Original subtitles

Do you know what?

But not this one, and don't be acting the fuckin' balloon.

That's not the start.

This is the start.

With my best mate Naoise...

...when he was a wee baby.

And his ma Dolores, out in Ma Nature.

This wasn't his ma's idea at all.

Naoise's da, Arló,

well, he wanted his first born

baptized here at this secret Mass Rock.

It was a tribute to the Irish Catholics who,

just a few generations ago,

gave the middle finger to British rule

by sneaking here to practice their religion

and speak their own language.

Except the peelers thought

they'd uncovered themselves an IRA training camp.

So, on the day wee baby Naoise was supposed to be taken

by the light of Christ,

instead he got the full beams of an RUC chopper.

Fuck off!

I mean, what fucking chance did the wee boy have?

Me and Naoise, we got our first taste for drugs

at Ireland's most infamous criminal finishing school.

Stop! Stop there!

Next Sunday, that congregation doubled.

That's drugs for you. They bring you closer to God.

For Naoise and me, they were our fuckin' calling,

and as Mass Rocks proved

nothin' gets between us taigs and our religion.

You run! Go!

[IN ENGLISH] Didn't matter what community

in the north of Ireland you came from,

we could always find common ground.

And a love for throwing shit at the peelers.

And as for Naoise, he was off learning that public transport

doesn't mix well with ketamine.

As for myself? Tonight I learned what it's like

gettin' bitten by a dog whacked on MDMA.

It feels fuckin' mental.

Okay, so...

Repeat after me.

The man walked to market with his sow.

The man walked to market with his sow.

The girl cut turf in the rain.

The girl cut turf in the rain.

How do you cut turf?

With misery and despair, I'd say.

Not used to seeing you up here.

I'm covering.

Everything okay?

I think you need new Irish textbooks.

They are the new textbooks.

I'm not sure shoveling shite

is going to inspire these kids to learn Irish.

Turn it up.

Northern Ireland's government

has in the last hour collapsed over failure

to agree on an Irish Language Act

which would give the minority language

equal legal status to English.

Many Republicans see the language

as an expression of their political identity.

They say it's a matter of civil rights.

The Irish language is my heart and soul.

If it was the color of my skin, you'd easily identify

me being a different color, and the DUP saying,

"We can't give equal rights to this guy."

The issue would be clearer...

Friends, what a momentous day...

So we'll be ramping up our campaign,

and counting on your support in the coming months.

We're only asking for the same language rights as the Scots

and the Welsh.

A country without a language is only half a nation.

Hello?

Yes, it is.

Now?

That was the police.

Peelers?

What do they want?

An Irish translator.

I can't go. I was drinking.

It's translating, not driving an HGV.

I still have to drive to get there.

Then why did you say...

No.

No.

There's an Irish speaker in need.

Bullshit. If they speak Irish, they speak English.

It's not the Potato Famine.

Don't joke about the Famine.

Too soon?

With everything that happened today,

someone is probably taking a principled stand

for their language rights.

We need to...

We must support them.

[IN ENGLISH] Nothin' but a hood.

H-O-O-D.

Lowlife scum.

Waste of fucking space.

Do I look like I want to read fucking subtitles?

If you could read,

you wouldn't be a fucking peeler now, would you?

Why don't you just speak the Queen's English,

you Fenian cunt?

This was a fair question, though rudely asked.

For me to respond to this sectarian prick in Irish,

I'd say something along the lines of...

Which means,

"May the lowest stone in the sea be on top of your head."

You do get there a lot quicker with...

Again.

-Hear. -Listen.

- Do. - Get.

- See. - Eat.

Give.

Again.

Stop. They'll catch a cold.

I'm making Irish speakers of them.

Irish speakers? Jailgeoirs, more like.

I'm proud to have learned my irregular verbs

on a wall covered in shite.

- Aye, your own shite. - Aye.

You know what that shite smelled like?

Freedom.

Not when I've been in the toilet after you.

Is next class on Grade 1 tunneling?

Yoga, actually, Ma.

Let 'em start their homework.

Aye. Curriculum of the colonizer.

Catch yourself on. - Pity your ma, Naoise.

Born with Irish in her mouth, she was.

Now disowns her own mother tongue.

Only one thing here getting disowned.

Quit your slabbering.

I'll show you some slabbering.

Get away to fuck.

Go home or your mammy'll think we've kidnapped you.

A wee operation for youse.

I want you to sit down tonight

and watch an American Western on the telly.

But here's the thing.

I want you to watch it from the Indians' point of view.

Okay?

And remember...

Every word of Irish spoken...

...is a bullet fired for Irish freedom.

Da.

And then Naoise's da was gone. Like, gone-gone.

Turns out since leaving jail, Arló had a full-blown affair

with blowing up anything British.

He blew this up. And this.

And... Well, all right, that one didn't go off.

Anyway, three years after going on the run,

Arló fell to his death from a fishing boat.

Or, if you believe the peelers, he didn't.

With his dead body never found, Arló couldn't be proved dead.

And with his alive body never found,

Arló couldn't be proved alive.

The dead Arló had his funeral,

and the alive Arló remained on the run.

And to this day, just having met the man

was enough to have some lump spitting in your bake about it.

I mean, Arló was right about one thing.

Cowboys were proper cunts.

Move.

This is Mr. Ó Dochartaigh.

He is an Irish interpreter.

- I'm not. - Do you speak Irish?

- Aye. - That'll do.

Tell her.

I'm not talking to anyone

who works for the fucking peelers.

I don't work for 'em.

Look which side of the table you're on.

- It's where the chair is. - Aye.

And why do you think that's where the chair was?

What's he sayin'?

Just discussing the furniture.

So, what are we doing here?

Resisting arrest.

Public nuisance.

And unless he can somehow prove

he can't speak the language of his home country,

then we can throw in obstructing the police

in the execution of their duty.

Am I supposed to translate that?

I think he understood just fine.

So why you doing this, with the Irish?

I hate the peelers.

Nothing to do with today's news?

What? What news?

Listen, I want out of here just as much as you.

I doubt that, all right.

Well? - Well?

How are you feeling?

Aye.

- Did you take... - I need a new prescription.

Why haven't you?

It's two minutes...

You get it for me tomorrow, okay, hen?

You need to get out.

Just this time.

You have to get out. Outside.

Quit lecturing me under my own roof.

You're never out from under your own roof.

That's the problem.

Will I make you something?

Aye, roast lamb with all the trimmings.

Fuck up.

What's this mean?

Uh, "I got up this morning. Well, at the end of the day.

"Before I leave the bed, a spliff and a cup of tea."

"I have a big night ahead of me because of yesterday.

"I spent all my DLA on MDMA."

Tell her it flows a lot better in Irish.

- Poetry? - Scribbles.

And I need you to stop turning...

I want you to look for any reference to an Arló

Ó Cairealláin.

Time for you to decide what side of the table you're on.

What's he sayin'?

She's asking you to prove a negative.

What?

By asking you to prove you can't speak English,

she's placing the burden of proof onto you, not her.

That's what I just said, right?

Aye.

He doesn't have to prove Irish is his only language

because absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

It's just a basic principle of modern justice.

- He said that? - Yeah.

And he says that furthermore,

and notwithstanding the aforementioned,

he sees no reason to prove that he cannot speak English

because he's asserting his right to speak Irish.

Mm.

Here, have you got anything for...

...resisting arrest?

Sit down.

So...

...are you going tomorrow?

Where?

Aye.

Will I say hello for you?

No, fuck.

Aye.

Night. - Night, love.

Go to bed.

I'm saving myself for the big sleep.

What do you call a Provo

that's become a yoga instructor?

Bobby Sandals.

You bring a stolen car here?

Here?

It's not...

So, you bought this?

You're putting the whole operation at risk.

What operation?

Every day I am not captured

is a psychological victory against the occupiers.

That's the operation.

Speak Irish to me.

What's this?

Drugs?

It's a rollie.

Speak Irish to me.

Think I don't have eyes? I hear things.

You taught me Irish.

I know where you'll end up.

Fuckin' speak it.

You'll end up face down in an alley.

You don't speak Irish.

You might know the words,

but you don't understand the language.

It is the light that guides us towards our freedom.

Those who see it stand up for it.

You don't stand for fuck all.

Ma's getting worse.

She was asking about you.

No, she wasn't.

No. She wasn't.

I need you to do something for me.

What?

Arrange a memorial service.

For who?

For me.

It's ten years next month since, you know.

These peelers won't let me rest in peace.

I need something to remind our community I'm dead.

Make it harder for these RUC bastards

to keep behaving like I'm alive.

I mean, I thought you'd be doing something, but...

Yep, I'd love to organize a memorial

for the week I thought my dad was dead.

What did you expect?

That's a long fucking list.

Happy birthday.

If you got pulled over and they found that...

Use your head, lad.

They called our generation the Ceasefire Babies,

as if our only defining feature

was we were not the shit that came before us.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe we were only gonna be the moment after the moment.

Just as fucked up and miserable as the last.

Only with less chance of getting blown up to escape it all.

But we still found ways to escape it all.

You've heard of inter-generational trauma?

- Right. - Our history.

Our history...

- ...has become... - ...our biology.

It's like a trauma our ancestors suffered...

- ...has inserted itself... - ...has inserted itself...

...into our genetic code.

Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.

- Psychological... - ...reverberations.

Reverberations.

ADHD.

ODD.

- The Troubles. - The Troubles.

I've got fuckin' troubles.

I just pray that this medicine

grants me some relief.

Don't you think I'd be better off

going straight in with the 500 mg?

Is there something else?

I've got a bit of a problem

down south.

- With my mickey. - Okay.

- It's political. - Your problem?

My mickey.

See, I have no problem pullin' birds.

Like, I can do that no bother. Any time.

That's a fair knob of butter.

I just can't get the wee man to stand to attention.

Go on.

Without a King Billy-loving Prod.

And there's this weird wee

Tourette's thing right before I...

Our day will come!

Till the other week, I met this wee ride, Georgia.

Our day will come!

Say it again.

Our day will come!

Again!

Our day will come!

Don't you dare cum.

I wanna blow you like a Brighton hotel.

Have you thought about seeing a priest?

Oi.

[ON RADIO] ...is a community who live their lives

through the medium of Irish, schooling, the youth clubs,

through their art projects, through the GAA clubs.

And for them, there's been a very, very strong...

Yeah!

Top lad. What the fuck?

What are you doing here?

What am I doing in my own car?

Fuck. - Here.

Oh, ballix.

What was all that about?

Fuck all.

Cross-community running club.

Here, your lyrics...

They're great.

I've never read anything like them in Irish.

What I'm saying is would you be into making music?

People barely listen to Irish hip-hop,

let alone Irish hip-hop in Irish.

How do you know, when there's no hip-hop in Irish?

No cunt who listens to hip-hop speaks Irish.

Give them a reason to.

Why?

Right. Because Irish, it's like the last dodo.

Stuck behind glass in some zoo.

"Look but don't touch."

Like, someone needs to smash that glass

and set the dodo free so it can live.

What the fuck is a dodo?

Look, he says he's got a studio.

- Well... - And some beats.

- Sort of. - And he's a music teacher.

Wouldn't want to delay your meeting with Dr. Dre.

I'm offering a free spin of the wheel.

And if half of what's in those lyrics is true,

you need this more than I do.

Are we making music or fitting exhausts?

Well...

It's not Abbey Road.

Abbey what?

- Aye, I like that. - Yeah.

Here, give us a go.

- Fuckin' give us a go. - Stop!

Pissed off Sittin' around

No money in our pockets for going out

We're sick and tired of being skint

But that's all gonna change...

What are you doing?

Relax.

I'm just tweaking the EQ.

Now I just need something to take the edge off.

We've got something for that.

'Cause my friend Mo Chara

He's a bit of a psycho

The type of fella loses the head at a typo

So whatever you do Do whatever he says so...

Móglaí get the noose I'll proper introduce myself

I'm Mo Chara, and I'm not well

Are you ready for abuse?

I'm sure you're thinking Look

That I seem decent and clever, don't I feel bad for this ever?

Guilty conscience? No, thanks

I meditate and have plenty of wanks

And I never spare a second thought

For cunts in suits

And when the revolution comes I'm first out to loot, yeah

New guds, happy days

So much comfort when you don't have to pay

And when I'm happily tripped in designer gear

Then all of you cunts

Are getting one behind the ear Yeah

Somethin' like that?

Guilty conscience? No, thanks

I meditate and have plenty of wanks

And I never spare a second thought

For cunts in suits

And when the revolution comes I'm first out to loot, yeah

New guds, happy days

So much comfort when you don't have to pay

And when I'm happily tripped in designer gear

Then all of you cunts are getting one behind the ear

Yeah

Yeah

OBEs for the landlords

Well... - What's up?

- Lads. What are you doing here? - What?

Listen.

It's not a good time.

You said meet here to fucking go work on the tracks.

Did I?

I think that's what you said.

Uh-uh.

Like I said, it's not a good time.

- Tomorrow? - I don't know.

- Fucking weekend, then? - I can't.

I've paving slabs to lay.

Paving slabs?

What happened to smashing up the Irish language dodo?

No, smashing the glass to set the dodo free...

Whatever. I'll be in touch.

I'll be in touch.

What the fuck?

Who was that? - Who was who?

The two smicks you were fist bumping.

Them?

Just ex-pupils.

- You coming to the meeting? - Meeting?

Are you fucking kidding me? The meeting.

The Language Act Protest Committee.

I know.

I'd love to. I'd love to...

...but...

What? You've a puddle of piss to mop up?

Aye, there's that.

They want me to lead it.

Of course they do. You're brilliant.

I just don't know if it's me.

Listen. No one is anyone until they are.

Are you still fucking high?

Aye, a little bit.

Don't touch me, you filthy taig.

You've interned my dick.

Now for the hard interrogation.

- That's right. Confess. Confess. - Never!

Spill your secrets inside me, you Fenian cunt.

Northern Ireland.

- North of Ireland. - Northern Ireland!

- North of Ireland. - Northern Ireland!

The north of Ireland!

Celtic are fucking shite!

You leave Celtic out of this.

Wait till I get on to the Pope.

Right. Suppose I might go here.

Before your fuckin' Black and Tan da

walks through this door.

I live with my aunt.

Well? Go on then.

I'm goin'.

This can never work.

Suits me.

Maybe.

Or maybe you're scared.

Scared of you?

Of not me.

Of being with someone who might just ditch you for you.

Not just what foot you dig with.

Ballix.

Okay then. Tell me somethin' about you.

Something you've never told anyone else.

I'm a rapper.

- Stop spoofin'. - I'm a rapper. Irish hip-hop.

- What the fuck is that? - Hip-hop. In Irish.

Why Irish?

- Why not? - When's your next gig?

- Soon. - Let's listen to somethin' then.

Maybe next time.

What makes you think there'll be a next time?

Here. What's your rap group called?

What's Belfast famous for?

Uh... Bombings, George Best, baps.

Kneecappings.

By that logic, we might as well

call ourselves the Titanics.

Well, Kneecap's our name,

because I've already booked a gig.

Gig?

We haven't even got a finished track.

I know, but that's not my fault.

Blame him.

Why are two fellas digging up our garden?

What are you doing?

Morning.

Where are the fucking paving slabs?

Yeah, we'll do the garden, you finish the track. Deal?

-No, no. I'll do it. -Sit down.

I'll do it. Let me do it.

It's not fucking Dancehall.

- What? - Come in on the chorus.

No, fuck that. I'm the lead.

R-I-G-H-T-S

I don't give a fuck about any Garda

Straight in, right?

So just, like, it's one, two, three...

Ready?

When I said I booked us a gig, I meant

my Uncle Peadar said we could play in his bar

if I sorted some old folk smoke for his gout.

JJ only agreed to DJ if he could set up his decks

in the store cupboard, in case he was spotted by pupils.

His paranoia was not helped

by his new love affair with the sniff.

Fuck me

Young man, we caught you damaging public property.

And you are coming to the station

so we can talk properly.

You know, in West Belfast,

the only thing worse than getting arrested and charged

is gettin' arrested and not charged.

This yours?

Game over.

Well, well, well, well, well, well, well.

Look who it is here. Look.

Bone Thugs-N-No-Harmony.

Hear you got scooped.

- What did they charge you with? - Fuck all.

They just gave me a hidin'.

Or maybe you're just a dirty ten-pound tout.

Sorry. And who would I be toutin' on, exactly?

Us.

Who the fuck are "us"?

"Us" is us. We are "us."

The Radical Republicans Against Drugs.

That's right.

How the fuck do you pronounce that?

R-Rad. R-Rad, isn't it?

Aye, that's right. R-Rad.

- We're rad. - We're rad.

Youse all got a fuckin' stutter?

Fuck up, you tout.

What have you ever done to tout about?

We've done plenty, actually.

We're an active fucking unit,

not like the Republican Volunteers Against Drugs.

Or New Republicans Against Drugs.

- New Republicans Against Drugs. - Or them.

All they ever did was fuckin' slabber.

Don't think I don't know what youse two are up to.

Runnin' around the woods, sellin' gear

like a couple of druggie fuckin' Wombles, huh?

Your da would be turnin' in his grave.

Peelers say he ain't dead. It was in the papers.

- Word is he ain't dead. - Never mind the word.

Brits don't get to decide when Irish patriots are dead.

We'll decide when we're dead.

God rest his soul.

Tell me who's supplyin' you.

The truth was the biggest drug supplier in West Belfast

was called the Postman.

That wasn't some cool underworld nickname.

That was his job.

52 fuckin' years.

Some people say the World Wide Web

is the greatest invention of the 21st century.

Those people have never been on the Dark Web.

We bought MDMA from Holland,

ketamine from India, and mephedrone from Vietnam.

They arrived disguised as bath salts, flower seeds,

DVDs, kids' toys...

Here, spaceman. I'm talkin' to you.

When are you gonna get my ball?

When are you gonna give me a go on your fuckin' hurl?

Go ahead then.

I'll skip through the bit where we get our ballix knocked in.

Lads.

Where have you been? - At work.

Here.

Our music is... - We know.

Fuck's sake.

Have you seen the crowd?

I can't go out on that stage. Someone will see me.

I'm pretty sure that's the fucking point.

For fuck's sake. Fuck. - Here, here, here.

Take that.

I look like a fucking Provey.

Aye.

DJ fucking Próvai.

DJ Próvai.

- I can't... - Come on.

DJ Próvai?

DJ fucking Próvai?

You said that was coke, right? - That's not coke.

Ketamine... That's fucking ket.

Fuck. Did you know?

Wrong pocket.

Great fucking drug dealer you are.

- Fuck. - We'll be fucking sweet.

It's not like we never had a line of ket before, is it?

It'll be 20 minutes before it kicks in properly.

And, by then, we'll be halfway done.

No need to panic.

What are youse flippin' staring at?

- No need to panic. - No need to panic.

No need to panic.

Few loose Capri-Sun and a Mars bar

No top moshpit Swaty balls, encore

Fuck all else

Caught in the loop Like I'm reading a book

But it's the same page over and over and over and over

Fuck it Let's watch a movie

Groundhog Nothin' to do

It's been too long

I need an encore And sweaty balls too

So, Mowgli, what are we gonna do tonight?

Same thing we do every night

Try to take drugs

How many times I gotta tell you? He's either dead or dead to me.

- Same difference. - Can I come in?

Got a warrant?

You look like shit.

Always did think you'd make a good Avon lady.

You've no shoes on the rack.

Why have you no shoes on the rack?

What's that got to do with anything?

Not much.

Only I've been in this game long enough to know

you can still be a victim of men like Arló

without a crime to match it to.

Consider this as the knock at the door before the knock.

Maybe it's their door you should be knockin' on.

So you want the police's help now?

Just an observation.

Well, whilst we're making observations,

him and his wee pal's music...

It's drawn attention from all the wrong places,

and I count myself among those places.

Bloody kids, eh?

And when it all falls down, and it will,

I'm gonna be knockin' at your door

with one choice, to dig him out of the rubble.

I won't enjoy it, but don't doubt for a second I'll do it.

How do you take your tea? A cup or straight in the face?

Arló's was a strange sort of memorial service.

A third of the people thought he was dead...

He was taken too soon.

...a third thought he was alive...

It's as if he's never gone.

...and the other third were undercover peelers.

You don't know me, but I'm an old, old friend of Arló.

Can I buy you a drink?

We, the Radical Republicans Against Drugs,

have gathered here today to honor the memory

of Arló Ó Cairealláin.

When I was a wee boy,

the actions of Arló Ó Cairealláin

against the imperialist state

were a lesson to me to follow my dreams,

especially because my dreams were about killing the Brits.

He was like a da to me, so he was.

In recent months, we have seen a rise

in antisocial behavior and drugs.

Now we will not tolerate these parasites

sucking the life out of this community

with their hedonistic and toxic lifestyles.

Let us be clear now, okay?

Anybody found to be involved in the illegal trade of drugs

or encouraging their use through their actions

are to be considered legitimate targets.

And it's what Arló Ó Cairealláin would've wanted.

Where's the... You were meant to give me that in the car on the way up.

Hear. -

-Listen. -

-Get. -

Eat.

What?

Nothing.

What?

Nothing. Just that thing you do with your mouth.

What thing?

It's a twitch.

A twitch?

I don't do that.

Not anymore.

But you used to.

Back when you used to be

happy.

Fuck. The cops.

Is everything okay, Officer?

Would you mind stepping

out of the vehicle for a breathalyzer, sir?

- He isn't driving. - Isn't he?

It's okay.

Really?

- She doesn't know, does she? - Know what?

What about your school?

Do the students call you Mr. DJ Próvai, or...

Harder.

Now, at the station, was that when it started?

I feel like I discovered the Beatles,

if the Beatles were shit.

What is it? Some sort of early onset midlife crisis?

Some men buy a Porsche, you join a Republican rap group?

Why are you doin' this?

Pass.

You have a life. A career. A future.

Remember I can take it all away from you like that.

Message from on high.

What those hoods have to say, this city doesn't need to hear.

Do you understand?

Come on.

Thanks for your time. Drive carefully.

There's a lot of lowlife scum around.

I'm a H-O-O-D

Lowlife scum That's what they say about me

A dog with a job What the fuck is that?

When our poor Micky's just sittin' in the flat

Sippin' on his cans and smokin' rollies

'Cause all the best jobs are taken by the dolies

Squidgy black, yeah, craic and mo spliff achan lá

Beat the... and the sesh Get that note off my car

It's gonna be a bloodbath

Throw a hook, a jab and a boot

I sneak a quick toot Then I fire another boot

For callin' me a fruit For trying to take the loot

But Billy won't be bothering any more hoods

Do you want it in your chest?

Or your knees or your head? DJ Provaí has the lead

You can beg, you can plead You can tell us what we need

You can change your name But they're all the fuckin' same

Turns out a leafletting campaign

about how your band gives out free drugs

really drives ticket sales. No more pay to play with hash.

People were payin' us, cash.

Equals a cocktail breath For unleashin' the beast

He's beatin' some fella

Fucked in to the back of the Jeep

He falls asleep He does it every week

Get the Brits out, lad!

A one-way ticket please I've lost my bus pass

I'm a H-O-O-D

Lowlife scum That's what they say about me

'Cause I'm a H-O-O-D

Lowlife scum That's what they say about me

I'm a H-O-O-D

Lowlife scum That's what they say about me

'Cause I'm a H-O-O-D

Lowlife scum That's what they say about me

- What the fuck was that? - What the fuck was that?

Brits out?

I've said far worse things to you.

- That's different. - Sorry.

Hold on. You're giving me more stick for telling youse to leave

than what I just got for coming here in the first place.

You don't get to tell me to leave.

- I was fuckin' born here. - I don't mean you, Georgia.

Brits out, as in British state, MI5.

Why didn't you say that?

Because it's the chorus of a fucking song,

not the 1916 Proclamation.

The what?

Don't give me that look because I don't know some taig shite.

Who the fuck you calling a taig?

You. Or do you want me to get up on stage and say it?

You seemed just fucking fine in that wee crowd.

Aye. Well, what do you care?

Oh, I don't fuckin' care.

I never want to see you again.

I never want to see you again.

- What's happenin', Georgia? - Fuck up.

We have bigger issues to tackle in our society

than fawning over a language

spoken by less people in Northern Ireland than Polish.

But you say that as if it's something to be proud of.

That the native language of this island

has been driven to near extinction.

Type the name "Kneecap" into the Internet.

So-called Irish language rappers promoting drug use,

anti-social behavior, and violence.

One even wears a balaclava

and calls himself DJ Próvai.

This is the true face of the Irish language.

You kept my chair.

I wouldn't read too much into that.

Thanks for going to my memorial.

Well, if you can't be bothered to go...

I'm only saying it doesn't look very convincing

if my own wife doesn't show.

Widow.

Widow.

Still denying your native tongue?

I deny the ears that are hearing it.

Aye, that lovely Detective Ellis dropped it round.

Why?

Why do you think?

- I'll take care of it. - You'll do nothin' of the sort.

Doin' nothin' has allowed our son to be dealing drugs.

That's unacceptable.

- This operation will not fail. - Operation?

There is no operation.

Jesus. You're like one of those Japanese soldiers

still stumblin' round some jungle 50 years

after the war has ended.

I sacrificed my life for the cause.

You sacrificed?

You left us in a prison cell so you wouldn't have to go to one.

That lad is becoming something despite you.

And if you've come here to get in his way,

I'll show you a woman go to war.

Aye.

So long as you don't have to leave this house to do it.

Aye, so, turns out me and Georgia

did want to see each other again.

Auntie!

How can that be your fuckin' auntie?

- I know. She's a peeler. - I know she's a fuckin' peeler.

She's gonna shoot me dead in your fuckin' hallway.

No, she won't. Unless I tell her you broke in, and...

That's not even fuckin' funny.

All right.

Take it off.

He's using you.

- Maybe I'm using him. - He's trying to get at me.

Don't flatter yourself. He didn't even know.

And you believe that?

- Who is he to you? - Nobody.

Then what's the problem?

The same one that's always been here.

You mix green and orange, you get brown.

Nobody likes brown.

Some people like brown. I like brown.

You take some more soup?

Nah. I found it a bit tasteless.

A Belfast band has been criticized

for chanting anti-British slogans

at a city center bar,

where Prince William had spoken 24 hours previously.

[ON TV] The band involved are called Kneecap.

The incident is making headlines,

and they've been condemned by the DUP.

Isn't that the Kneecappers?

Over there.

Don't think so.

It's them.

It's them.

It's definitely them.

Come on. Come on.

Lads.

How are you?

Can we talk to you?

About your music?

This is a big joke to you, isn't it?

Well, I'm not laughing.

Lads, you have to stop.

All right, it's not helping.

Helping what?

You know well.

The legislation, the Irish Language Act.

It's a politically sensitive time.

We have to consider

who are the best ambassadors for the language.

The only reason why the Irish language still fucking exists

is because people refused to not speak it.

No one's telling you not to speak it.

Once upon a time, a man told us

that the Irish language was like the last dodo,

stuck behind glass in some museum.

And to help it to survive,

we had to break the glass and set the dodo free.

That sounds like a terrible analogy.

[IN ENGLISH] There are 80,000 native Irish speakers in Ireland.

Only 6,000 of them live in the north of Ireland.

Three of us have become rappers.

I don't know if we've become popular by talent,

or if it was just our turn.

It's a weird thing being seen when you come

from a place that never wanted you to exist.

I guess sometimes change happens on the down-low.

Too little to notice until one day,

you can't not notice.

And by then, everything's changed.

Including you.

Sometimes change hits like a filthy bassline.

A boulder being pushed over a cliff.

You can't control it, but it's gonna hit on the way down.

But you can be sure as fuck it's gonna wreck somethin'.

Hello.

Hi, guys.

Um, my name's Lorna. I'm a radio plugger.

That gig was deadly.

I'm meeting with one of my contacts at RTÉ tomorrow,

and I'd love to take him a copy of your music.

Maybe get you Track of the Week. So what do you think?

Could you get me somethin' by then?

You mixed up that coke and ket again, didn't you?

So I'm just gonna leave this here,

and I'm gonna go.

Fuck.

Radio?

Imagine the money.

How much do they pay?

Must be at least 10k a play.

Well...

The woeful pay-per-play rates of streaming platforms

mean that artists need millions of plays to make any profit,

so without radio money,

musicians' only revenue stream would be perpetual tours,

forcing multiple artists out of the industry every year

due to the associated mental and physical strain.

We'd better get to the studio.

And off to the studio we went.

Or at least, what was left of it.

Those R.R.A.D. bastards...

Our music is backed up on the cloud, though, right?

We have to do something.

Do we fuck.

- Not you. - Not me?

It was my fucking garage.

I'm with Naoise.

Aye, go start a war with a paramilitary group.

The British Empire couldn't win that one,

but I'm sure you'll do fucking fine.

Fuck's sake.

If you two have a death wish, go ahead,

but don't drag me down with you.

Drag you down?

We've been dragging you along.

This is just a little hobby for you.

It's all we've got.

And they've destroyed everything!

Have they? Because the only one who can do that is you,

if you do something fucking stupid.

Now we need a mastered track for tomorrow

from scratch with no fucking equipment.

That's not going to fucking happen.

[IN ENGLISH] Fucking yes.

Look at this, boys.

The Roland 808.

What '80s shite is that?

1980 to 1983, to be precise.

Complete commercial flop,

but it got into the hands of enough people who mattered

to change the face of hip-hop music forever.

This is what we're meant to record the tracks on.

It's fucking fate.

Snare here and snare there.

Yeah.

To kick.

Two kicks, I think.

Boom-boom. Boom-boom-boom.

We'll bring one in here, too.

That works. That works.

Right then, go ahead. He'll do the chorus.

I got a point to be proving to myself

Sittin' too long Getting moldy on the shelf

'Cause I'm too far gone...

No, no, no.

Rather be sick in the head with a little bit of wealth

They're doing it to you constantly

An individual is surely what you want to be

You're born to stand out Live your fantasy

Before they eat you up and spit you out and laugh at ye

There'll be push backs But relax, socair

I've got a point to be proving to myself

Sittin' too long Getting moldy on the shelf

I'm too far gone when it comes to mental health

I'd rather be sick in the head with a bit of wealth

I prayed to the devil Let me be rich

Instead, he said

You'll no longer be skint But you'll be sick in the head

Yes - You're a mad cunt, Mo Chara

Sound I'll be back for a fat loan

That's me never getting dressed Depressed and always para

Throwing tantrums in my mansion Am I embarrassed?

Nah

When we're smoking

Then we're smoking till it's all done, all gone,

Oh I imagine till it's all gone

But we're making up our own laws

Never getting worried about our own flaws

Kneecap, 3CAG, we're our own gods

Fuck off.

I'm done, boys.

Happy days.

I'm out.

- What? - I can't do this anymore.

It feels like I'm fucking skiing

and both skis are going further apart.

I'm gonna tear my bollocks open.

I never wanted to ski.

I just wanted to be a musician, you know?

What do we do with this?

You'll work it out.

Shit.

Fuck. Let's go. Let's go. Fuck.

Special delivery.

You sell drugs.

You sell them for the Radical Republicans Against Drugs.

Bit off brand, is it not?

No, it's not, actually, and here's why, right? Listen.

The Radical Republicans Against Drugs

are radical Republicans before they're against drugs.

It's right there in the name.

We're certainly not

Radical Republicans Against Makin' Money.

Because being radical, as your da was,

have cost a pretty penny.

Price of Semtex has gone through the roof.

I'll tell you, honestly.

Some fuckers are making a killing.

Maybe you shouldn't go about blowing up garages then.

What are you talking about?

We haven't blown up any garages, have we?

- No. - No. Fuck you talkin' about?

Look at me. Right? No more music.

You hear me? Hey!

Youse are drug dealers. That's all you'll be.

No more music. All right?

Breaking in to school property

outside school hours.

Contested or admitted?

Admitted.

Snorting a white substance on stage.

Admitted.

Indecently exposing your buttocks

to reveal the words "Brits" and "out"?

Archibald.

Admitted. Admitted! Admitted!

Admitted.

Membership of the music group

Kneecap?

- I... - I know.

You know?

My suspicions were aroused

when the lads started digging up our garden,

but it was your lovely arse

all over the news that sealed it.

I do have a lovely arse.

Why didn't you say something?

That twitch with your mouth...

You do it when you're happy.

I wanted to keep seeing it.

I quit.

Work?

No, fuck.

I was sacked from that.

Don't say I'm breaking up with you

for being in a band you're not even fucking in.

You're breaking up with me?

You've found what you were looking for.

That's great.

But I also need to do my thing.

You know?

They're different directions.

They don't work together.

What part of unemployed musician doesn't work for you?

No one is anyone until they are.

You are.

[IN ENGLISH] And with talks to get Stormont back up and running

still at a deadlock,

today's An Lá Dearg Irish language rights march

will further amp up the pressure on politicians

to find a resolution to the long-running disputes.

And now, it's time for Track of the Week,

and I'm so excited to play you this song

for the very first time on the airwaves.

-[IN IRISH] Irish Language Act. -Now!

What the fuck's this shit?

-[IN IRISH] Now! - Irish Language Act.

- Now! - Irish Language Act.

That was the radio plugger.

Concerns were raised around some of the sex and drug references.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

There's some things in life you just don't cross.

Motorways, picket lines, and West Belfast mas.

Stick the kettle on. I need your help.

[IN ENGLISH] News of RTÉ2's decision was soon flying down the falls

quicker than a joyrider in a Mitsubishi Evo.

And with each telling, the snub got more and more heinous.

And they were promised to be Track of the Week.

But when they heard they were from West Belfast,

they wouldn't play it on the air.

Fuck the fuck off.

This Dublin music executive tore the record contract up

and called them all "bin bombers."

Hunger strikes, dirty protests.

When it comes to a good old campaign,

us Fenians do it better than anyone.

Is that RTÉ?

This is an official complaint.

Discrimination. - Censorship.

Don't make me come down there.

West Belfast protested our persecution

by purchasing our tickets.

Thanks to Naoise's ma, we sold out quicker than Michael Collins,

but we'll not go there.

There aren't many things that unite the Irish media,

peelers and dissident Republicans,

but trying to stop our music had gone and done it.

Sure, fuck it.

At least we had DJ Próvai

back behind the decks where he belongs.

No better publicity than getting banned. Eh, lads?

It's gonna be bunged out there tonight, so it is.

Anyway, you're late. So chop, chop.

And good luck.

You speak Irish?

No.

But I'm learning.

Because of youse.

Move.

MDMA

Chlamydia

Fucking animals.

Listen, you cunts.

The Irish language and hip-hop go hand in hand.

I don't give a fuck what anyone says.

It gave a voice to the Black people of America.

And now, it's giving a voice to fucking Irish speakers!

But, Móglaí, they say we're politicizing the language.

It was them who politicized it

when they fucking banned it.

But it's obvious they failed

when you see all the Fenian cunts here tonight!

We're getting whacked out of it.

Speaking in our own tongue!

Giving shit to the peelers, the politicians, the dissies,

or any other cunt!

[IN ENGLISH] Kneecap! Kneecap! Kneecap! Kneecap!

Kneecap! Kneecap! Kneecap! Kneecap!

You sell drugs, you sell them

for the Radical Republicans Against Drugs.

Radical Republicans Against Drugs

are radical Republicans...

- Here. Is that me? - What?

- Is that me? - That is fuckin' you.

...Radical Republicans against money,

because being radical has cost a pretty penny.

And one other thing, right? No more music.

You're drug dealers, and that's all you'll be.

Right there!

You go, lads.

I've got this.

[IN ENGLISH] It was in this moment JJ showed

he had truly come to embrace his inner lowlife scumbag,

by doing something impulsive, violent,

and utterly fucking pointless.

Hey!

Wait. Wait.

Who's there?

ARLÓ: If my son's blood is to be spilt,

then it should be his own blood pulling the trigger.

Leave Georgia alone.

That's not gonna happen.

Speak English.

Speak Irish.

You think a garage is the only thing I can burn down?

Our day

will come.

And it was at this moment

I realized something about Georgia.

I fuckin' love her.

Oh, fuck.

Leave him, ma'am. He's had enough.

Give it to him.

Da?

Who the fuck brings one gun to a kneecapping?

What if it jams?

What if the person with the gun

decides to fucking shoot you instead?

Like that.

ARLÓ: Amateur hour.

Take your hoods off.

That one there's an MI5 tout.

He's in the pay of the Special Branch.

You just can't be a serious dissie with judgment like this.

Now, the last of youse to the end of that alley

gets one behind the ear.

I said you'd end up down an alley, didn't I?

What did I also tell you?

Every word of Irish spoken...

...is a bullet fired for Irish freedom.

What you're doing,

you're that bullet, son.

You better go.

Every word spoken is a bullet.

I reckon everyone's fired enough bullets by now,

without the need to be shooting any metaphorical ones.

Maybe not firing the bullet should be the bullet.

Ah, fuck it. I don't know.

I mean, we didn't set out to be bullets or guns.

But when did bullets ever set out to be bullets?

They just are.

Waitin', hopin' to be unleashed into the world.

To find their velocity.

We'd found our velocity.

Stories are built from language.

Nations are built from stories.

This is our story.

The Irish for "the end" is "an deireadh."

Ah, fuck it. Encore.