Look at me.
I know you.
You had your own patch of the playground by the chemistry labs,
selling off bent dinner tickets.
Expelled, weren't you?
Something about an air rifle and three female third-years?
Hello?
Silly fuck.
Getting caught, I mean.
If you're going to be a naughty boy, you've got to be careful,
or you'll end up here.
Then I'll have to deal with you.
You know me. Yes, you do.
Honest John.
Milk monitor, prefect...
Would've made Head Boy if I'd stayed on.
Old man put his foot down.
Got to go out in the world, earn a crust.
I don't give a toss that you did some dodgy perfume
and I'll turn a blind eye to the blow.
But you have to admit the sheltered accommodation was well out of order.
Don't even start to think of denying it.
I know you did the job. You know you did the job.
Even my grandma's goldfish knows it.
It's a bit warm, isn't it?
Another tropical September afternoon in London's East End.
Tell me you did it and I'll send out for some lollies.
Much better you cough.
Give me a video, a stereo, two bracelets and a telly.
Fillin the necessaries and in Half an hour you can be in the boozer
bragging of how you gave the Bill the run-around.
Do us both a favour, eh?
I need a clear-up and you need a break.
You'll get six months suspended. You'll be laughing.
You know me. My name is John.
I can be very nice, and I can be very nasty.
Either way I'm having a statement out of you.
Your choice.
(JOHN): Yes!
Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes!
Looking for DC Brandon...
Schofield's asked to see you.
Chief Super reckons you're ripe for a job.
I was beginning to think he had it in for me.
Wait 'til you hear what the job is.
(TV): Shadwell Town. 6.9.88, 4:07 pm.
Targets 7 and 8 are named. 20.9.88.
(SCHOFIELD): All the scenes have been recorded at The Kennel over the past six months.
- Kennel? - Shadwell fans call their ground that.
- Their nickname's "The Dogs". - Their bite is worse than their bark.
...6.07 pm.
(SCHOFIELD): We want you in there with them. By the book.
Day-to- day wack. Dates, times, places, faces.
- I thought we had a squad at Shadwell. - Word went out on them.
- Our targets will be suss of new faces. - Your targets will be different.
Someone is organising this lot. We want generals, not foot soldiers.
David Daley, motor mechanic. Done 18 months of 4 years for GBH.
Paul Funnell. Done six for manslaughter.
Strangled a bloke with a Union Jack. Said he did it as a joke.
Wynton Mbula. Got his finger everywhere - nothing sticks.
Daley, Funnell, Mbula. My money says it's them pushing the flags on the map.
Why can't we do them on what you've got there?
They'd be out before the season end.
We want their sentences in years, not months.
We want them on conspiracy. We want their goolies
pickled on a plate for the Home Secretary. Got it?
We've got a meeting with the previous team.
- Detective Sergeant in six months. - Don't got too excited.
One minute you're flying and the next you're grounded.
I'm no plod. If I don't make Inspector in five years, I'll try some other game.
Last week I was in court on an arson,
the week before I was looking for a lost arm in a car crash. This week it's football.
Stone me! What did you walk into?
Gold and black one.
They sussed me.
How come? You look the part.
We don't look like a bunch of tarts like you, anyhow.
Some bloke I was at Hendon with was on duty at The Kennel,
and he gave me "How many stripes have you got?" before I shut him up.
- Arsehole. - What did your target say?
Nothing. They were as good as gold All afternoon.
'Til we got down to The Rock.
Yeah, 'til after the game and we got down to The Rock.
- Then they had us out the back. - Where's The Rock?
- You'll find it, don't worry. - Stay clear of The Rock.
Bob, the landlord. He can sniff Bill as soon as it walks through the door.
He'll chew your bones for breakfast, son.
(CHARLIE): How did you make contact with your targets?
(DANNY): Go to all the matches. Hang around the boozers.
Go on a pub crawl around Shadwell. You'll soon come across them.
You take the pubs on the right, we take those on the left.
At the end of the evening we'll meet back at the nick and compare notes.
(DANNY): You'llsee enough to stuffthem,
and what you don't see, you can guess. Do you know what I mean?
- What are you having? - Half a stout.
- I don't like drinking, John. - Neither do I, but make an effort.
(CHARLIE): What's the matter with you two? Can't take a drink?
(LAUGHING)
I'm alright, I'm alright.
(CHANTING)
Jackpot!
Have you sobered up?
And me. Let's go to work.
Two pints of lager, please.
- Over in the corner. Nutters. - Can it, Trevor.
John. John!
- What the fuck are you staring at? - Nothing, mate.
- Calm down. Have a drink. - Tell your mate to fuck off.
- I don't like being stared at. - Fucking right!
Don't give us hassle. We're Shadwell like you, alright?
You reckon? Who are we playing tomorrow?
- Pentland, away. - I'm not asking you!
- When's our next home game? - (JOHN): Wednesday, mate. Grimsby.
- Let him answer. - Who did we sell to Wimbledon?
- Carera. - You!
- Carera. - Well done, Brain of Britain(!)
- Bloody good riddance. - Trev...
He's the best player we over had!
Fuck off, mate. If he'd gone any slower, he'd have grown roots.
- (JOHN): Trev... - Hang on, he's got a point.
You've got to admit. He did have some flair, though.
Oh, yeah. I wouldn't deny that, no.
For a white bloke he was pretty skilful.
- For a whitey, yeah. You're right. - You prat!
I know they're fucking Neanderthals, But we've got to face them.
I thought we might bump into you lot.
So you're really Shadwell?
Of course. Ignore him, he's new to the game.
One Josh Carera! There's only one Josh Carera!
- Do you fancy a game? - Yeah, I'm on.
Five cards, two changes, no trumps.
Tell your mate he can play.
- I hope he's got some cash on him. - Yeah. Cut him in, deal him out.
When do I over lose?
(TRAIN DRIVER): We'll shortly be arriving at Pentland...
(ALL): Yeah!
You lucky fucker! We're playing All the way back, you know.
Sorry, boys. Must've hit a lucky streak.
(GENERAL SHOUTING)
At least there's no Pentland. I reckon they've bottled.
You don't know your arse, son.
You'll have had enough of Pentland before the day's out.
(INDISTINGUISHABLE ABUSE)
(ALL): # Shadwell never, never, never shall lose face
There it is, the ground.
I don't give a fuck, John, to be quite honest.
Had some of your lot in lockup.
- My lot? - Wapping fans, trashed a nightclub.
They aren't my lot. My lot are Shadwell.
- They're all the same, though. - That's what they say about us.
- You are enjoying your meal, I hope. - Yes. Thank you, Giuseppe.
- The scallops are marvellous. - I have a special dessert for you.
- Could we have another of these? - I don't want any more.
- I do, though. Another half-bottle. - Certainly.
What did you do all day?
(JOHN): Look at me!
Tell me what you see.
(EDDIE): It's you, ain't it? John. A bloke.
- No. - An ordinary everyday bloke.
- Now what do you see? - Me.
- It's Eddie. - It's Eddie, John.
- A geezer. - You're looking, but not seeing.
Not a bloke, not a geezer, not one of the lads.
Know what I see? Bill.
- It's what we are. - No, Trevor, it's not.
He's got a point, Sarge. We are supposed to be Shadwell.
Then it's bobble hats and rattles All round then, isn't it?
Who's this?
It's a dead ringer for Mr Magoo.
(JOHN): Who scored the own goal that ended our chances of promotion?
- (TREVOR): Dempsey. - (EDDIE): A right corker.
He flights it back to the goalkeeper, to Clark in goal, but he's in the sun.
Clark sees fuck all. The ball bounces once over his head and into the goal.
Nolan sticks Dempsey straight on the transfer list.
Bournemouth had him. No, Portsmouth. 50,000.
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Next season we draw Portsmouth in the Zenith Cup. No, Simod.
- And who scores against us? - Bobby fucking Dempsey!
Brilliant ruck with Pompey. They jumped in the river rather than face us.
I've got one. What's the biggest post-war attendance at The Kennel?
- Man U, League Cup quarterfinal. 27,000. - No.
- It's a trick question, then. - Rod Stewart, Now Year's Eve, 1980.
- More than 30,000 paying customers. - Smart-arse!
- Anyone know where we're going? - This is John's patch.
- Never said you were Shadwell. - Was milked here.
My gran lived here.
If you visited her on Saturdays, you could hear the Shadwell roar.
- Closest I've come. - Here's one.
Which team knocked Arsenal out of the FA Cup 1974-75?
- Having a laugh, ain't you? - Bolger in goal.
- Tell him Trevor. - Dobson, Boniface, Fisk, Hirst,
Austin, Stonebridge, Whitfield, Kurtz.
Hyde and Royston up front, Matheson sub, unused.
- Is he right? - How should I know?
Welcome to The Kennel, lads.
Come on, you Shadwell, got those northern nonces.
(CROWD): You're gonna got your fucking heads kicked in!
You're gonna got your fucking heads kicked in!
Not a lot to show. Bit of blow on the terraces, a few coins chucked.
- Are you finished John? - What about the guy with the hip-flask?
Do us a favour!
Come on, John. It's a team effort.
- John? - Do you know what we've got to do?
- We've got to got in at The Rock. - Leave it out!
- The Rock's a minefield for Bill. - Exactly.
It's a safe house for the top boys. They won't be in the sweetshop.
- You saw what happened to the others. - They ain't us.
- What about the landlord? - We ease ourselves in.
Me and Trev can use our cover. We're painter-decorators, right?
(JOHN): We'll go there lunch-times at first, say we're working in the area.
Get our faces known.
What can I do you for?
(JOHN): Get on first-name terms with the bar staff..
Give them some chat. Have them Pour our drinks before we've ordered.
Soon it's John and Trev, the painter-decorators.
"Pint of the usual, love, and a steak and kidney.
"-A few more chips than yesterday. - Cheeky so-and-so.
"Another round, lads?"
Once they know us, we'll pop in early on a Friday night.
Just for a quick one.
The usual, lads?
Are you two Dogs, then?
(BOOING)
Edwards, you geriatric retard. Where's your fucking walking stick?
- You want to paint it white, you nonce! - Help him out, for fuck's sake!
- Help him out the fucking front gate! - Make sure you lock it after!
Pick a decent side, Nolan. You couldn't pick your own fucking nose.
- Not even if it was in front of your face. - Better than up the Chairman's arse!
- That's not where he keeps his money. - Not where everyone could got at it!
The ball, Edwards! Kicking up the pitch is the groundsman's work!
Best pass he's made. Only trouble was it was a lump of turf.
We've had enough sods on the pitch without his help.
You're playing on drugs, and I don't mean speed!
- Tripped over his laces. - Won us a free kick, though.
Only thing we'll win this season.
- Oh, no! Who lines up to take it? - Gerry fucking Edwards.
He couldn't score in a fucking brothel!
YEAH!
(CROWD): One Gerry Edwards1 There's only one Gerry Edwards!
One Gerry Edwards! There's only one Gerry Edwards!
Shadwell, Shadwell!
Wankers! Fuck off!
- Have I seen you before somewhere? - The Rock's our local.
- Must be it, then? - How long've you been going here?
- A couple of years. And you? - Born and bred, since schooldays.
- Wouldn't put up with them otherwise. - You fucking Arsenal scum!
You go up for a pint and end up with a load of Gooners.
Nick, mate. Duck...
(UNDISTINGUISHABLE SHOUTING)
- Gumbo, is it your round or what? - It's my shout.
No, let Ponce-Bonce get them.
- It's alright, I got paid today. - (NIK): Yeah? Makes a fucking change.
(MARTIN): Mind the table, Gumbo.
90 nicker a week he makes. Packing jars of gherkins into boxes.
He's fucking useless.
Last year his old girl pops her clogs. He falls apart.
Can't boil an egg, fries himself changing a light bulb.
He's a silly runt. Every time he gets into a ruck he loses another tooth.
We're running a book as to when he loses his last one.
I'm down for September, so I'm looking after him 'til then.
Gumbo!
- We fucking love you, Gumbo. - About fucking time.
- That's it, you're nicked! - You heard nothing, alright?
- What's the matter with you? - Sorry, John.
(ALL):# Shadwell never, never, never shall lose face
# Though you hate us we couldn't give a toss
Shadwell always, always, always are the boss
(MARIE): Are you alright, love?
I would be alright if there was something fucking edible left out for me to eat.
Don't you over, ever, speak to me like that again.
I'm sorry. I'm being a prat.
- What do you look like? - I had to have a drink.
- It's how you got in with them. - I hope it was worth it.
It went like a dream. Flying I am, Marie.
I'm on Drugs or Vice after this, I tell you.
How does "DS Brandon" sound?
A lot better than "where's my effing tea!"
It's so bloody lovely to come home to you.
Fucking day it was...
- The usual, boys? - Lynda.
What's been happening in my own boozer? I'm a stranger.
Sorry, Bob. You don't know John and Trev, do you?
- No, I don't. - They do up houses.
- Bob's been on holiday. - Bollocks, I've been inside.
What houses? Here they knock them down, not do them up.
Down the docks. Being tarted up a treat.
Uncle Bob's a big softie when you got to know him.
Uncle Bob? Stone me, Lynda, there's not much family resemblance.
I'm heiress to a pub, mate. You watch yourself.
He's got a wobbler on.
First day out, he invests in some chairs and tables for outside
and someone's had them off.
What's he like when it's something serious?
(MARIE): There's nothing wrong with large families, if that's what you want.
I'd like another two. We need a bigger place, don't we, Eddie?
- It's not the time to look for houses. - When is?
Either the house is too small Or the mortgage is too big.
- I'm happy where I am. - Yeah.
- Charlie's still paying for his ex's place. - (STEF): She's got her head screwed on.
- And her feet under the table. - Don't sulk.
Trevor said he'd live in a tent as long as I was with him.
(ALL): Aaah!
I'm not thinking of kids until I got to Inspector.
- Eh? - Charlie wishes he'd waited.
- Excuse me a moment. - Are you checking it's still there?
Won't be long.
- Sorry. - Contagious, is it?
Sorry.
- (CHARLIE): Midchester tomorrow. - (JOHN): We'll stuff them.
(CHARLIE): 5-0 at least. Their goalie's crap.
(JOHN): Come on, you Shadwell!
(ALL LAUGH)
(EDDIE): Come on, you Dogs!
(TREVOR): Murder them we will.
(ALL): # We are Shadwell The Kennel is our place
# Shadwell never, never, never shall lose face
Fucking grow up, for fuck's sake!
Mind your backs, boys.
Bob says word is the Brummies Want to take out a pub.
I hope they pick us. Here you are, Gumbo.
Trev's just been telling us about your kid, John.
Oh, has he?
- Never said you were a dad, John. - It's not something you shout about.
- What's his name, then? - Didn't Trev tell you?
James Wilson Hibbin Chatfield Edwards Hutcheson Clark
Edmonds Ball Cox Cummins.
Fucking brilliant, naming your sprog after
the side that got promoted to the Second Division.
You want to bring him down to The Kennel.
Yeah, bring him down here, John. Your missus wouldn't mind.
(CAR HORN)
Brummie bastards!
- It ain't The Rock they're after. - I'm finding out where they do go.
Hang on, John.
(POLICE SIRENS)
Bob says tonight you don't Put your hand in your pocket.
- Cheers, Lynda. - When are you going to ask me out?
Don't say nothing. Wait 'til you're sober.
Set up weeks ago this meet. Good ruck before the game.
Only trouble, the Brummies couldn't got off the coach.
Some prat leads a charge. John, do you know who that might he?
I love you!
# Though you hate us we couldn't give a toss
Oi!
You think you're the cream on top of a bottle of piss,
but any more row and you're on report.
- Sorry, Sergeant. - My lot in lockup are better behaved.
Sorry, Sergeant. We've had a very stressful night.
Yeah. It won't happen again, Sarge.
You've got to draw the line somewhere.
This is no good, coming back to the nick after a day's work.
- We need a proper office. - And proper backup. We're winging it.
- Fucking right. - (JOHN): Down to you, Trev.
You're the sergeant.
- What's the word on the meet today? - You've not seen Bob?
Half-one, Lumber's Arms, city centre.
I'd have thought Bob would've put you in the picture.
Oi, Gumbo! Get your tools out. Get your tools out.
# Get your tools out! Get your tools out!
# Get your tools out for the lads!
Gumbo, you're fucking nicked, my son!
Oi, look!
Football Intelligence?
DS Jones Shadwell District.
We've been done over. Half of Midlands' Bill to greet us.
I've been grassed by some fucker. He's dead when I sniff him.
It's a bloody shame. I was looking forward to a good ruck.
Are you sure?
Another large one.
- Alright, Bob? - Fucking no, we're talking.
Sorry, mate.
I'm sick of setting up meets only for Old Bill to show.
And me! Bob, I swear on my mother's life I wouldn't grass anyone.
Shut the fuck up!
- We know it ain't you, Gumbo. - Some fucker, though, innit?
I thought we'd had off all the Bill here.
- (NIK): They're like maggots. - I'm sick of this.
Three mates were set up last time.
We'll crucify them in court, though. Their evidence is bollocks, innit?
Geoff Marshall is getting married one Saturday.
They've got him involved in a knifing in Bristol.
He's got a video of the wedding!
Dave Armstrong was set up for a burglary.
He was in police custody at the time!
All the same, there's Bill or grass or snouts here.
Our job is to smoke them out and snuff them.
- Fucking rip their faces off! - Yeah, Bob!
(ALL): # We are Shadwell The Kennel is our place
#Shadwell never, never, never shall lose face
# Though you hate us we couldn't give a toss
#Shadwell always, always, always are the boss
Alright, boys?
Alright? Alright?
Alright?
- Who scored the most goals last year? - It wasn't you, was it?
Shadwell Army!
- He's got to sort it out. - We're going down now, aren't we?
(NIK): We need a new striker.
Reckon you're Shadwell? Name every goalkeeper since World War I.
I can.
Alright, I'll give you something easier.
(TREVOR): What Shadwell player has the highest number of international caps?
Sorry. Shit-for-brains has had too Much juice. Won't bother you again.
- What the fuck are you on? - Alright, Trev?
- Getting a bit boozed up. - Can't handle his juice.
Ow!
I'll fucking kill him!
Yellow card, John!
I was in there. She fancies me, Lynda. She's always looking over.
Get in the fucking motor before you do more damage!
- I'm doing my job! - Well, don't!
You forget who's in charge. It's me you take orders from.
Bollocks! You're incapable.
Try looking at yourself in a mirror! You're a fucking hooligan, John!
You don't scare me, John.
You're off the squad, if for no other reason than your dangerous driving!
I'll have you in uniform by Monday!
Morning, Trevor. What's the matter with you two?
(JOHN): I'm fine. It's him.
He grasses on me, throws his weight around in the pub,
blows our cred with Bob and tries to act the caveman with Lynda!
- What's this about John leaving? - He's not leaving, I'm sacking him!
- So help me, you... - You can't do it, Trev.
I can do what I like! I'm the Sergeant!
You can't hack it. Fuck off onto Traffic Control!
Well, that's that, then. It's out of my hands.
I think I'll take a holiday.
- Are you alright? - How's Trev?
His glasses are broken. He'll live.
Better come out and face it, mate.
I'm sorry, Jonesy.
I'm sorry as well, John.
- I was out of order. - So was I.
- I don't want you off the squad. - I realise you have to carry the can.
Trev, you can't pull rank when you're undercover.
- You're painter-decorators. - Trevor and John, mates
Mates, like they say.
Right. That's that, then.
Back to civilisation. I need some kip.
- (TREVOR): Tell you what, though, John. - Trev?
If you hadn't run off, I would've kicked your head in.
Right, who the fucking hell are you?
- I'm John, and this is Trevor. - John and Trevor, bollocks!
You're fucking Old Bill, mate.
Say that again.
Gumbo let drop that when we clumped them Gooners,
your mate gave it the old Starsky and Hutch.
- I said it was a joke. - Shut up, Gumbo.
Gumbo's right, you nonce. He was putting the wind up them.
And who's seen making phone calls on the way to Westley?
Your mate Trevor.
And when we got there, we got a reception from fucking plod.
He was phoning his mum.
- My mum. - This house...
This house in Catford you're supposed to be decorating.
Me and Nick popped round to take you out for a pint.
- Where the hell were you? - Doing up the house before.
- That's what I said. - No, this ain't fucking right.
You turn up out of nowhere. No one's heard of you.
You got all friendly with everyone
and suddenly there's Bill in the way every time we arrange a ruck.
What are you saying?
I'm fucking saying, you two-bob wanker,
that you and you are fucking Old Bill!
I don't take that from any runt. You and me, outside. Now!
I can smell Old Bill. Smell it here, I don't.
He doesn't come over like old Bill, Mark.
- He would have shat himself by now. - You utter fucking wanker.
John, mate. I'm sorry. I'm just a bit uptight with the trial coming up.
- What trial? - You know, my mates the Bill set up.
Bob sorted me out, though.
Can I buy you a pint?
- Ain't my fucking round. - Come on, Gumbo!
Give it a press, Gum.
- He fucking guessed it! - No, I know it.
- John! It's your go, mate. - John, mate. Have a go.
- Go on, mate. - Go on, John.
Go on, have a guess.
- Oi, that's brand new! - What's wrong? It's only a game.
- You've told them, you fucking runt! - No, I ain't.
- Everyone's laughing! - I'm not laughing.
- (TREVOR): John, I ain't said nothing. - Ain't my fault.
Loads of people can't read or write.
- I don't expect you to take the piss. - I ain't, John. Honest.
- (TREVOR): What do you mean? - He wasn't taking the piss.
Can't read or write? How do you manage?
He does it for me. He reads for me, I slap people for him. No more though!
That's you and me finished!
Sorry, mate. We'll back you up when he's chilled out a bit.
Stone me. The poor fucker can't read or write
and here's you accusing him of being Old Bill!
For fuck's sake!
The man done well! I'm impressed.
(SCHOFIELD): Used to be a paint factory before the firm went bankrupt.
We're going to use it as a filing centre when you are through.
- This is what I call an office. - Look what they've left behind.
John and Trev, painter-decorators, are in business at last.
You'll find your requests for stationery, ID and the rest on your desks
- Pagers? - Very funny.
Driving licences, medical cards, UB40s, the lot.
Look, John. Your criminal record.
Truancy, theft, juvenile court,
detention centre, do a runner, two housebreakings,
assault and affray, then assault on a copper,
suspended sentence, heavy fine.
Don't mess with him.
Fucking right.
Yeah!
Oh, fuck it!
What?
I said "what?"
(MUSIC FROM RADIO)
Fat pig.
If you've got something to fucking say...
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" That's all I ever hear from you!
The more you say it, the less able you are to do it. Now, why is that?
Don't look at me like that. You scare me.
What are you going to do? Beat me up?
What?
Alright, then. Alright.
I can't look at you.
I don't know what's happening to us.
It's not right.
What's got you so upset? What's wrong with being happy?
(DISCO MUSIC)
We can go up, I tell you.
Nolan wants to buy a couple of decent players.
He can't afford the bus fares, let alone the players.
No, no, no! You go bargaining in the lower divisions,
got a couple of likely lads off the YTS.
- I mean, look at Carera. - Best player we over had.
Think about it, though. The Dogs in the First Division.
Playing at Anfield, Old Trafford, Highbury...
- In your dreams. - Fuck off, Charlie Bowers.
- I'm not some creeping wallflower. - No, you're more like poison ivy.
Get away from this bar, or it's the Fred Flintstone's for you tonight.
Isn't she lovely? And she's mine. All mine.
The Fred Flintstone's, Ed?
Wilma!
- Having another, John? - What'll it be, boys?
You should know, you've been serving us all night.
Whisky, mate. Doubles. Have one yourself.
- There's no need for it, John. - Of course not, Trev.
Ta.
Here's to it.
Marie's looking nice tonight.
Did I tell you Moira's left me?
We should never have sold Carera.
What do you reckon? A couple more here for appearance's sake,
then I'll drop off Marie and we'll go down The Rock.
It's Christmas Eve! Shouldn't you and Marie...
Are you up for it?
#Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way
# Oh, what fun it is to stay when Shadwell's on their way
#Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way
# Oh, what fun it is to stay when Shadwell's on their way
Who did the decorations, then? You?
You're not like the rest.
You can walk me home, if you want.
Lynda. You're lovely, you're really lovely, but...
See what's in your Christmas stocking.
I can't. How can I?
Off you go, then. Don't waste any more of my time.
This ain't me. I ain't like this.
Are you coming back or what?
Sorry.
Merry Christmas, John.
(MARIE IS CRYING)
(TREVOR): Good Christmas, John?
(JOHN): Will you fuck off!
(CHARLIE): You don't think Bob's Mr Fix-it, do you?
(EDDIE): Mr Know-it, yeah. Everyone talks to Bob,
but he couldn't organise his shit into the pan without someone's help.
My money's on Wynton. He's always jabbering into his mobile.
What do you think, John?
I think with all this bunny we're going to miss the cup draw.
About Wynton.
He's deep into something, but there's nothing that pins the rucks on him.
- He's always on the scene. - So are we.
What? What did I say?
Pompey vs. Arsenal. Should be tasty.
We've got to got more specific.
We're up to our tits in circumstantial, But there's nothing to put our targets away.
"Targets", bollocks! These people are our mates.
Of course they are our mates.
I'm having the time of my life.
I don't believe I'm hearing this!
For fuck's sake, we're cops!
(RADIO): ...Shadwell Town.
- Yes! - Yes, yes, yes!
Come on, you Dogs!
You Wapping wankers!
- Come on, Wapping. Where are you? - Fucking shitting themselves.
(TREVOR): Stop, stop!
You bloody hooligan!
- (EDDIE): In the chemist! - (JOHN): You're fucking joking!
(MARTIN): Shut up!
Shut up, you!
John, John! Billy!
Nik! Pass!
Can I help you, gentlemen?
Perhaps your friends have gone away now?
Here you are, mate. Sorry to be of any trouble.
- Sorry, mate. - Sorry, mate.
- The lid's over there, mate.
Cheers, mate.
Bottled it!
(ALL): Shadwell Army! Shadwell Army!
What were you going to do had they come in? Offer them a perm?
Trev, look. Trevor.
Look, Trevor.
- (MARTIN): What happened, Trev? - I took on a busload of Wappers.
- You never! - That's right, you fucking never.
Alright? State of you looks like the fun has already started.
Boys and me are off to the home end to kick some heads in. You on for it?
- Just you lot? - You're out of your bin.
Last time we went down there, one got his throat cut.
- If you ain't got the bottle, fine by me. - I'll come with you.
- Anyone else? - Trev. You've been fighting all morning.
Thank fuck some Dogs still have teeth.
Us against this lot? We must be fucking mad.
You'll be alright, mate. Stand by me.
This'll show some fucking Wappers.
# We are Shadwell The Kennel is our place
# Shadwell never, never, never shall lose face.
# Though you hate us we couldn't give a toss.
Let's go, son!
Shadwell Army, Shadwell Army, Shadwell Army!
(ALL): Yeah!
(WHISTLE)
Where were you this afternoon?
I'm sorry, John, mate. I lost my bottle.
It just went.
Couldn't control myself.
I wouldn't have been any use, anyway.
- Sorry. - Alright.
- Were you up our end? - Bloody mess.
I could've had 20 officers for aggravated assault.
- You putting it in your report? - Yes, I fucking am.
We've done ours. The full gory details.
- You want to go to casualty. - Nah, I'd rather have the scars.
(CHARLIE): I've got some good stuff from the surveillance camera at Wapping.
(EDDIE): We reckon we've pinned one of their top boys.
- Who is it? - We don't know him.
We thought you might be able to put a name to the face.
(EDDIE): Who is that runt, John?
No one I know.
"January 28. Wapping."
Everything we've described, we've seen with our own eyes, sir.
You'd better have.
We've had two undercover London operations fall apart in court,
and we've had to withdraw prosecutions in Pentland due to unsafe evidence.
DC Brandon, any problems with your work?
Only those the Old Bill give us.
- I don't quite... - (TREVOR): John's work has been brilliant.
He dealt with the suspicions of the targets by telling them he's illiterate.
How did you got through training school?
I don't quite follow.
If you can't read or write, how did you become a policeman?
Sir, he can read and write. It's part of his cover.
- I made it up. - I see.
- I thought we had an illiterate policeman. - (JOHN): There's a thought...
We were all wondering... With all the court cases collapsing
and other forces pulling their covert squads out,
are we to continue with our work, sir?
- (ALL): Yes! - Autumn, lovely.
Could be up with the cream then.
Pan this one out, and we can stay on another season.
(CHARLIE): Brighton away next bank holiday. Well make a weekend of it.
Can't fucking go, can I? Marie's made other plans.
Tell Mart and them. Tell them the kid's sick.
They wouldn't mind if you asked for a transfer.
You've given them blood and sweat.
You could go back into uniform, they'd make you a sergeant.
Yes!
I have not travelled all this way to hear about Shadwell Town.
Of course you ain't.
You wouldn't cross the road for me.
What's all this football got to do with you?
John.
- My John. - Your John?
I ain't your fucking John.
You don't know me at all.
Mend the fuses, fix the car, Mow the lawn, it's fucking boring.
Do you think that's me? It's all bollocks.
Fucking house, fucking babies. Shit.
- Is that what you really think? - I'm my John. Me.
- I'm different. - You don't look different to me, John.
I see it every Saturday night.
Millions of you. Men on the march, beating each other up.
Show us your tits or a fist in your face. Is that you?
If there was a war on, they'd put you in the Army.
There isn't a war, though, John.
What's the matter with you?
When was the last time you looked at my bum?
What?
You don't like me any more do you?
My body... It's what you want.
You don't know my body. You don't know my mind.
You don't know me.
Every fucking night I sleep with you, and you know nothing.
Look at me. Six weeks since I've had that done,
and you ain't fucking noticed.
- Where are you going? - For a fucking drink.
If you don't stop right now, we're through.
I mean it!
When's the last time you looked at my bum, John?
(LYNDA): We're open again in six hours. Go home!
- Where did you crawl out from? - Lynda.
- Have you seen yourself? - I'm lonely, Lynda.
(CROWD): Shadwell Army, Shadwell Army!
Shadwell Army, Shadwell Army!
Come on!
I don't don't give a fuck what anyone says. This is living.
I could be artexing a ceiling, Martin could be fixing motors,
- and Gumbo could be packing pickles! - Gherkins.
What are we doing instead? We go to the football!
Lovely jubbly! John, North-East's that way.
No, you don't know, man. It's the next one.
- (NIK): No, John, it's this way. - No, it's that one back there.
- You fucking turkey! - Can't you read or something?
(CAR HORN)
Gumbo, if you've farted again I'll deck you, I swear.
- Never! - You stink, you arse!
What are you fucking grinning at?
There's no turning back now, lads.
(CROWD JEERING)
Fuck me, what is this?
(CROWD JEERING)
Fucking wanking foreigners. Fucking nobs.
Come round this side, we'll see how brave you are!
Aargh!
Bastards!
Right, that's it!
What are you doing to stop this? My mate's nearly had his eye taken out.
Just shut it. Get back in the cage with the other animals.
They're throwing fucking darts, you twat!
I couldn't give a monkey's fart. Now fuck off!
What's your divisional number and to what station are you attached?
If you don't fuck off in five seconds, I'm nicking you.
- You... - Come on, leave it!
- I'll fucking kill him! - It's not worth it, he's one of us.
- Belt him and your job's down the pan. - I don't care. They can shove their job.
- Are you alright, mate? - Yeah, it was only my head.
- Not worth it, is it, football? - It's worth it to me.
Shadwell's my life. Without them I'm nothing, mate.
- Fuck off, you thick runt. - I'm sorry, John.
(FAN): Come on, you wankers! I'll have the lot ofyou!
(SHOUTING BETWEEN SUPPORTERS)
There's fucking loads of them, Martin.
Come on, Shadwell! Stand and fight!
I ain't going fucking nowhere John.
Well?
Shadwell!
(POLICE SIRENS)
John, John!
I'm cut. Somebody stabbed me. I'm bleeding!
Come on, we've got to disappear!
Where am I cut? I can't see anything.
- I can't see a thing. - I'm alright, I'm not hurt.
- Not a scratch on you. - Fucking Geordies, I piss on them.
- (JOHN): Fucking yes! - (MARTIN): Yes!
- (MARTIN): Shadwell! - (JOHN): Wankers!
- Fucking hell, John! No! - It's alright, Lynda.
It's someone else's blood.
Look at you. Covered in bruises, like a bad spud.
When Mart pulled me out and I saw the blood, I thought I was a goner.
I thought: "Fuck me, what a wanky waste!"
We ain't got time. I want a life, I want kids. Make something.
- Turns out I wasn't even scratched. - Well, some poor sod was.
Yeah. Goes with the territory, doesn't it?
You said you've got a kid, John. John...
Alright, what?
What?!
Don't shout at us.
I walk in, and it's like I've got some fucking disease.
What, am I a Gooner, some leper?
What the fuck is it? What's wrong with me?
We have been wondering...
Trevor?
You've gone too far.
What?
Saturday. You know what I'm saying, you overstepped the mark.
You know where the fucking mark is, do you?
Yeah, I do.
Show me. Here, fucking show me.
- Leave it, John. - You, shut it!
Give me my marker. Let me know where I stop.
Is this the place?
Or here?
Surely, this is it. The edge isn't it? Surely.
Tell me when I've touched the bone.
There were video cameras at Tyneburn Market.
- Who's seen them? - Trev drove up on Sunday night.
Flashed a false warrant, greased a few palms.
Who's seen them?
Some little runt. Didn't know what he was looking at.
- And us. - Give.
- Trashed it. - No.
You wouldn't without me seeing it first.
You can live without it.
I can't remember anything. I swear.
I'm still a fucking human being.
Thanks, Trev.
That's alright, John. You've helped me out of a few scrapes.
Can't you look at me?
Alright, John, how are you doing?
- John. - Hey, Mart.
Alright, Trev?
Listen, mate. Word's gone round. We're top fucking boys, mate.
Oi, Wynton wants a word with you.
Just a few sweeties. Don't mean shit.
Anything you ever want, I'm the man you ask.
This football lark, the wallop has dropped out of it.
It's never been my scene, really.
England likes a bit of anarchy, give it a good kick up the arse.
And no one's having any fun any more.
It's all over, all over.
The bootboys'll go back to lurking in the shit and slime with the BNP.
Everyone else will get fat and bald, bring their kiddies to the match.
You, though. There's a career for you.
I've got a career.
I don't mean pay the mortgage and die.
Some place where you can use your talents.
You've got something to offer.
I've been watching you a while.
You really want to be a had boy, don't you?
People I know have been hearing your name, asking about you.
What do you say we go and meet my friends?
I don't see why not.
(TREVOR): No!
So some other crew's fucked up. Why have we got to carry the can?
Yes, I bloody am!
What's that got to do with us?
What do you expect?
The Wapping squad's been blown out of court.
The Yard want to look at our evidence.
They can't!
I just spent a night in a room with five of the country's most wanted!
Same as the last Shadwell squad. They made the whole thing up.
The football's nothing. Don't you see?
Same as Southsea, Mid City...
I'm getting Armalites in one ear and crack in the other.
Fucking wankers.
We've been blind. Rucks are just a sideshow. There's no conspiracy.
They're handing everything over to the Police Complaints Authority.
- That's fucking private! - If it's in here, they own it.
- Can't help you, John. - This ain't the Rock crowd, it's villains!
The criminals the taxpayers are paying us to catch!
Speaking of the taxpayers, you've got to hand in your expenses today.
Then everything's null and void.
Be fucking careful!
What's wrong with this? We'll soon be back in business.
- Everything we've written is kosher! - (TREVOR): Yeah.
And half of what we've written is against the Bill.
It'll go down a treat in the current climate.
Have you got your expenses?
The Police Complaints Authority have sifted your evidence with a toothcomb,
and don't have a single serious query about your work.
You are all to be commended.
Whether the work achieves its original goals is another question.
A question which some have raised rather loudly.
The operation is being terminated forthwith.
No arrests or charges will be made.
I've got tickets for the Oldham game. If we win, we'll get promoted.
You are never to set foot in Shadwell Town Football Club again.
You are not to frequent the pubs you've been using,
and you will not make contact with your targets for any purpose.
You will receive two weeks' paid leave.
When you report back for duty, you Will each do a stint of community beat
in your respective divisions.
But, sir. Mine and John's division is Shadwell.
If any of our targets see us in uniform, we're fucking dead. Sir.
I know. This is a terrible shock for you,
but I expect you to behave like policemen.
If we did that, we'd be booting in Your fucking head by now.
Bollocks! Fucking arsehole! What are you looking at?
- How are you doing, Charlie? - Have you got a month?
Your evidence went down a treat with our fellas.
What's the Licensing Department doing with our evidence?
We've been after The Rock for years.
Late hours, illegal gaming, dangerous weapons, drugs,..
Lovely work, lads.
No more Rock!
(JOHN): No more Bob.
No more Nik and Martin.
No more Gumbo.
Fucking love you, Gumbo.
No more Shadwell.
That's it, mate. Gone.
(CHARLIE): It might be gone, but at least we had it.
The Dogs,
- (EDDIE): The Dogs, - (TREVOR): The Dogs,
Come on, John. Help us see the office off.
That tape of me at Tyneburn. What happened?
John, this is history. You've got to let it go.
I was a top boy, Charlie.
I am fucking sick of this.
John, you're not a top boy.
You're fucking Bill, that's all. You're nothing.
Don't look at me like that. I know that look.
It's how you look when you're about to deck some runt.
- Come on, then. - Don't be silly, Trev.
No. Fucking come on. I've had enough of this sulky runt.
Do you want to slap me? So, fucking hit me.
There. Go on.
Just there.
Learn something, did you?
(CHARLIE): Come on, you tosser!
(JOHN): I don't know none of you.
Darling, it's so good to see you.
You fucker! Bastard! You fucking bastard!
You fucker! You bastard!
What have I done?
You know what you've done! You closed down The Rock!
- I don't got it! - You fucking arsehole plod.
I should turn you over to Bob.
I didn't know you smoked.
- How long have you known? - You fig tosser!
I clocked you the first time you walked through the door.
Does Bob know?
He can't see further than the end of his nose.
It's me that gives him the nod when you lot are around.
I nearly did when Trevor was mauling me.
Bob would have killed him.
What now? With us?
You're joking. Look at the state of you. You're not much of a catch.
I got off on the danger. Can't you see that?
Crystal.
Now do me a favour and fuck off out of my life.
Don't slam the door after.
- You've got to be joking! - Is she in?
- Go before you got hurt. - I just want to talk to her!
- I'm counting to three. - (MARIE): Dad?
It's alright, darling. Leave it to us.
(JOHN): Marie! Marie!
You've been warned. I'm getting the dogs.
- I just want to talk to you! - John, you're making it worse.
You transferred without telling me. What am I supposed to do?
Please don't do this to me, John.
(JOHN): Fuck off, then!
See if I give a fuck. Your fucking house... Fuck it!
You know what you are, don't you? The worst fucking fuck I ever had.
Find some posh fuck who can't got it up!
Marry him and have dopey fucking kids!
Here's a promise. When I have kids, I'll teach them to hate you.
All of you!
My kids will fucking come round here and eat yours!
I do love you, though.
Honest.
(RADIO): Shadwell Town are promoted to the First Division for the first time.
The players are engulfed in emotional scenes that six weeks ago
hardly seemed possible.
Everyone at the club is stunned by that fatal stabbing at Tyneburn,
but that's all forgotten now on a historic day for the East London club.
The goal that made it all possible came 15 minutes into a tense second half.
Inevitably, it was Gerry Edwards who did the damage,
bundling home after good work on the left by Walton.
Not a great game...
The boy's a bit backward. He's pleading not guilty against my advice.
Perhaps a little token interrogation Will change his mind.
I don't know anything about this case.
- I've been sent here as a cover. - I know. CID thinks it's below them.
Oh, terrific(!) I'm cleaning the toilets out next.
I'm supposed to be a sergeant.
Five minutes, I'll see what I can do. What's he done, anyhow?
He's stolen a jar of pickles from the factory where he works.
Oh, fuck me! No!
Trev, what are you doing here?
Hello, Gumbo. How are you doing?
Trev, I don't get it. What's going on?
- I'm a policeman, Gumbo. - No, you fucking hate Old Bill.
- Gumbo, I am Old Bill. - Fuck me, no!
You wait 'til John hears about this. He'll go fucking spare.
(THUGS): White, white, white is right kick 'em out and fight, fight, fight
White, white, white is right kick 'em out and fight, fight, fight
John, you arsehole!
What the fuck are you doing, John?!
You twat! You never learn. I'm on the job.
Now fuck off before you got me killed!
Sieg heil, sieg heil, sieg heil...
Sieg heil, sieg heil, sieg heil,
sieg heil, sieg heil, sieg heil,
sieg heil, sieg heil, sieg heil...