Fuck off!

- Got it?
- Yeah.

- Any problems?
- Nah.

What about Greyo?

- He's not interested.
- Does he know who you're dealing with?

- No.
- Good. Keep it that way.

- You work for me now, Terry, all right?
- Okay. What about the gear?

Bring it up to the club
and we'll talk at the weekend. All right?

- Oi, Dai! Here.
- What?

When's my little treasure on?

She's next up, Bryn.
In with a good show tonight.

I'll see you later, gorgeous.

- Lovely voice on her, mind.
- Lovely arse, more like it.

Listen, you lay your hands on it, Dai,
I'll chop your tackle off. Right?

- I'm old enough to be her father, man.
- Exactly.

Listen, we're having a curry
at the Taj later now, all right?

And then a little party
back at the Ponderosa after.

Celebration, like little drinky winky
type of thing. Okay?

50 nickers says
my Bonny wins the semi-final. Aye?

Cheers, Bryn.

Taking a bung, Dai?
That's a criminal offence.

Half a lager says
you didn't see a thing, right?

As they say in Llandow,
ciao for now.

You can't be serious, Greyo.
She's a hooker.

I know and I'm a scrum half.

I didn't think you had to pay for it.

We all have to pay for it, Lucy.

I wouldn't dream of charging you.

Thanks.

She loves me.

She loves me not.

She loves me.

She loves me not.

She loves me.

She loves me not.

Come on!
Let's hear it for the Rocking Sikh.

Or as he's known at the chiropodist's,
"The Reeking Sock"!

Magic, magic!

And now our last but one contestant
is a lovely girl from the Mumbles.

And before any of you lot
get the wrong idea,

she's a black belt in karaoke.

She's a lovely girl and she's going
to sing a karaoke corker for you tonight,

"I Will Survive".

A big Baron's welcome for…
Bonny Cartwright!

At first I was afraid,
I was petrified

Kept thinking I could never live
without you by my side

But then I spent so many nights
thinking how you did me wrong

And I grew strong
And I learned how to get along

And so you're back

From outer space

I just walked in to find you here
with that sad look upon your face

I should have changed that stupid lock
I should have made you leave your key

If I'd have known for just one second
you'd be back to bother me

Go on now, go,
walk out the door

Just turn around now

Chip!

You're not welcome anymore…

She loves me, she loves me not.

She fucking loves me, boys!

I wish I was dead.

They lay a finger on you, love,
and they will be dead. Bastards.

Rip their shitty nappies off
and stuff them up their hairy little arses.

Stretch their necks
like a couple of pigeons.

I'll put their balls
through a fucking mincer.

I feel sick.

All right, leave it.

Jesus, you can't say leave it, Bryn.

For Christ's sake,
they peed all over her bloody hair.

- Look at it. Soaking, bloody soaking.
- Forget about them.

- We'll have a nice supper.
- I'll cut their willies off, the bastards.

We'll have a nice bottle of Barolo
and forget all about it.

- I was born
- Where was you born?

- Under a Swansea star!
- I was born…

Nice to see all the family together,
Mr Cartwright.

I hear Baron's went
a bit bonkers tonight.

Ready to order?

We'll have a nice bottle of wine
to start off with, if you don't mind.

- Bryn? Bryn!
- What?

Order.

One chicken jalfrezi balti.
Half chips, half rice.

Two onion bhajis,
three naans and a grandpa.

- I was born
- Where was you born?

Under a Swansea star

Boots were made for kicking

You're a hell of a boyo,
Mr Cartwright.

Listen, I think I've gone
and left bloody the car lights on.

I better go check.
I won't be a sec.

Ranjit, give them the fucking works,
this one's on me, right.

Party back at the Ponderosa after.

You are coming, right?
Bring the missus.

These boots were made for kicking.

Trains are made to wreck

And if I see a rabbit,
I'll break it's fucking neck

Won't be needing another slash
in a fucking hurry, boys.

You pull any more strokes like that

and I'll drown the pair of you
like a couple of fucking kittens.

- It's a fucking shed.
- It's not a shed. It's my holiday home.

Well, you better
get your holiday pay out then.

Hey, Bryn! Mix them a martini.

Do you like Capodimonte, Chip?

Capodimonte, I never tasted it Bryn.

- I haven't…
- … tasted it.

Lovely fucking guy, Alec.
Like fucking Tom Cruise he was.

He'd lob the bottles up in the air
like a fucking juggler. Unbelievable.

We got photos. Hey Lucy!
Where's the photos of Florida?

Show the boys that bloke in the bar.

They're upstairs.
The photos are upstairs.

Well, nip up and get them
like a good girl.

- Hey, you looked great tonight.
- So did you.

Do you think I'd have won?

In my book, you're in a different class.
Different league.

Premier fucking league.
I was proud of you tonight.

Call me tomorrow.

The probation reports tell me
that you've not been turning up

for community service lately.

Is there anything
you'd like to tell me about that, boys?

Mr Lewis?

To be perfectly honest with you,
Mr Walden, I think they're picked on.

- They're a target.
- I see. Target.

Well, because they're special,
I suppose.

- Special.
- Brothers…

You know, there's two of them, you see,
and they tend to be ganged up on.

It's a phenomenon.

I hear you had a spot of bother
at Baron's nightclub.

Have you been charged?

- Have they been charged?
- No.

Give you a bit of a pasting, did they?

They were picked on.

Yes. Well, thank you for coming down
with the boys, Mr Lewis.

I think I'd like to speak to them
on their own now, if that's okay.

Yes, of course.
You've got a job to do.

And you listen to Mr Waldren
and you tell him the truth, boys.

I'll see you back home later.
Hot dogs for tea.

They're their favourites.
Hot dogs.

They're good boys, my boys.

Fiat Uno.

- Nicole?
- Papa?

So, tell me about
the last car you stole.

The Cosworth, was it?

Come on, then.
Tell me about the Cosworth.

Oh yeah, oh yeah.

Tell that one to the clerk of the court

and they'll be rolling
in the fucking aisles, won't they?

Yeah.

He got fucking golf clubs.

- Tailor made?
- Aye.

- How many?
- Fucking loads and balls.

Millions of them.

There'll be sausage rolls
and Welsh cakes served in the gazebo.

You're all very welcome.
Excuse me.

Thank you, Hugh.
Very good of you to do this.

Only too happy to help, Bryn.
Difficult time.

- Well?
- Nothing, Bryn. Not even a lead.

I mean… sorry.
I don't mean lead as in… you know.

I didn't mean it as a fucking pun, Bryn.
Fucking truth. Honest, I'm sorry.

I don't want any of this business
getting about.

Be a fucking laughing stock.

Just do what you got to do
but keep it quiet. All right?

And you can tell those pricks in town

that if they even think about
printing any of this palaver,

I'll ram that evening paper
up their fat arses. Clear?

- Fair enough.
- Fucking right, fair enough.

What do you want to do
about the Peruvian marching powder?

- The what?
- The dust. The bat food. The snow.

Snow?

What fucking snow?

The powder. The snortable. The Charlie.
The Scooby Doo. Expensive.

- The class A fucking narcotics.
- Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Don't… don't talk to me
in fucking code, Terry, right?

- Just say fucking cocaine.
- Okay, the fucking cocaine.

Shut up, man! Shh.

Never mind the fucking gear.
I put it somewhere safe.

Now, just let all this blow over.
Let it settle down.

"Fucking snow"…

Fergie's special treat.
Sausage rolls.

She'd have enjoyed these sausage rolls.

Bryn used to bring them back for her,
you know, from the rugby club.

She'd have loved all this.

That poodle never hurt a fly, Greyo.

- I know. You must be devastated.
- Yeah.

- Jen.
- Thanks.

They're going to find out

who they're fucking messing
around with, aren't they?

- Who?
- Who?!

The bastards that brought
that young dog's life to a premature end.

Who's behind all this, Lucy?

How do I know?
I don't see the half of it.

Why don't you find out?
You're the fucking copper.

Where do you think
that ship is off to, Dai?

- What sort of a ship is it?
- Big one.

Probably a tanker. I don't know.
Spain or France or somewhere.

- Or Honolulu or Thailand.
- Aye. Going to pick up more Rolexes.

- Rolexes don't come from Thailand.
- Big ones do.

I'd love to go to Thailand.

Aye, have a little karaoke bar
on a beach.

Me and you. Somewhere hot.

- I'm hot.
- Hot to trot.

It's the strong arm of the law.
Will it be business or pleasure?

Oh, come on away with me Bonny.

- Away where?
- Anywhere. I'm going full-time karaoke.

This place is holding me back.

- Roofing's just a job.
- What about my father?

- Leave.
- I can't, Dai.

- Not yet. I can't.
- Come on, love.

- This is a waste of fucking time.
- What time will they be back?

They probably won't come home.
Sometimes they stay out all night.

In other people's fucking motors.

- You'll wake my mother and father up.
- Adie, they've gone and nicked

- the probation officer's Fiat fucking Uno.
- How do you know?

Because it said Fiat Uno
all along the fucking back.

How do you know it was the twins?

I've got a hunch.

- Do you mind if I look in their pit?
- Go ahead.

- If you've got the nose for it.
- Oh, huh, I've got the nose for it.

How come a 2 litre bottle of Coke
is 27p?

- Super-duper deal.
- Yeah.

- Fucking brilliant.
- I know.

But if you have a 1 litre bottle,
it costs 37p.

- Fucking hell, that's weird.
- I know.

Really weird.

Even though it's bigger,
it's costing less than the smaller ones.

- I know.
- Why?

I don't know.

It's really fucking weird.

Fuck.

- Anything?
- Fuck all. We may as well fuck off.

Oh, you mean you're not staying
for supper?

I was going to open a bottle
of dandelion and burdock.

I may as well hang about
for a bit, Terry. You never know.

- Oh, come on, let's fuck off.
- No, go ahead. Take the car.

- What you going to do?
- Don't worry about me. I'll get a cab.

Right. Okay, then.
I'll fucking shoot off then.

Drive carefully, Terry.

- We'll do the cruises.
- In a boat?

Yeah, the QE2. Tokyo.

- Japan?
- Yeah.

It's the karaoke capital
of the world.

There's lots of Welsh connections there.

Yeah, Japan. Fuck it.

- Hello?
- Terry.

It's half past fucking 12.

I've got Fergie's collar.

What?

The Lewis twins. In the caravan.

You are fucking kidding. Fuckers.

- What you going to do?
- What am I going to do?

Rip their fucking heads off.

Can you have them seen to?

Of course, I can have them seen to.

- It's not a problem.
- Good.

An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth.
And a dog for a dog, huh?

- Have they got a dog?
- Yeah.

Okay, I want the dog done first.
Do the dog, all right?

- What about the twins?
- I need time to think.

Just do the fucking dog.
Waste the dog.

- Okay. Tomorrow.
- No tonight.

- I want to watch "Serpico".
- Tonight!

- But I want to watch "Serpico".
- Fuck "Serpico". You'll have to tape it.

- Okay.
- I'll see you tomorrow.

Yeah.

This grass is really fucking lovely.

I know.

2-0.

What the fucking hell?

Cantona!
Cantona!

Come on, boy.
Here, here. Come on.

Just you and me now, bruv.

Well, well, well.
Where did you find him, boys?

- Thank you, boys, for bringing him back.
- No problem.

Hello. Could I have a word with
Detective Sergeant Alan Grey, please?

Thank you.

The way of the transgressor
is fucking hard.

- Who said that?
- I fucking did.

Where are we going?

Don't know yet.

There's no fucking butter.

You don't have butter
with fucking hot dogs, man.

- What do you mean?
- They don't do them with butter.

Fucking ketchup.
Wet them up with fucking ketchup.

- Fatty did them with butter.
- Yeah, I know,

but he never did
hot dog van sausages.

He did the little Wall's sausages.

You can do them with butter,
but not these fuckers.

You can't fuck about with these.

Where are these bastards from then?

- Fucking Germany it says.
- German fucking breakfast.

Do you think they have
Welsh sausages in Germany?

Aye, probably.

Where's this dope from?

Morocco.

Morocco? What else do they do
in fucking Morocco?

- Carpets.
- Carpets?

Aye.

And you know what happens if they
catch you smoking dope in Morocco?

What?

They hand you over
to the fucking rug squad.

- Fuck off.
- Oh, yeah. They'll fucking have you.

Right then,
you've got to do a double hotdog

with a quarter of Moroccan
sprinkled on top.

25 fucking magic mushrooms

and you're going to eat it
in three mouthfuls.

Piece of piss.

Morning, boys. Double cheeseburger,
large portion of fries, please.

- And a Diet Coke. Thank you.
- Only fucking hot dogs. No butter.

Well, only fucking hot dog it is then,
bois bach!

- Anything on it?
- Anything you like, boys.

Slap it all on now. I'm starving.

Quiet little spot
you've got here, boys.

Aye. You want to get yourselves
into the thick of it.

Bit more bloody action.

Down there, you should be now.

Right down there.

Down there… by the church.

- Aye… 90p.
- Aye.

Gonna be a big one
down there today, now.

A lot of people coming from the town.

In the church today.
Fire palaver… from the caravans.

And somebody should be
fucking strung up for it.

I know.

Aye.

Down there you want to be, boys.
After the service,

going to be a lot of starving people
coming out of that church.

You could make
a fucking killing there.

Fucking hell,
plenty of follow through on these.

Very, very unusual.

Come on boy. I'll see you tomorrow
with any luck, boys.

If I was them twins, I would have had
my family fucking cremated, not buried.

The twins have fucking disappeared.

They haven't been around
to be consulted on the fucking matter.

All I'm saying is if you were torched
to death in a fucking fire accident,

you may as well be burned again
in the crematorium.

It wasn't an accident.

Fucking manslaughter then.
You know what I mean.

The twins chopped
Bryn's poodle's fucking head off.

- You are joking.
- So, who was behind the fire, Terry?

Twins. The fucking twins.
It's that why they disappeared?

No, Terry. For fuck's sake.

Cartwright was striking back at the twins
for what they did to his fucking poodle.

Probably got some other twat
to do the dirty work.

Like a revenge type thing?

- I thought the dog was dead.
- It must have got out.

What was Fergie's collar
doing on their fucking dog?

- I thought you had the fucking collar.
- I know. I did.

So how the fuck did it end up
on that mongrel's fucking neck?

I slipped the collar on the dog's neck
before torching the fucking kennel.

What the fuck for?

It's a fucking symbolic thing, that's all.

So they knew
you meant fucking business.

Sort of… Italian touch.

Classy.

Classy?!

You're a fucking moron.

What about Greyo?

He's going to have a pop.

- At me? Have a pop at me?
- It's a fucking murder, Bryn. He knows.

Don't worry about Greyo.
He knows fuck all.

I'll deal with Greyo.
We both will.

- Hugh.
- Hello, Bryn.

Now, calm down.

Why don't they put them all
in one grave, Dai?

What?

One on top of another.
Like a triple decker.

Triple fucking decker?

Well, they were all related.
They could cutch up.

Cutch up?
How do you mean, cutch up?

Cutch up.
They could keep each other company.

- Cutch up, the three of them.
- Chip, they are fucking dead.

- Yeah, I know that.
- Well, shut up, then.

- Fuck!
- Jesus Christ!

Come back here!

- Fucking…
- Come back here!

You were only meant
to fuck up the dog.

It was a dog job that went wrong.

- But you fucked up.
- Hey, Greyo. Greyo.

You are the one who has fucked up.

It doesn't have to be murder.

Manslaughter.

It's all it was really.

You've got clean form,
good lawyer, iffy judge.

We'll sort out 4 years

and you'll end up weaving baskets for
a 2 stretch in a fucking Butlins camp.

You got a deal.

You'd better have a line of Charlie,
Greyo.

Give him a line of Charlie, Terry.

- I've got fuck all on me, Bryn.
- Greyo?

- No.
- Ah!

Two bent coppers and not a line
of Charlie between the pair of you.

Jesus Christ.

Allow me.

Match ball…
Wales v Scotland, Murrayfield, 1977.

The Scots have got control of the game.

They've been running us ragged
for about 15 minutes.

But we receive the ball
from Andy Irvine in our own 25.

JB…
passes the ball to Fenwick.

Fenwick pops the ball out
to Gerald Davis, who sidesteps twice,

palms off a man as he pops the ball
over to Phil Bennett on the outside.

Bennett, out again to Bircher.
Bircher back inside to Fenwick.

Fenwick slips the ball
through the eye of the needle

to Bennett on the inside.

Two Jocks close in.
What happened then, Greyo?

Bennett side steps,

leaves them both in the fucking dirt
and plops the ball down.

Right between the fucking posts.
We won 18 to 9.

That's right, Lucy.

One minute, we're in the shit.

The next minute,
we got a fucking result.

Tell him, Terry.

- Terry, tell him.
- Terry, tell me what?

Lucy… you tell him.

Can't fit him up, Greyo.

Now we're fucking talking.
I got the ball now, see Greyo.

Me 18 points, you 9.

I've got the fucking result.

- I'm putting you away, Bryn.
- Oh, I can't see it myself, Greyo.

There's another 4 pounds of that shit
tucked away in a safe place

and they've all got Terry's little
paw marks on and yours.

I've been helping your pal
do a bit of business, see?

I never touch the stuff myself.

It'd make me aggressive
and unreasonable.

Now, work it out, Greyo.

I go down, Terry goes down.

Terry goes down, you go with him.

Hey, Greyo…

… fit someone else up, good boy.

It's make your mind up time, Greyo.

- What?
- Who do you fancy?

What do you mean,
who do I fucking fancy?

Who do you fancy for the fit up?

I don't fancy anybody
for the fucking fit up.

Eat your custard tart.

- Here we go.
- What the fuck you doing now, Terry?

I've written down seven different fuckers
who we could fit up for the fire.

- It's time for the tombola.
- Tombola? A lucky fucking dip?

- An unlucky for some lucky dip.
- Terry, you are a fucking animal.

Uh, remember Greyo,
Bryn Cartwright 18 points, us 9 points.

We're in this together and someone's
got to go down for the fire.

- Just fucking pick one.
- You fucking pick one.

Does PC Plod have a fucking problem?

Yeah. You.
You crazy fucking bastard.

I want fuck all to do with this fitting up
malarkey. Count me out.

Huh, count you out?
You're right fucking in, Greyo.

Right up to your hairy fucking arsehole.

Three people
and a fucking poodle are dead, Terry.

Two pensioners and a fucking hooker.
Big deal.

I fucking liked her, Terry.

I really fucking liked her.

She's fucking dead.

Ah, what a fucking shame.
I'm really fucking sorry,

but we're in a fucking mess
and now we've got a fucking job to do.

Clearing the fucking thing up.

And when we've done the job,
I am getting the fuck out of here, Greyo.

Do you hear me? As soon as this shit
is wrapped up, I am out of this shithole.

Know where you're going?
Nowhere.

Nowhere. You're staying right
where you fucking well are,

talking boring bollocks
to boring fuckheads

about the fucking future
of Welsh fucking rugby.

And a Welsh
fucking crap shite rugby team

that can't even beat Canada
or Romania or Samoa.

I mean Western fucking Samoa.

You mucky fucking tosspot wanker!

Fuck off!

Yeah. Fucking, yeah.

You're an iffy copper, who does
a bit of this and a bit of that

and likes a laugh with the lads but
knows where to draw the thin blue line

of right and fucking wrong.
Don't you, Greyo? Uh?

You're a bent copper.
We are bent coppers.

But I'm a bent copper
who's going fucking places, Greyo,

'cause I got some fucking ambition.
Do you hear me? I have!

And while you do
your little lumps of dope up the club,

I'll be shifting the big fucking lumps
with the big boys

'cause I'm on my fucking way,
Greyo! Do you hear me?

Now… pick a fucking name.

And let's get this fit up business
over and fucking done with.

Pick one.

- You fucking pick one.
- Well, jiggle the bag about a bit then.

And this week's lottery winner is…

- Who is it?
- Ah, fuck.

Come on. Who is it?
Fucking show me.

Oh, yes.

Dai Rees, the karaoke king.

Thank you.

- No!
- Yes!

No!

You were discussing
the fire with Chip Roberts.

No!

Yes.

You were seen with a petrol can
on the night of the fire.

- You're fucked.
- No, no.

- What the fuck is this then, Chip boy?
- I don't fucking know.

It's the top… from the petrol can…
used in the fucking fire.

We found it… in… your van.

Bollocks you did.

The Lewis twins fucked up
your karaoke gear at Baron's nightclub

and they owed you money.
You decided to go after the dog.

You didn't mean to blow up
the fucking caravan, Dai. Fair enough.

It was just a dog job
that went wrong.

Chips made a statement.

I was with somebody
on the night of that fire.

Who?

You were with Chip Roberts.

- Fuck off, Terry.
- Who were you with then? Huh?

- Who were you with?
- Terry!

I was with Bonny Cartwright.
All right?

I was with Bonny fucking Cartwright!

Bonny fucking Cartwright.

Yeah, I did. I took a duvet.

- I sneaked in the next morning.
- How long's it been going on?!

Get off. Get off me.

6 months.
He wasn't involved in the fire!

How many others down the club
have you been dropping off for?

There weren't any others!
It wasn't like that.

Where else did he shag you then?

- Bryn…
- Get off her!

I know where he shagged you.
You brought him back here, didn't you?!

You fucked him on the settee.

Leave her alone, you bastard!

Now you listen to me.
You listen to me very carefully!

When they ask you about Dai Rees,

you are going to tell them
exactly what I tell you.

- Just leave her alone.
- You got it?

- Fuck off.
- Bastard

Fuck you!

When the weather's fine

You got women,
you got women on your mind

Have a drink, have a drive
Go out and see what you can find

If her daddy's rich,
take her out for a meal

If her daddy's poor,
just do what you feel

Speed along the lane,
do a ton or a ton and twenty-five

When the sun goes down

You can make it,
make it good in a lay-by

In the summertime,
when the weather is fine

You can stretch right up
and touch the sky

When the weather's fine

You got women
You got women on your mind

I've got a statement… from Bonny.

Have you, fuck.
Let me see.

Tough titty, Dai.

She denies being with you.

Oh, it's your note, Dai.

You can keep it.

Hello.

What?

I can't help you.

- Who is it?
- It's for me.

No.

Why?

Look, I can't.

For fuck's sake, will you listen to me?
There is no way that I can speak to you.

No.

Of course I fucking do.

- Who is it?
- It's Beverly. It's for me.

Where do you want to meet?

- Dad?
- I know.

I'll check the fuses, right.

- You burned my mam and dad…
- And my sister.

Just because of your fucking poodle.

Hey, look, it wasn't me.
Please, it wasn't me.

Who was it then?

- Who was it, cunthead?
- It was Terry Walsh.

Terry Walsh, man!

It wasn't me.
It was Terry Walsh, boys.

Terry Walsh, all right?
It was… it was his idea.

Yeah, I… didn't want
anything to do with it. See, I…

Honest!

I… I didn't want nothing to do with it!

It was Terry Walsh.

- We'll go have a word with him then.
- Yeah. Yeah…

I'll give you anything.

- Can we borrow your car then, Bryn?
- Yeah! Fucking yours, man!

- The speed box?
- Have it! It's on the back!

- Golf clubs?
- Take them.

Thank you.

What's your handicap, Bryn?

Not bad.

What happened?

- Bryn was behind the fire.
- I know that.

Bonny was with Dai Rees
on the night of the fire.

Bryn made her sign that statement.

Dai Rees and Chip Roberts
had fuck all to do with that fire.

Where's the coke?

Tell me where it is.
I can unload it.

You'll have enough cash
to fuck off for a while.

Fuck off right out of it.

You and Bonny.
And Dai and Chip walk free.

- He'll find me.
- I'll take care of Bryn.

Now, tell me where the stuff is.

- You'll get us out of here, Greyo?
- It's a deal.

- You swear?
- I swear.

It's up in the house.
In the garage.

It's in a lifejacket in the boat.

Okay.

- Where is he now?
- He's going to the club.

- And Bonny?
- The Ponderosa.

Who did he pay to do the fire?

I don't know.

Give it an hour
and we'll pack your bags.

Nice and easy. Plenty of time.

- It's going to be okay.
- Ow!

Yo… Who is it?

Who is it?

Come on, boys. Get in.
Boys, get in.

Get in, boys.

Get in, lads. Come on. Get in.

Oh God.

Up!

Bonny! Bonny!

Bonny! Where are you?! Bonny!

What?

Right then.

He wanted to be buried
at sea, you see.

- Who?
- Fatty.

Fatty Lewis.
He wanted to be buried at sea.

Good old boy, Fatty.

Right then. If he floats
for more than 3 seconds,

you've got to have
a fucking huge toke of the bong

and hold your breath
until it fucking sinks.

What if it sinks
in less than 3 seconds?

If it fucking sinks
in less than 3 seconds,

I'll have a fucking huge
toke of the bong

and fucking hold my breath
for 25 fucking seconds.

All right then.

One, two, three, four,
four and a half, five.

Ah, fucking had you.

Do you think
this boat will get us to Morocco?

I don't know.

Think we've got enough petrol?

Aye, probably.

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