Green Street Hooligans (2005) - full transcript
Unjustly expelled from Harvard when a stash of cocaine is found in his possession, Matt moves to London to live with his sister and her husband Steve. He is quickly introduced to Steve's chirpy, cock-sure younger brother Pete. Initially, Pete is reluctant to get acquainted with Matt and allow him to tread around the capital city with him because he may be seen by others as an 'outsider', but after a heavy drinking session with him and his mates he quickly changes his opinion of him. On the way back from a football match, Matt is viciously accosted by a gang of Birmingham City thugs, until Pete and his friends step in and save him. It is from here that Matt learns the truth about Pete and his friends- they are football hooligans, operating the GSE (Green Street Elite) 'firm.' Initially afraid of the violence, Matt soon ends up becoming as desensitized to it as his new found friends - but as events roll on, suspicion, shocking revelations and unsettled scores combine to a devastating climax where London's most fierce football rivals - Millwall and West Ham United - are set to go head to head.
Go on, bruv. Go on, bruv.
Fuck me. If I knew we was going to a bar
mitzvah, I'd have brought me fucking skullcap.
Mate, Tottenham's due north.
Are you lost or just fucking stupid?
Still a stand-up comedian, eh, Dunham?
All right, mate.
When the Major was doing your job,
he wasn't nearly so chatty.
Probably 'cause
he wasn't quite so nervous either.
The Major always preferred a scrap
to your yammer.
- What's all that? What is that?
- Yammer?
You reckon? Mate, I think you should get
on the next train and fuck off out of here.
- Before something bad happens.
We'd be interested to see exactly what that is.
You're not exactly top-flight mob
these days, are you?
- More like a two-bob mob.
See, now, that's just plain rude.
But if you fancy it, who are we to let you down?
- Come on, then!
- Come on, then, you fucking poncey cunt!
- You fucking cunt! You!
Fucking have it! Come on.
Let's go.
I'm telling you, you don't need Lewis.
I will trade you Keeshon and Maddux for Lewis.
And I'm gonna be losing out on this deal.
Because Keeshon, he's back
with the old coach. He's back with Parcells.
And they are gonna be an unstoppable team.
You know that. I know that.
Look, man, he was
comeback player of the year, you know.
Not many guys have thrown
over 6,000 yards. Come on.
Let me call you back.
I gotta deal with something.
Buckner. That $10,000.
I think it's a pretty good deal.
We never had a deal, Jeremy.
Look, I know you got screwed here.
But I have my family's reputation to protect.
A Van Holden getting expelled from Harvard.
No way.
I've got a little more at stake here, Matt.
Buckner.
Come on, man.
My dad is definitely gonna get re-elected.
When I graduate, I'll totally hook you up.
Thanks, bro.
You're really saving my ass.
You've reached Carl Buckner. I'm currently
on assignment in Kabul and I'm unreachable.
Leave a message
at the foreign correspondents desk
at the Washington bureau of the Times
and we'll get back to you as soon as possible.
Thanks so much.
This is a security announcement
at Heathrow airport.
Please keep your belongings with you
at all times.
My name is Matt Buckner.
Last spring, I got kicked out of Harvard
two months shy of my diploma,
but what I was about to learn, no lvy League
school in the world could teach me.
Mind the gap.
Please stand clear of the closing doors.
Mind the gap. Please stand clear.
Matt!
- Hi. Hey.
- Hey.
- Oh, my God.
- It's so good to see you.
You, too. Was that a terrorist attack?
What happened here?
Welcome to match-day madness.
Tottenham was in town last night.
- Are you a soccer fan now?
- Don't let them hear you say soccer.
- Who's "them"?
- The British Empire.
Uncle Matt, meet Ben.
- Can you believe that?
- Hey there, little guy.
- He's adorable.
- Yeah.
It is so good to see you.
But what are you doing here?
It doesn't make sense. Why would you have
been expelled if you didn't do anything wrong?
It was my roommate. He's a total cokehead.
Somebody tipped off campus security
and we got our room searched.
They found his stash in my stuff.
I guess he'd been hiding his shit
in my closet the entire time.
Really?
- Yeah, really.
- You could tell me if you were taking...
- It's not like that.
- So you fought it and they didn't believe you?
Matt. You fought it, right?
Look, you don't know who this guy is.
He's a Van Holden.
I wouldn't have even had a chance.
So what did Dad say?
"You've reached Carl Buckner."
"I'll be in the lvory Coast for 57 years"?
- Kabul this time.
- Whatever.
Seriously, though, when you spoke to him,
what did he say?
- I didn't tell him.
- He doesn't know?
- I probably would have done the same thing.
- Yeah?
Once he finds out his golden boy
got kicked out of Harvard,
he'll dive headfirst
into an empty swimming pool.
- Gee, thanks.
Oh, Steve's home.
- Hi, baby.
- Hey.
- I've got a surprise for you.
- Oh, honey, we have a guest.
This is my kid brother, Matt.
Matt. All right, mate? How are you doing?
- It's good to finally meet you.
- And you. Finally made it across the pond?
- Yeah.
Who's this? Who's this?
Come here. Oh, I missed you. Come here.
Oh!
- I missed you, little Lord Ben.
- Honey, you want some tea?
- Yeah, that'd be great.
- Tea, huh?
- Get over it.
- He's a good-looking little geezer, in't he?
- Sure is.
- Listen, Matt.
I'm really pleased you're here,
but I made some plans for tonight.
I've got this whole romantic evening set up.
I've got the babysitter booked,
and we've got tickets to see Chicago.
- You wouldn't mind if we go?
Oh, excuse me.
Shall we go and see who's banging
the door down? What a surprise.
- What are you doing?
- Aye aye! All right, bruv.
- Jesus, Shannon, you look rough.
- You're a funny guy, Pete.
- Matt, this is Pete, Steve's brother.
- Pete, this is my brother, Matt.
- Hi.
- All right, son?
- Good to meet you.
Hello, Ben.
- All right.
- I'm taking him to bed.
- All right, babe.
- See you later, Ben.
- Well done.
- I thought you were going to the match.
- Well, technically, yes.
But we got into a bit of a drinking session
last night.
- One thing led to another...
- You've lost your wallet.
- And me keys.
There's a taxi outside.
Top bloke, my brother.
So...
How are we, my colonial cousin?
- Fine, thanks.
- Fine, thanks.
- You couldn't make it a hundred?
- How does piss off sound?
Fuck off, come on.
- Shut up. Just shut up.
I'll tell you what I'll do, all right?
I'll give you a hundred...
...if you take Matt here to the match.
Fuck off, you're having a bubble.
- I can't take a Yank to football.
- Yeah, you can.
And you're gonna be on your best behaviour,
do you understand?
- Go on.
- Well, come on, then.
Cheers, Matt.
We don't get much time on our own.
Right, listen to me.
You don't give him the money, OK?
No way. That's beer for the boys.
- All right.
- All right?
Matt? Where are you going?
I'm going to the soccer game with Pete.
- But you just got here.
- I know, but I'll catch up with you later.
- Have a good time. See you.
- Hurry up.
I don't want him hanging out
with Pete and those thugs.
It's all right. He's a big boy.
He can look after himself.
Pick a hand. Come on.
The right hand?
You've just won the star prize.
Yeah? How much do you love me?
- A lot.
- That's not enough.
I'm not being funny, but the last thing
I want to do is to take you to the match.
So here's how it works.
Give me half the money. I'll go to football.
You can see where Churchill took a tom,
or whatever you Yanks do in Jolly Old.
- Tom?
- Tom. A tomtit, shit.
It's rhyming slang.
Like bees and honey for money.
Like I could say to you,
give me the fucking bees.
- I made a promise to Steve.
- Well, Steve ain't here, is he, mate? I am.
You're pissing in the wind
if you think I'm taking you.
- I'm not giving you the money.
- You ain't really got a fucking choice, mate.
And you're starting to get on my tits.
Give me half the money.
Cops!
Well, how fucking stupid do you feel now?
Come on, then, dance for me, Yankee.
Serves you right
for fighting like a bleeding tart.
But try that again
and I will kick the shit out of you.
Yeah, the tom out of me. I get it.
Get up. Come on.
So, I'm guessing you're not much of a fighter.
Fighter? That's probably
the first fight I ever had.
You call that a fight?
Fuck it. I will take you with me.
You might learn something.
- About soccer?
- No, mate. Not about soccer.
And for fuck's sake, stop saying soccer.
Come on, hurry up.
What are you talking about,
baseball is a girls' game?
The Red Sox guy pitches a ball
at 90 miles an hour.
Who cares? All that means is
he can have a wank faster than you.
- Come on.
- Think about it.
I just don't get it.
What is it with you Americans?
You start a fucking war, bottle it,
then we have to come save your arse again.
- Save our ass?
- Yes.
On top of that, you kill half our soldiers
in friendly fire.
- That's called an accident.
- Yeah, accident my arse.
- All right?
- All right, Dunham?
Look, we're sort of
going into my place of business, right?
Shut up and you might have
a better run of things.
Only thing regarded worse than a Yank
around here are coppers and journalists.
- What have you got against journalists?
- How long have you got?
They're lying fucking scum
who'll write anything just to fill papers.
Not your old man, of course.
He's the exception maybe.
These boys don't know about your old man.
If I was you, I'd keep it that way.
Another thing.
What you hear in here stays in here, all right?
No blabbing to brother Steve
about who said what.
What happens at football stays at football.
All right?
Yeah, all right.
Let's have some fun. It's football day!
All right, Pete.
- Aye aye!
- How's it going?
- Good, yeah, good. All right, boys?
This is Matt, Shannon's brother. Ned.
- Nice to meet you.
- Dave. Swill.
- Hello, mate.
- Ike.
- And the one with the dodgy haircut's Keith.
- Hey, Keith.
- I'll get the drinks in, then.
- Does that mean I'm getting the drinks in?
Every fucking time. Every fucking time.
- Where's Bovver?
- He's been in the toilet for 15 minutes.
- Dodgy Ruby or something.
- Look, he looks lost.
Ruby Murray means curry.
We call it cockney rhyming slang.
Slang. Yeah, like bees and honey for money.
- Struggle and grunt for cunt!
- Why'd you go there?
- Like septic tank for Yank.
- Bovver.
- Bov.
- How you doing? All right?
This is Matt, Shannon's brother.
Hey.
That's the proper... He don't give a fuck.
- He don't give a fuck.
- Mate, he's practically family.
Ah, mate, it's fucking painful.
Bov's a miserable cunt,
but we love him dearly, don't we?
- Sometimes.
- Like a fucking brother.
- Grab these last two pints.
- Get some salted peanuts.
- Sure.
- Bov, come on.
- He's all right, man.
- What's with all the fucking babysitting?
- You know we had a meet set up for today.
- I'll stay out the way.
- It's not like we didn't have it last night.
- What? That's not the bloody point, is it?
We look like right mugs
if our fearless leader don't show
'cause he's playing
pin the tail on the fucking Yank.
He's right. He's got a point.
You let me worry about that, all right, boys?
As for the Yank, he's too modest to tell you,
but back in the States he's an internationally
ranked double black belt in karate.
- Is he fuck! Look at the size of him.
- No.
Bloody Karate Kid film? Based on his exploits.
- Really?
- Yeah, it's true.
- Bollocks! Bollocks!
- Come on, why not?
You've been here fucking five minutes
and you're lying.
He's now officially cockney, the boy.
Hey!
- Oh, East London!
- Is wonderful!
- Is wonderful!
- Oh, East London!
- Oh, East London!
- Is wonderful!
Is wonderful!
You know that bollocks you was talking
about earlier about Karate Kid.
That's horse piss, right?
- Oh, no, no.
- No, mate. Shit's Gospel of Paul.
- Yeah.
- What was your coach's name?
Little Chink geezer. What was his name?
- In the first one?
- All fucking three.
Why weren't you in the fourth one?
Why'd you let the side down?
You weren't there, mate...
What was his fucking name, your mentor?
You owe it all to him.
- I can't remember it.
- Miyagi!
- Miyagi! Fuck's sake.
- Miyagi.
Miyagi. Mr Miyagi.
He was based on a real person.
They based him on a real person.
That's out of order. Did they pay him?
- Of course he got fucking paid.
- Just imagine the situation.
No, listen, seriously. Imagine the situation.
- Someone uses you in a fucking film...
- It's a liberty.
Don't take the piss out of me.
This is real stuff I'm talking about.
- To the real Mr Miyagi!
Oi, listen to this. This is our song.
United!
United! United!
Friend of the family, eh?
Pete might be showing you a bit of courtesy,
you being Shannon's brother,
but get it straight, we don't like outsiders.
All right?
Come on, you Hammers!
All right, mate?
Hey, Pete, look, I'm gonna head home.
I'm not feeling so hot. Jet lag.
Fuck off. You're not missing the game.
You wanted to learn about soccer.
United!
United! United!
Come on, you Irons!
Come on, you Irons!
Look out, mate.
We're the most watched country in the world.
Keep your head down.
Sweet, innit? Come on.
...you monkeys!
Get the fuck out of here!
Come on, you Irons!
Fucking have him, my son.
He's in the box.
What the fuck?!
Let's go!
Go on, you fucking kill me!
Come on!
- Dirty northern bastards!
- You fucking wanker!
Come on, you fucking Zulu cunt!
I want you, you cunt! You fucking mug!
I don't fucking believe it! He's over there!
It's fucking Bovver! Look, he's over there!
Go on, son!
Fucking A!
There he is. Oi, Bov. Fucking quality, son.
- Stuff of legend.
- You had your hands full, didn't you?
It ain't over yet.
Word is these twats are gonna have a pop.
- What you heard?
- The usual. Fucking Zulus.
They're mobbing up on the Tube right now.
It's gonna kick off near East Ham.
- Time to go, then, boys.
- What are we standing here for?
- Let's get 'em.
- Maybe I should head home.
- You know where you're going?
- Bank station, right?
Yeah. Keep your head down.
Birmingham lot will be on the Tube.
- I'll manage.
- Wouldn't he be better in a creche?
Don't get on at East Ham.
Any trouble, just walk the other way.
- Don't worry.
- Let's go, eh?
Get him!
- Look, I don't want any trouble!
- A fucking Yank.
- Why's a Yank running with the GSE?
- I don't know anything about the GSE.
- I'm just a tourist.
- How about we leave you with a souvenir?
- Ever heard of a Chelsea grin, huh?
- Come on, please!
Do you take American Express?
I bet the Major gave out
his share of Chelsea grins,
back when the GSE weren't so sloppy
to leave one of their own behind.
We don't leave our mates behind.
- You horrible bastard.
- Look, he's getting away! Let's go!
- Down this side.
- I'll get the van.
- Where the fuck's he gone?
- Where the fuck is he?
I'm getting too old for this shit.
Seriously, I could use a beer and a lie-down.
- Oh, here he is.
- Get it out of first.
- Can't get it out your mum.
- She has to be financed.
- Come on, back to the Abbey.
- Whose round is it?
- Whose round do you think it is?
- It's not my round.
- Oh, shut up moaning.
It stinks.
- Fuck off!
- Come on, boys. Let's fucking have him!
Let's have the little cunt!
- Zulu! Zulu! Zulu! Zulu! Zulu!
- What the fuck's that?
Well, come on, then! What you fucking
standing there for, you cunts?
Oh, here we go.
- Let's get out of here!
- What?
- There's 20 guys!
- You don't run when you're with us.
- You stand your ground and fight.
- I don't know how.
Just think of someone you hate.
Come on, then!
Get up, you fucking twat! Come on!
Ah, you fucking... Get off!
Come on!
Come on! Come on! Come on!
- Fuck me!
- What do you make of that, then?
- What a fucking result!
- You were a fucking maniac, Matt.
Fair play, son. There's plenty
who would've bottled it and done a runner.
- Good for you. I'm proud of you.
- Who was he, then?
- Who?
- The geezer you was just fighting.
- Jeremy Van fucking Holden.
- You done yourself proud, mate.
Now we've all stopped kissing each other's
arses, see the first punch he threw?
- On the feminine side.
- A bit gay.
- Little bit Larry Grayson.
- Come on.
- Come on, yous all wanna get pinched?
- Let's push him out.
Morning, sunshine. How do you feel?
Oh, a little sore.
English breakfast, double dose of aspirin,
you'll feel sweet as a nut, mate.
- Yeah.
- I gotta piss like a racehorse.
Fucking journos. Look at this.
West Ham wins three nil
in a blinding performance
and our little scrap makes the headline.
- Bloody muckrakers.
- So, what is this?
Bollocks journo bullshit.
- No, no, this. The GSE.
- Shh! Lower it, son.
Are you guys like an organised
political movement or something?
No, mate. We're a firm.
You never heard of a firm in the States?
- No.
- Every football team in Europe's got a firm.
Some have two.
Christ, I forgot how clueless you Yanks are.
All you've seen of us
are the stadium riots on TV. Come on.
Two bacon sarnies.
See, West Ham football's mediocre, but
our firm is top notch and everyone knows it.
The GSE. Green Street Elite.
Arsenal: Great football, shit firm. The Gooners.
Tottenham: Shit football and a shit firm.
The Yids, they're called.
I put their main lad
through a phone-box window.
- What about Millwall?
- Ah, Millwall.
Where to even fucking begin with Millwall?
Millwall and West Ham firms hate each other
more than any other firms.
- Sort of like the Yankees and the Red Sox.
- More like the Israelis and the Palestinians.
We haven't played Millwall in ten years.
Their top boy's this geezer
named Tommy Hatcher. Horrible old cunt.
Back in the Major's day,
Tommy's son was killed in a scrap.
After that, he went completely mental,
lost the plot.
- Who's the Major?
- Ah, the Major. Quite a legend round here.
He ran the GSE in the '90s
when I was coming up.
Hardest bastard you ever saw.
They say we kind of lost our way when he left.
But believe me, my boys are bringing
the old GSE reputation right back.
So, basically, firms are gangs.
Kind of. But we're a far cry
from all that Bloods and Crips bullshit.
Shooting a machine-gun out of a moving car
at an eight-year-old girl, that's just cowardly.
See, we might be into fighting and all that,
but it's really about reputation.
Humiliating another mob in a row
or doing something the other firms
get to hear or talk about.
Like a Yank in his first fight
battering one of Birmingham's main lads.
- Here you are, love, sit down.
- Thank you.
I don't know how to thank you
for what you did.
Don't give it another thought.
Yesterday was a good result for us.
We had a laugh, a few pints,
cheered on the mighty Hammers.
We was completely outnumbered,
but we stuck by our mates
and we stood our ground, no matter what.
That's what it's all about.
- Looking at the fucking state of him.
- Don't fucking start, all right?
What did I say to you?
One simple thing: No trouble.
It had nothing to do with me.
He's walking home, he gets jumped.
- He's lucky we was there.
- You're a real hero, ain't you, mate?
And you saw the whole thing from your sofa?
Concentrate on your family
and leave my business to me.
My family? What is it with you, eh?
Do you want mum to visit you in the nick?
Maybe you want the plot next to dad.
- Oh, my God! Matt, what happened?
- Shannon, I'm fine.
Pete, can't you see
what you're doing to this family?
All I see is a scared old man.
- Don't talk to me like that!
- You got the wrong idea.
- Get your fucking hands off me!
- Stop it! Steve! Stop it!
Get the fuck out! Get out! Fuck! Shit.
Babe, I'm so sorry.
Well, that weren't the smartest of moves, mate.
But thanks, yeah?
- Fancy a pint?
- No.
Oh, come on. You're the one
that's got to buy the bleeding thing.
Get your cash out.
The fat bird's about to sing.
Ah, shot.
Jesus! You two joined
at the fucking hip or what?
- Leave it out, Bov. It's getting old.
- No, I'm starting to wonder about you two.
If I didn't know any better,
I'd say you was a couple of gay boys.
Bov, we've known each other
a long time, yeah?
I trust you more than any other bloke I know.
But you're getting dangerously close
to crossing the line with me.
If you've got a problem,
then it's your fucking problem, not mine.
But if you want to discuss it further,
we can go outside.
- Beers, boys.
- Hey, Bov. It's your shot, mate.
Come on. Let's crack on with the game.
Pete. Everything all right, mate?
I can't believe you came all this way
and didn't even stay the night.
- I don't want to mess anything else up.
- You didn't mess anything up.
- So you and Steve are OK?
- Yeah. Yeah, we're fine.
All right, well, I'll call you from Pete's.
Matt. Please don't go.
Steve feels so horrible about what happened
and he really wants you to stay with us,
and so do I.
- I don't want you to stay with Pete.
- Well, I wanna stay with Pete.
Pete and his thug friends aren't the answer.
What are you talking about? What answer?
I've been begging you to come and visit me
for the last three years
and you didn't even come to my wedding and...
You don't know my husband,
haven't held your nephew,
and you show up on my doorstep yesterday
and you're leaving already.
Look who's talking. You ran
to another fucking country after Mom died.
I'm sorry.
- You come and visit me.
- Yeah, of course.
Jeremy Van Holden?
Sounds like a cunt.
Mate, if he'd done that to me,
I'd smash seven shades of shit out of him.
Sounds like these Harvard boys
would slit your throat in your sleep.
What was you studying,
before this geezer stitched you up?
- History.
- History? I teach history.
- You teach?
- Yes, cheeky slag.
History and PE. What, did you think
the GSE paid a bloody wage?
I'm smart as fuck.
Come on, it's brass monkeys out here.
Class, today we have
an extraordinarily distinguished guest.
Mr Buckner is an American who went to the
finest university in the United States, Harvard.
But despite his prestigious education,
Mr Buckner still thinks that baseball
is better than football.
I know, boys. It's an utter sin.
It's our job to save this heathen
from his evil ways
and teach him what really matters in life,
and that is?
- Football!
- Exactly. We're going to play five-a-side.
Mr Buckner will be goalie for the away colours.
Now, go easy on him, boys.
You know how these Americans bruise.
How do we keep this fair?
I let every other ball go through?
I wouldn't worry about that.
All right. You ready?
Go on, son.
That's it! That's it!
Ah, beautiful! Beautiful!
Relax, kids.
Go on, Duncan. Go on, Duncan,
have it. Take it all the way.
Have it. Have a dig, mate.
- Oh, beautiful goal!
All right, that's it.
What was that?
Go on, my son.
Beautiful. Sheer beauty.
- Lovely.
All right. Home team: 10. Away team: 3.
Thanks to some pathetic goalkeeping
from the away keeper.
- All right, get yourselves changed, boys.
- Played.
- That's what I call a real ass-whipping.
- You set me up.
That was like
the junior Olympic football team, right?
No, mate. Just regular English boys.
We've got history next.
Say a few words about
the American War of Independence.
- They'd get a kick out of a real live colonial.
- American history isn't really my specialty.
Mate, they're ten.
Teach them whatever you want.
Well, I sort of have plans
with Shannon this afternoon.
- We'll have a beer later.
- Yeah, see you at the pub.
All right, mate. Who are you? Who are you?
But these kids... He set me up, man. I'm
thinking this is some class of kids, little ones.
Shut up.
- They're coming in everywhere...
- Oh, come on.
No, no. No.
- Fat cunt.
- Fucking fat bastard.
- Hello, mate.
- Get the fucking chips in.
Well, I'll be fucked.
If it ain't my old mate Bovver.
How are you doing, son, all right?
I'll say one thing, you got some fucking front
showing your face over this side of the water.
There's plenty of people round here love to kick
your fucking arse, given half the chance.
- There's four of 'em stood over there.
- Fucking right, son.
So, Bov, what's all this I'm hearing about
your firm gone all fucking international, eh?
Don't you even fucking think
about ignoring me, you little cunt.
Now, I said what's all this bollocks I'm hearing
about you having a little Yank on the firm?
It's only temporary.
- Temporary, eh?
Do you think I can get a bit of quiet here?
I'm trying to have a fucking conversation!
- What's his problem?
- Shh.
So, look at you, little Bovver.
All grown up now, look.
- Where's your other little girl...?
- Petey.
Petey? She at home, is she?
Trying to get her little toes
into the Major's big fucking shoes?
I guess we was pretty small back then, son.
Back in your day.
You always did have a bit of bottle, you.
- So tell me, Bov. You come over to Millwall.
- Is he a bit of a bully?
- Did you come alone?
What do you think?
Do you think that'd wind him up?
- Excuse me a minute, Bov.
Hello. I'm Tommy. Tommy Hatcher.
- Yeah, I know.
- Oh, you know?
Well, now, you see, that's bad.
That's really, really bad.
You ain't got no fucking excuse
for not keeping that shit cunt of yours quiet.
George, he can't talk to me like that.
George, your bird hasn't stopped
fucking rabbiting since I've walked in here!
Now, can I recommend that you shut her up?
So I can continue my conversation
with our guest there, Bovver,
of the once-proud GSE firm.
- You can't tell me... Oh, my God!
- See what she's doing?
Does she ever fucking, sodding, ever...?
- That's enough!
- That's enough?
I'll tell you when it's enough, son, all right?
Tommy, the Paki's called the Old Bill, mate.
We best fuck off.
Tommy, we best fuck off sharpish, mate.
I'll see you again. Soon, Bov.
I don't reckon I'll be back till tomorrow night.
- Be gentle with her. And remember, left side.
- Left side. Right.
- You seem nervous.
- Nervous? Fuck off.
What's on your mind, then?
Two little words keep every Hammer
in England up all night: United away.
- Oi, oi!
- Aye aye!
- All right, mate. You all right?
- Yeah, all right, big man?
- Hello, Matt.
- All right?
- Where's Bovver?
- Fuck knows.
He's been a pain in the arse all week. PMS.
Pre-Match Stress.
He's being a right cunt at the minute.
- Come on, Pete. The train's in five minutes.
- Yeah, hang on.
His phone's off. I can't believe
he's gonna pull a runner for United away.
They'll be gunning for you, too, after the job
you pulled on their top boy last year.
What happened last year?
- I may have gone a bit over the top.
- Just a bit.
- Where's Dave? Have you heard from him?
- Have you?
Oh, everything's just falling
right into place, isn't it?
- I'll go.
- No, mate.
What? You can't just go up there
with lke and Swill.
No offence, but we can't
take passengers on this trip.
- Go on, piss off. Give you a bell later.
- How many reds d'you reckon'll turn up?
Fuck knows.
- Catch.
- How's that?
The 2.55 train to Manchester...
Oi.
- All right, lads? Bovver?
- Pete.
- I thought we agreed to meet in the car park.
- Decided to wait here.
You want to play the wanker,
that's fine with me.
But leave it out till we've got today out the way.
- All right, mate?
- Sweet.
Come on, boys. Let's have it!
- I'm not lending you any more money.
- For fuck's sake, come on, play the game.
- You never paid me the last time, you cunt.
- You taking the piss or what?
- What are you doing?
- I thought it was just the three of you.
Oh, isn't that sweet?
This what you were planning, eh?
I ain't going in with that fucking mug.
- Sit down, mate.
- Hello, mate.
- Who's calling what here?
- Get on with the game.
He's here now.
- Dave, where are you?
- Sorry I missed you. Flight was an hour late.
- Fly faster.
- I'm here.
- What, Manchester?
- Yeah.
There's 40 of them waiting here,
all getting very fucking excited.
Listen.
United!
- Bov.
- Unitedl Unitedl Unitedl
Fuck.
- Do you hear that?
- Yeah, man.
They're waiting here for you.
Don't roll into Manchester.
- All right, nice one.
- All right, laters.
- We are fucked.
- What's happening?
- They're waiting for us at the station.
- They know we're on here?
- Must have had a scout watching us.
- How many?
- 40, 50.
- Can't we just get off at the next station?
Fucking express train.
Don't stop till Manchester.
Is that right, bruv?
Come on, boys.
If we don't show up now, they'll claim a result.
- We gotta get to that station first.
- We just got away.
You shouldn't even be here!
This is what it's all about.
- It's what we fucking live for!
- Fuck him!
Here's the plan. Ike, call Dave.
Tell him what's happening.
It's about 12 miles to Manchester.
We need a couple of cabs immediately.
Fuck! Where's all the fucking cabs?
- Pete, I got an idea.
- I thought I told you to shut up.
Fuck you, Bovver.
Cut it! Fucking cut it out!
What is it?
Who the fuck are Man United?
MP, this is MM5
in the vicinity of the last report responding.
Where the fuck are these cunts? That train
should've been here ten minutes ago.
They'll be here soon.
There's no way off that train.
Stay sharp, lads. And remember,
Nigel gets that Dunham cunt all to himself.
Nice one.
- What the fuck do you want?
- Sorry, guys.
We're with Paramount Pictures,
shooting the new Hugh Grant film.
- We gotta get this gear through.
- Hugh Grant film?
Any decent women in it?
Cameron Diaz, I think.
I hope so. She's fit as fuck.
Let this cunt through!
Thanks.
Give me 30 seconds,
then I'd get the fuck out of here.
Get off me, you fucking monkey!
We could have died
that day in Manchester.
Everybody knew it. But we didn't.
Ike said later that the story travelled across
England faster than the death of Lady Di.
The GSE were finally back.
Suddenly, I was part of the firm
with the best rep in London.
- The old guards.
- The old guards.
People around town
had heard of me.
They would hear my accent and say.
"So you're the Yank."
United! United! United!
You know the best part?
It isn't knowing that your friends
have your back.
It's knowing that you have
your friends' back.
They're on me.
I'd never lived closer to danger.
But I'd never felt safer.
I'd never felt more confident.
And people could spot it
from a mile away.
And as for this, the violence,
I gotta be honest.
It grew on me.
Once you've taken a few punches
and realise you're not made of glass,
you don't feel alive unless you're
pushing yourself as far as you can go.
So what couldn't you tell me...?
I have to find out from your sister
that you're expelled?
- Why didn't you call me?
- I did.
- Your machine answered.
- You could have left a message.
Yeah, well, I'm tired of having a relationship
with your voicemail.
- You know what? I don't need this.
- Hey, Matt!
Matt, come on.
- Shannon says you were set up. Is that true?
- Yes.
- Why didn't you find me?
- Why didn't I find you?
- What's your fucking point?
- My point is, this doesn't look good, Matt.
You say that you're set up.
You don't contact your father?
We could've fought this if you were innocent.
- If I were innocent?
- If you're innocent,
- Why didn't you ask for help?
- You think I'm a drug dealer?
- I don't know.
- What do you think?
- I don't know.
- Well, that's why I didn't find you.
Of course you don't know what to think.
You don't really know anything about me.
- So you came to England?
- Yeah.
- OK, what now, Matt? What's the plan?
- What do you really want?
- It's just a question.
- Listen, Carl.
Do you really expect me
to unburden myself to you?
You just show up and decide
you're the Dad again?
Look, I have to go to the London Times.
- You're unbelievable. You know that?
- Just someone I'd like you to meet.
I'm not five years old anymore.
It takes a little bit more to manipulate me.
An old friend from my Tribune days.
You thought all it takes
is a handshake from the editor
and I'll have my old life back?
It's just a free lunch.
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,
to the Quarterfinal Draw
for the Football Association Cup.
The oldest and most prestigious tournament
in World Cup Football.
Fortunately, today we have with us
the West Ham legend, Mr Frank McAvennie
and chairman for our sponsors,
Mr Phil Peters.
As usual, the home team
will be drawn first. Frank.
- Number two.
- Number two. Cardiff City
- will play...
- Number three, Liverpool.
- Yes.
- Shhh!
- Number seven...
- Number seven, Sunderland will play...
- Number six.
- Number six, Newcastle United.
- Bit of a North-East derby.
- Yes.
- Number eight.
- Number eight, West Ham United...
...will play...
...number five, Millwall.
- Fucking yes!
- Yes!
- Yes!
- Come on, you Irons!
Fucking nice.
Bov, mate, we've got them, mate.
Oi, bruv, this is gonna go off.
Oi, oi, oi...
You won't believe who just
walked into the Times.
What? Who?
Our little Yank mate.
I fucking knew it. I knew there was
something dodgy about that little cunt.
Yeah, mate, sly.
- Tell you what. Pick me up after work.
- All right. I'll see you after work. Sweet.
You know, your sister's worried sick
about you.
She says you're running around
with some kind of gang.
It's not a gang, Dad. They're my friends.
- Are you at least writing about it?
- Am I writing about it? No.
Hey, Matt, listen.
I want you to come home with me.
- What?!
- Look.
You may not trust me as your father,
but as a fellow journalist,
your reputation is all you have.
You've gotta get back to Harvard
and clear your name.
- We can fight it together.
- Forget it, Dad.
- I'm not going home.
- Jesus...
Look, if it makes you feel better,
I am keeping a journal.
It's one thing you taught me I held onto.
I knew that.
I was just making sure.
- Hey, Steve.
- How you doing?
Good to see you.
- Matt.
- Hey.
I'm gonna change.
What time's your flight?
Take your time.
My cab will be here in half an hour.
I have to say farewell to my grandson.
I gotta take off, Dad.
Oh. OK, Matt.
Look, I know things have not been...
Great to see you.
- How you doing?
- Good.
So you'll be celebrating the draw
with the lads?
The draw. Wait, who did we get?
- You don't know?
- No.
- Oh, come on, Steve. Who?
- Millwall.
At home.
Huh!
Hello.
Don't we want to play?
- Hey, gorgeous.
- Hey.
- You OK?
- Mm.
Yeah, I was just watching my dad
playing with Ben.
He's already a better grandfather
than he ever was a dad.
You know, he seems like
a decent bloke now.
For a bloody journo.
So he was an arsehole
when you were growing up.
I guess that's why neither of you
joined the old man's racket.
What do you mean?
- You know. Followed in his footsteps.
- What are you talking about? Matt did.
What do you mean?
Matt was always a little more fascinated
with our absentee father than I was.
Shannon, what do you mean, "Matt did"?
That's what Matt studied at Harvard.
He was a journalism major.
I just really hope that he gets back to it.
You know, once he gets your brother
out of his system.
So he's a Yank and an undercover journo.
Looks like we'll have to give him two funerals.
- We hate Millwall!
- What are you doing here?
- I want a word with you outside.
- What happened? Is Shannon OK?
- Yeah, Shannon's fine.
Why didn't you tell me?
Steve Dunham just walked in.
- Why didn't you say you're doing journalism?
- I'm not, I quit. What's the difference?
Well, listen, mate, to some people,
it makes a huge difference.
What would you know about that?
Listen. I like you, but you have no idea
what you're getting into.
I've gotta tell my brother
that his new best mate is a journalist.
So me and you are going outside now.
A toast.
Stevie Dunham, back in the Abbey
after all these years.
Welcome home, Major. The Major!
Major! Major! Major!
GSE! GSE! GSE!
Hang on.
All right, boys. What you doing here?
- The Yank here?
- No, he's...
- A fucking undercover journo.
- What?
- No, bollocks.
- No, it's straight, mate.
I seen him down at the Times walking out.
Shaking hands, proper pally.
What's that all about?
Think about. Drops in out of nowhere.
Never been in a scrap in his life.
Snugs in nice and tight with a top boy
at a firm.
For fuck's sake, Pete,
what else was he doing at the Times?
No, that means fuck all.
Could've been any one of a hundred reasons
he was down there.
- This time I'd like to make sure of that myself.
- You sure of this, Bov?
'Cause if you're coming in here like this,
you fucking well better be.
Yeah, watch out, son.
- What? This his, is it?
- Yeah.
Yeah? What the fuck is this?
Here, Keith, you know about all this
computer stuff. Have a look.
What's this?
Fucking cunt.
Here we go.
"First match:
West Ham v. Birmingham. Home.
"Pete brought me to the Brigid Abbey Pub
on Walsh Road,
"his main hangout,
and introduced me to his gang."
Oh, look, we're a fucking gang now.
Make it go up.
"Bovver is Pete's thuggish righthand man.
"Keith is sort of Bovver's enforcer."
You happy now? We're all in there.
He didn't say nothing about me.
Wait here. I'll put some clothes on.
- So you're the Major?
- I was the Major.
I guess to some I still am.
Terry here was my righthand man
back in the glory days.
That was a long time ago, though, mate.
Why'd you get out of it?
I was a crazy bastard back then.
All I fucking cared about was my reputation
amongst the firms of England.
You've heard all the stories
about Millwall, yeah?
Last match I went to was Millwall-West Ham.
We're talking a good ten years ago.
I mean, we'd been waiting for this match
all year.
At Millwall. Yeah, stepping into their ground.
Completely outnumbered.
We were fucking wired from the start.
Now, Tommy Hatcher,
he was their main man back then.
He used to bring his 12-year-old boy
to the grounds, Tommy Jr.
Always banging on how he brought this kid up
to be like a little pitbull.
Well, we lost that match, three nil.
And those Millwall cunts
started laughing at us.
And I just fucking snapped.
I couldn't let it lie, you know?
So I assembled all our troops
and we hunted them down.
I saw that little lad go down.
Wait! No!
And I saw his skull get crushed
under the boots of the GSE.
I never went to another match after that.
And I left "The Major" behind.
And that's when I met your sister.
She was my angel. She really saved me.
Showed me a new life.
Helped me forget all this bollocks.
And she swore she'd leave me
if I ever returned to it.
And when it comes back to me, and
believe me, it fucking does, that madness...
I mean, when I hear the roar of the stadium
on match day,
the lads calling me to get pissed
out of me fucking tree...
When I think of that,
I think about getting back into it...
And Shannon and Ben, they remind me...
...there's more to life than all this.
Get all those juicy details, mate?
Writing it all down?
- What?
- You fucking journo cunt!
- You sure you know what you're doing here?
- He's fucking undercover.
- Don't tell him nothing!
- I said, are you sure?
What? You already knew.
All I knew is that he studied journalism,
right, at Harvard. But he's dropped out.
We found his journal,
full of stories about all of us.
- It's a fucking diary!
- Ned saw you at the Times
with a couple of journos.
That was my Dad.
He's the journalist, you knew that.
- His old man's a journo and you knew.
- That don't mean nothing yet.
He studies to be a journo,
his old man is a journo.
What's the difference?
You let one of them get in with us.
- I wasn't trying to get anything.
- You, shut the...!
I don't care who he is.
You don't do someone on the deck.
What's wrong with you? He's gonna
bury us all and you're just gonna watch?
No. Now, Steve, you're the Major.
You started this firm.
We got the biggest ruck of our lives
coming up,
and your brother's too much
of a bottle-job to lead us.
The GSE is Pete's firm. All right?
He calls the shots.
Well, fuck the lot of you!
GSE.
Get out of the fucking way! Move!
Get yourself cleaned up.
Tommy.
This is it, mate. We're finally gonna get back
at those fucking Hammer cunts, eh?
Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!
The fuck's he doing here?
Marky, sit down, son. Sweet.
- That's it. Do as you're told, you mug.
- Fuck off.
Bovver. You know, we're gonna have
to stop meeting like this, don't you, son?
People are gonna start to talk. What you doing
up so late on a school night?
Shouldn't you be at home with your pals all
shitting at the thought of us turning you over?
What, you had a lover's tiff?
What do you want, Bov?
Fucking Yank's an undercover journo.
He's at our boozer now.
Tom, you gotta give him the chop.
He's got 'em eating
out of the palm of his hand.
What makes you think that I'd wanna
sort that out for you, eh?
Because the Major's there too.
Stevie Dunham's in there?
- Thanks, Pete.
- Shut up! History student my arse.
- Who the fuck are you?
- Sorry I lied about being a history major,
but I'm not a journalist.
It don't look fucking good, does it?
- Why are you keeping a record?
- It's a journal. I've kept that my entire life.
- Are you working for the Times?
- No. I'm telling you the truth.
You've gotta trust me, Pete.
Mate, you've put me right fucking in it.
If I don't convince those boys that
the head of their firm was not just taken
by a fucking Yank journo,
the GSE is done.
So I'm gonna go out there and I'm
gonna tell them that Bov's got it wrong.
And that you're one of us.
And I had better be fucking right.
So, Bovver, is there anything else
you wanna tell us?
Tom, please.
This is how it's got to go down...
You fucking... Go on, Marc.
Afraid you're the only one
going down, little Bovver.
Grass.
Fuck!
This shit with Bovver
could tear this firm apart.
Mate, I need you.
Stay with us, just through Millwall.
I'm not gonna help you.
I made a promise to my wife and kid, all right?
And I'm sticking to it.
You know, there comes a time
when the best reputation you can have
is the one with your family...
- Down, get the fuck down!
- Hello, boys.
Jesus!
Pete! Pete, come on, man!
Terry.
Fuck off!
Terry!
Look who's back in the fucking Abbey
after all these years.
Tommy, I'm done with all this, mate.
Retired, did you?
Got yourself a Yank wife, did you?
Had a son of your own, did you?
I had a son once!
Do you remember him?!
Do you fucking remember him?!
- I'm sorry!
- It's too late!
You fuck!
Tommy!
- You listen to me.
- Tommy!
You die tonight, and me and you are even.
It's done! Let's go!
- Pete! Over here, mate, quick.
- Jesus, fucking hanging here, like!
- Ah, fucking hell.
- Get him down.
I've messed.
Bovver, what the fuck did you do?
Get a fucking car!
Move!
Agh! Fucking hell!
Move!
Get in there.
Get him the fuck in the car!
Get in! Go!
Go! Fucking go!
Get out of the way! Move, move!
Somebody help!
Help us, he's been fucking stabbed!
Come on, hurry!
Fucking hurry up!
Resus. Go, go.
- What did he say?
- He's hanging on.
Trusting lads.
You always said trusting lads
was my problem, Bov.
I trust lads too much.
Trust the Yank too much.
This is how you prove your point?
Backstabbing me? Teaming up
with Tommy Hatcher to kill the Major?
Kill my fucking brother?!
I'll kill Tommy.
Just say the word and I'll do it.
I don't need you for that.
I don't need you for anything anymore.
Go away.
Please, I fucked up...
Shannon.
Sick! You're so sick!
I'm so sorry.
I know.
The doctor said that you're gonna be OK.
He said it's just gonna take a little time.
We're leaving tomorrow.
It's not safe for us here now.
- How is he?
- He's hanging in there.
- So, what now?
- You let Tommy know I want a straightener.
- Tomorrow.
- All right.
We finish this once and for all.
Somewhere quiet.
Away from Old Bill.
- Your mate still runs security at Trinity Wharf?
- Yeah.
- Get hold of him. Set it up.
- Sure.
Come on.
What's going on?
Ben and I are on the noon flight
to Boston.
You can't leave him.
He was trying to protect us.
- You can't do this to him, Shannon.
- Yes, she can. She has to.
So should you.
I'm going with you to that wharf tomorrow.
Jesus Christ!
They crash our pub, they put your brother
in the hospital.
- That ain't your problem anymore.
- What are you talking about?
- I've got just as much at stake here as you do.
- Matt, listen to me.
It's time to go home.
- I don't know where my home is anymore.
- I think we both know where it ain't.
Mate, this is my fight.
It's my brother in the hospital.
I'll take care of Tommy.
Go home, mate.
You're doing the right thing, Matt.
Yeah.
You know that back home nobody's
gonna care about your rep here.
You know that, right?
I'm gonna call a cab.
- Where's Matt?
- Finally went home.
Come on.
I know, fucking terrible.
This is Charlie 27,
MP CB 501, at Brixton Road, disturbance...
The cab's on its... way.
Matt?
Matt?
Matt?
- Fucking have 'em!
- Come on!
Come on!
You fucking mug!
At least one of you Dunham cunts
are gonna pay for my fucking boy!
Me old mate, Bovver, you never could
turn down a good scrap.
You know me, bruv.
Come on, get him up!
Holy shit! Shannon!
Shannon! Stop!
Shannon, over here!
Matt, don't be a fucking idiot!
Get her out of here! Shannon, stop!
- Matt!
- Wait, Pete, what are you doing?
Fucking hell, Tommy.
It's Steve Dunham's wife.
If Tommy reaches that car,
do you know what he'll do to her?
He's a fucking animal!
Hello, love.
Matt!
Let me in, you slut!
I'll smash this fucking window in!
I'll smash this fucking window.
Are you OK? Is Ben OK?
Matt!
You're gonna get it now, you little Yank!
Bov, wanna make up
for what you've done?
Get my brother's family out of here.
Tommy! Don't you wanna
finish me off, then?
You're already finished, little Petey.
The NTO will take care of you in a minute,
you mug.
We didn't kill your son, Tommy! You did!
You should have protected him, mate.
He was your son!
- Don't you talk about my fucking son!
- He was your son!
Get in the fucking motor!
Get in the fucking car!
He's only a poor little hummer!
His face was all battered and torn!
He made me feel sick,
I hit him with a brick!
Now the cunt's not laughing
or singing no more!
- He's not laughing at us...
- That's enough.
I'll get us out of here! Go!
- You can't leave him.
- Pete! Pete!
Fucking help him!
Pete Dunham's life taught me
that there's a time to stand your ground.
His death taught me there's a time
to walk away.
I would never have the chance to thank him.
But I could live in a way
that would honour him.
Too much.
Well, congrats on the Epstein account,
Van Holden.
That should be a nice com-mish.
I bet your father's election
had nothing to do with it.
Fuck you very much, Todd.
Gentlemen, if you will excuse me,
I must partake, once again,
in this restaurant's fine facilities.
Fucking lucky bastard.
What the fuck?!
Matt Buckner? Is that you?
Jesus, Matt, you look like shit.
Hey, Buckner, do you mind?
- You said you'd hook me up.
- What?
I took the fall for you at Harvard.
You said you'd hook me up.
- You're kidding.
- They were your drugs.
You said you had
more to lose, that you'd hook me up.
All right. Yes. I said I would hook you up.
Jesus, Matt, I'm in a meeting right now.
Call my office. Talk to Cindy.
She'll make an appointment for you.
You gotta be joking me,
spineless shit.
- ... that you'd hook me up...
- All right. Yes.
- What the fuck is this?!
- This?
- It's my ticket back to Harvard.
- Give me that!
I wouldn't do that.
United! United! United!
Fuck me. If I knew we was going to a bar
mitzvah, I'd have brought me fucking skullcap.
Mate, Tottenham's due north.
Are you lost or just fucking stupid?
Still a stand-up comedian, eh, Dunham?
All right, mate.
When the Major was doing your job,
he wasn't nearly so chatty.
Probably 'cause
he wasn't quite so nervous either.
The Major always preferred a scrap
to your yammer.
- What's all that? What is that?
- Yammer?
You reckon? Mate, I think you should get
on the next train and fuck off out of here.
- Before something bad happens.
We'd be interested to see exactly what that is.
You're not exactly top-flight mob
these days, are you?
- More like a two-bob mob.
See, now, that's just plain rude.
But if you fancy it, who are we to let you down?
- Come on, then!
- Come on, then, you fucking poncey cunt!
- You fucking cunt! You!
Fucking have it! Come on.
Let's go.
I'm telling you, you don't need Lewis.
I will trade you Keeshon and Maddux for Lewis.
And I'm gonna be losing out on this deal.
Because Keeshon, he's back
with the old coach. He's back with Parcells.
And they are gonna be an unstoppable team.
You know that. I know that.
Look, man, he was
comeback player of the year, you know.
Not many guys have thrown
over 6,000 yards. Come on.
Let me call you back.
I gotta deal with something.
Buckner. That $10,000.
I think it's a pretty good deal.
We never had a deal, Jeremy.
Look, I know you got screwed here.
But I have my family's reputation to protect.
A Van Holden getting expelled from Harvard.
No way.
I've got a little more at stake here, Matt.
Buckner.
Come on, man.
My dad is definitely gonna get re-elected.
When I graduate, I'll totally hook you up.
Thanks, bro.
You're really saving my ass.
You've reached Carl Buckner. I'm currently
on assignment in Kabul and I'm unreachable.
Leave a message
at the foreign correspondents desk
at the Washington bureau of the Times
and we'll get back to you as soon as possible.
Thanks so much.
This is a security announcement
at Heathrow airport.
Please keep your belongings with you
at all times.
My name is Matt Buckner.
Last spring, I got kicked out of Harvard
two months shy of my diploma,
but what I was about to learn, no lvy League
school in the world could teach me.
Mind the gap.
Please stand clear of the closing doors.
Mind the gap. Please stand clear.
Matt!
- Hi. Hey.
- Hey.
- Oh, my God.
- It's so good to see you.
You, too. Was that a terrorist attack?
What happened here?
Welcome to match-day madness.
Tottenham was in town last night.
- Are you a soccer fan now?
- Don't let them hear you say soccer.
- Who's "them"?
- The British Empire.
Uncle Matt, meet Ben.
- Can you believe that?
- Hey there, little guy.
- He's adorable.
- Yeah.
It is so good to see you.
But what are you doing here?
It doesn't make sense. Why would you have
been expelled if you didn't do anything wrong?
It was my roommate. He's a total cokehead.
Somebody tipped off campus security
and we got our room searched.
They found his stash in my stuff.
I guess he'd been hiding his shit
in my closet the entire time.
Really?
- Yeah, really.
- You could tell me if you were taking...
- It's not like that.
- So you fought it and they didn't believe you?
Matt. You fought it, right?
Look, you don't know who this guy is.
He's a Van Holden.
I wouldn't have even had a chance.
So what did Dad say?
"You've reached Carl Buckner."
"I'll be in the lvory Coast for 57 years"?
- Kabul this time.
- Whatever.
Seriously, though, when you spoke to him,
what did he say?
- I didn't tell him.
- He doesn't know?
- I probably would have done the same thing.
- Yeah?
Once he finds out his golden boy
got kicked out of Harvard,
he'll dive headfirst
into an empty swimming pool.
- Gee, thanks.
Oh, Steve's home.
- Hi, baby.
- Hey.
- I've got a surprise for you.
- Oh, honey, we have a guest.
This is my kid brother, Matt.
Matt. All right, mate? How are you doing?
- It's good to finally meet you.
- And you. Finally made it across the pond?
- Yeah.
Who's this? Who's this?
Come here. Oh, I missed you. Come here.
Oh!
- I missed you, little Lord Ben.
- Honey, you want some tea?
- Yeah, that'd be great.
- Tea, huh?
- Get over it.
- He's a good-looking little geezer, in't he?
- Sure is.
- Listen, Matt.
I'm really pleased you're here,
but I made some plans for tonight.
I've got this whole romantic evening set up.
I've got the babysitter booked,
and we've got tickets to see Chicago.
- You wouldn't mind if we go?
Oh, excuse me.
Shall we go and see who's banging
the door down? What a surprise.
- What are you doing?
- Aye aye! All right, bruv.
- Jesus, Shannon, you look rough.
- You're a funny guy, Pete.
- Matt, this is Pete, Steve's brother.
- Pete, this is my brother, Matt.
- Hi.
- All right, son?
- Good to meet you.
Hello, Ben.
- All right.
- I'm taking him to bed.
- All right, babe.
- See you later, Ben.
- Well done.
- I thought you were going to the match.
- Well, technically, yes.
But we got into a bit of a drinking session
last night.
- One thing led to another...
- You've lost your wallet.
- And me keys.
There's a taxi outside.
Top bloke, my brother.
So...
How are we, my colonial cousin?
- Fine, thanks.
- Fine, thanks.
- You couldn't make it a hundred?
- How does piss off sound?
Fuck off, come on.
- Shut up. Just shut up.
I'll tell you what I'll do, all right?
I'll give you a hundred...
...if you take Matt here to the match.
Fuck off, you're having a bubble.
- I can't take a Yank to football.
- Yeah, you can.
And you're gonna be on your best behaviour,
do you understand?
- Go on.
- Well, come on, then.
Cheers, Matt.
We don't get much time on our own.
Right, listen to me.
You don't give him the money, OK?
No way. That's beer for the boys.
- All right.
- All right?
Matt? Where are you going?
I'm going to the soccer game with Pete.
- But you just got here.
- I know, but I'll catch up with you later.
- Have a good time. See you.
- Hurry up.
I don't want him hanging out
with Pete and those thugs.
It's all right. He's a big boy.
He can look after himself.
Pick a hand. Come on.
The right hand?
You've just won the star prize.
Yeah? How much do you love me?
- A lot.
- That's not enough.
I'm not being funny, but the last thing
I want to do is to take you to the match.
So here's how it works.
Give me half the money. I'll go to football.
You can see where Churchill took a tom,
or whatever you Yanks do in Jolly Old.
- Tom?
- Tom. A tomtit, shit.
It's rhyming slang.
Like bees and honey for money.
Like I could say to you,
give me the fucking bees.
- I made a promise to Steve.
- Well, Steve ain't here, is he, mate? I am.
You're pissing in the wind
if you think I'm taking you.
- I'm not giving you the money.
- You ain't really got a fucking choice, mate.
And you're starting to get on my tits.
Give me half the money.
Cops!
Well, how fucking stupid do you feel now?
Come on, then, dance for me, Yankee.
Serves you right
for fighting like a bleeding tart.
But try that again
and I will kick the shit out of you.
Yeah, the tom out of me. I get it.
Get up. Come on.
So, I'm guessing you're not much of a fighter.
Fighter? That's probably
the first fight I ever had.
You call that a fight?
Fuck it. I will take you with me.
You might learn something.
- About soccer?
- No, mate. Not about soccer.
And for fuck's sake, stop saying soccer.
Come on, hurry up.
What are you talking about,
baseball is a girls' game?
The Red Sox guy pitches a ball
at 90 miles an hour.
Who cares? All that means is
he can have a wank faster than you.
- Come on.
- Think about it.
I just don't get it.
What is it with you Americans?
You start a fucking war, bottle it,
then we have to come save your arse again.
- Save our ass?
- Yes.
On top of that, you kill half our soldiers
in friendly fire.
- That's called an accident.
- Yeah, accident my arse.
- All right?
- All right, Dunham?
Look, we're sort of
going into my place of business, right?
Shut up and you might have
a better run of things.
Only thing regarded worse than a Yank
around here are coppers and journalists.
- What have you got against journalists?
- How long have you got?
They're lying fucking scum
who'll write anything just to fill papers.
Not your old man, of course.
He's the exception maybe.
These boys don't know about your old man.
If I was you, I'd keep it that way.
Another thing.
What you hear in here stays in here, all right?
No blabbing to brother Steve
about who said what.
What happens at football stays at football.
All right?
Yeah, all right.
Let's have some fun. It's football day!
All right, Pete.
- Aye aye!
- How's it going?
- Good, yeah, good. All right, boys?
This is Matt, Shannon's brother. Ned.
- Nice to meet you.
- Dave. Swill.
- Hello, mate.
- Ike.
- And the one with the dodgy haircut's Keith.
- Hey, Keith.
- I'll get the drinks in, then.
- Does that mean I'm getting the drinks in?
Every fucking time. Every fucking time.
- Where's Bovver?
- He's been in the toilet for 15 minutes.
- Dodgy Ruby or something.
- Look, he looks lost.
Ruby Murray means curry.
We call it cockney rhyming slang.
Slang. Yeah, like bees and honey for money.
- Struggle and grunt for cunt!
- Why'd you go there?
- Like septic tank for Yank.
- Bovver.
- Bov.
- How you doing? All right?
This is Matt, Shannon's brother.
Hey.
That's the proper... He don't give a fuck.
- He don't give a fuck.
- Mate, he's practically family.
Ah, mate, it's fucking painful.
Bov's a miserable cunt,
but we love him dearly, don't we?
- Sometimes.
- Like a fucking brother.
- Grab these last two pints.
- Get some salted peanuts.
- Sure.
- Bov, come on.
- He's all right, man.
- What's with all the fucking babysitting?
- You know we had a meet set up for today.
- I'll stay out the way.
- It's not like we didn't have it last night.
- What? That's not the bloody point, is it?
We look like right mugs
if our fearless leader don't show
'cause he's playing
pin the tail on the fucking Yank.
He's right. He's got a point.
You let me worry about that, all right, boys?
As for the Yank, he's too modest to tell you,
but back in the States he's an internationally
ranked double black belt in karate.
- Is he fuck! Look at the size of him.
- No.
Bloody Karate Kid film? Based on his exploits.
- Really?
- Yeah, it's true.
- Bollocks! Bollocks!
- Come on, why not?
You've been here fucking five minutes
and you're lying.
He's now officially cockney, the boy.
Hey!
- Oh, East London!
- Is wonderful!
- Is wonderful!
- Oh, East London!
- Oh, East London!
- Is wonderful!
Is wonderful!
You know that bollocks you was talking
about earlier about Karate Kid.
That's horse piss, right?
- Oh, no, no.
- No, mate. Shit's Gospel of Paul.
- Yeah.
- What was your coach's name?
Little Chink geezer. What was his name?
- In the first one?
- All fucking three.
Why weren't you in the fourth one?
Why'd you let the side down?
You weren't there, mate...
What was his fucking name, your mentor?
You owe it all to him.
- I can't remember it.
- Miyagi!
- Miyagi! Fuck's sake.
- Miyagi.
Miyagi. Mr Miyagi.
He was based on a real person.
They based him on a real person.
That's out of order. Did they pay him?
- Of course he got fucking paid.
- Just imagine the situation.
No, listen, seriously. Imagine the situation.
- Someone uses you in a fucking film...
- It's a liberty.
Don't take the piss out of me.
This is real stuff I'm talking about.
- To the real Mr Miyagi!
Oi, listen to this. This is our song.
United!
United! United!
Friend of the family, eh?
Pete might be showing you a bit of courtesy,
you being Shannon's brother,
but get it straight, we don't like outsiders.
All right?
Come on, you Hammers!
All right, mate?
Hey, Pete, look, I'm gonna head home.
I'm not feeling so hot. Jet lag.
Fuck off. You're not missing the game.
You wanted to learn about soccer.
United!
United! United!
Come on, you Irons!
Come on, you Irons!
Look out, mate.
We're the most watched country in the world.
Keep your head down.
Sweet, innit? Come on.
...you monkeys!
Get the fuck out of here!
Come on, you Irons!
Fucking have him, my son.
He's in the box.
What the fuck?!
Let's go!
Go on, you fucking kill me!
Come on!
- Dirty northern bastards!
- You fucking wanker!
Come on, you fucking Zulu cunt!
I want you, you cunt! You fucking mug!
I don't fucking believe it! He's over there!
It's fucking Bovver! Look, he's over there!
Go on, son!
Fucking A!
There he is. Oi, Bov. Fucking quality, son.
- Stuff of legend.
- You had your hands full, didn't you?
It ain't over yet.
Word is these twats are gonna have a pop.
- What you heard?
- The usual. Fucking Zulus.
They're mobbing up on the Tube right now.
It's gonna kick off near East Ham.
- Time to go, then, boys.
- What are we standing here for?
- Let's get 'em.
- Maybe I should head home.
- You know where you're going?
- Bank station, right?
Yeah. Keep your head down.
Birmingham lot will be on the Tube.
- I'll manage.
- Wouldn't he be better in a creche?
Don't get on at East Ham.
Any trouble, just walk the other way.
- Don't worry.
- Let's go, eh?
Get him!
- Look, I don't want any trouble!
- A fucking Yank.
- Why's a Yank running with the GSE?
- I don't know anything about the GSE.
- I'm just a tourist.
- How about we leave you with a souvenir?
- Ever heard of a Chelsea grin, huh?
- Come on, please!
Do you take American Express?
I bet the Major gave out
his share of Chelsea grins,
back when the GSE weren't so sloppy
to leave one of their own behind.
We don't leave our mates behind.
- You horrible bastard.
- Look, he's getting away! Let's go!
- Down this side.
- I'll get the van.
- Where the fuck's he gone?
- Where the fuck is he?
I'm getting too old for this shit.
Seriously, I could use a beer and a lie-down.
- Oh, here he is.
- Get it out of first.
- Can't get it out your mum.
- She has to be financed.
- Come on, back to the Abbey.
- Whose round is it?
- Whose round do you think it is?
- It's not my round.
- Oh, shut up moaning.
It stinks.
- Fuck off!
- Come on, boys. Let's fucking have him!
Let's have the little cunt!
- Zulu! Zulu! Zulu! Zulu! Zulu!
- What the fuck's that?
Well, come on, then! What you fucking
standing there for, you cunts?
Oh, here we go.
- Let's get out of here!
- What?
- There's 20 guys!
- You don't run when you're with us.
- You stand your ground and fight.
- I don't know how.
Just think of someone you hate.
Come on, then!
Get up, you fucking twat! Come on!
Ah, you fucking... Get off!
Come on!
Come on! Come on! Come on!
- Fuck me!
- What do you make of that, then?
- What a fucking result!
- You were a fucking maniac, Matt.
Fair play, son. There's plenty
who would've bottled it and done a runner.
- Good for you. I'm proud of you.
- Who was he, then?
- Who?
- The geezer you was just fighting.
- Jeremy Van fucking Holden.
- You done yourself proud, mate.
Now we've all stopped kissing each other's
arses, see the first punch he threw?
- On the feminine side.
- A bit gay.
- Little bit Larry Grayson.
- Come on.
- Come on, yous all wanna get pinched?
- Let's push him out.
Morning, sunshine. How do you feel?
Oh, a little sore.
English breakfast, double dose of aspirin,
you'll feel sweet as a nut, mate.
- Yeah.
- I gotta piss like a racehorse.
Fucking journos. Look at this.
West Ham wins three nil
in a blinding performance
and our little scrap makes the headline.
- Bloody muckrakers.
- So, what is this?
Bollocks journo bullshit.
- No, no, this. The GSE.
- Shh! Lower it, son.
Are you guys like an organised
political movement or something?
No, mate. We're a firm.
You never heard of a firm in the States?
- No.
- Every football team in Europe's got a firm.
Some have two.
Christ, I forgot how clueless you Yanks are.
All you've seen of us
are the stadium riots on TV. Come on.
Two bacon sarnies.
See, West Ham football's mediocre, but
our firm is top notch and everyone knows it.
The GSE. Green Street Elite.
Arsenal: Great football, shit firm. The Gooners.
Tottenham: Shit football and a shit firm.
The Yids, they're called.
I put their main lad
through a phone-box window.
- What about Millwall?
- Ah, Millwall.
Where to even fucking begin with Millwall?
Millwall and West Ham firms hate each other
more than any other firms.
- Sort of like the Yankees and the Red Sox.
- More like the Israelis and the Palestinians.
We haven't played Millwall in ten years.
Their top boy's this geezer
named Tommy Hatcher. Horrible old cunt.
Back in the Major's day,
Tommy's son was killed in a scrap.
After that, he went completely mental,
lost the plot.
- Who's the Major?
- Ah, the Major. Quite a legend round here.
He ran the GSE in the '90s
when I was coming up.
Hardest bastard you ever saw.
They say we kind of lost our way when he left.
But believe me, my boys are bringing
the old GSE reputation right back.
So, basically, firms are gangs.
Kind of. But we're a far cry
from all that Bloods and Crips bullshit.
Shooting a machine-gun out of a moving car
at an eight-year-old girl, that's just cowardly.
See, we might be into fighting and all that,
but it's really about reputation.
Humiliating another mob in a row
or doing something the other firms
get to hear or talk about.
Like a Yank in his first fight
battering one of Birmingham's main lads.
- Here you are, love, sit down.
- Thank you.
I don't know how to thank you
for what you did.
Don't give it another thought.
Yesterday was a good result for us.
We had a laugh, a few pints,
cheered on the mighty Hammers.
We was completely outnumbered,
but we stuck by our mates
and we stood our ground, no matter what.
That's what it's all about.
- Looking at the fucking state of him.
- Don't fucking start, all right?
What did I say to you?
One simple thing: No trouble.
It had nothing to do with me.
He's walking home, he gets jumped.
- He's lucky we was there.
- You're a real hero, ain't you, mate?
And you saw the whole thing from your sofa?
Concentrate on your family
and leave my business to me.
My family? What is it with you, eh?
Do you want mum to visit you in the nick?
Maybe you want the plot next to dad.
- Oh, my God! Matt, what happened?
- Shannon, I'm fine.
Pete, can't you see
what you're doing to this family?
All I see is a scared old man.
- Don't talk to me like that!
- You got the wrong idea.
- Get your fucking hands off me!
- Stop it! Steve! Stop it!
Get the fuck out! Get out! Fuck! Shit.
Babe, I'm so sorry.
Well, that weren't the smartest of moves, mate.
But thanks, yeah?
- Fancy a pint?
- No.
Oh, come on. You're the one
that's got to buy the bleeding thing.
Get your cash out.
The fat bird's about to sing.
Ah, shot.
Jesus! You two joined
at the fucking hip or what?
- Leave it out, Bov. It's getting old.
- No, I'm starting to wonder about you two.
If I didn't know any better,
I'd say you was a couple of gay boys.
Bov, we've known each other
a long time, yeah?
I trust you more than any other bloke I know.
But you're getting dangerously close
to crossing the line with me.
If you've got a problem,
then it's your fucking problem, not mine.
But if you want to discuss it further,
we can go outside.
- Beers, boys.
- Hey, Bov. It's your shot, mate.
Come on. Let's crack on with the game.
Pete. Everything all right, mate?
I can't believe you came all this way
and didn't even stay the night.
- I don't want to mess anything else up.
- You didn't mess anything up.
- So you and Steve are OK?
- Yeah. Yeah, we're fine.
All right, well, I'll call you from Pete's.
Matt. Please don't go.
Steve feels so horrible about what happened
and he really wants you to stay with us,
and so do I.
- I don't want you to stay with Pete.
- Well, I wanna stay with Pete.
Pete and his thug friends aren't the answer.
What are you talking about? What answer?
I've been begging you to come and visit me
for the last three years
and you didn't even come to my wedding and...
You don't know my husband,
haven't held your nephew,
and you show up on my doorstep yesterday
and you're leaving already.
Look who's talking. You ran
to another fucking country after Mom died.
I'm sorry.
- You come and visit me.
- Yeah, of course.
Jeremy Van Holden?
Sounds like a cunt.
Mate, if he'd done that to me,
I'd smash seven shades of shit out of him.
Sounds like these Harvard boys
would slit your throat in your sleep.
What was you studying,
before this geezer stitched you up?
- History.
- History? I teach history.
- You teach?
- Yes, cheeky slag.
History and PE. What, did you think
the GSE paid a bloody wage?
I'm smart as fuck.
Come on, it's brass monkeys out here.
Class, today we have
an extraordinarily distinguished guest.
Mr Buckner is an American who went to the
finest university in the United States, Harvard.
But despite his prestigious education,
Mr Buckner still thinks that baseball
is better than football.
I know, boys. It's an utter sin.
It's our job to save this heathen
from his evil ways
and teach him what really matters in life,
and that is?
- Football!
- Exactly. We're going to play five-a-side.
Mr Buckner will be goalie for the away colours.
Now, go easy on him, boys.
You know how these Americans bruise.
How do we keep this fair?
I let every other ball go through?
I wouldn't worry about that.
All right. You ready?
Go on, son.
That's it! That's it!
Ah, beautiful! Beautiful!
Relax, kids.
Go on, Duncan. Go on, Duncan,
have it. Take it all the way.
Have it. Have a dig, mate.
- Oh, beautiful goal!
All right, that's it.
What was that?
Go on, my son.
Beautiful. Sheer beauty.
- Lovely.
All right. Home team: 10. Away team: 3.
Thanks to some pathetic goalkeeping
from the away keeper.
- All right, get yourselves changed, boys.
- Played.
- That's what I call a real ass-whipping.
- You set me up.
That was like
the junior Olympic football team, right?
No, mate. Just regular English boys.
We've got history next.
Say a few words about
the American War of Independence.
- They'd get a kick out of a real live colonial.
- American history isn't really my specialty.
Mate, they're ten.
Teach them whatever you want.
Well, I sort of have plans
with Shannon this afternoon.
- We'll have a beer later.
- Yeah, see you at the pub.
All right, mate. Who are you? Who are you?
But these kids... He set me up, man. I'm
thinking this is some class of kids, little ones.
Shut up.
- They're coming in everywhere...
- Oh, come on.
No, no. No.
- Fat cunt.
- Fucking fat bastard.
- Hello, mate.
- Get the fucking chips in.
Well, I'll be fucked.
If it ain't my old mate Bovver.
How are you doing, son, all right?
I'll say one thing, you got some fucking front
showing your face over this side of the water.
There's plenty of people round here love to kick
your fucking arse, given half the chance.
- There's four of 'em stood over there.
- Fucking right, son.
So, Bov, what's all this I'm hearing about
your firm gone all fucking international, eh?
Don't you even fucking think
about ignoring me, you little cunt.
Now, I said what's all this bollocks I'm hearing
about you having a little Yank on the firm?
It's only temporary.
- Temporary, eh?
Do you think I can get a bit of quiet here?
I'm trying to have a fucking conversation!
- What's his problem?
- Shh.
So, look at you, little Bovver.
All grown up now, look.
- Where's your other little girl...?
- Petey.
Petey? She at home, is she?
Trying to get her little toes
into the Major's big fucking shoes?
I guess we was pretty small back then, son.
Back in your day.
You always did have a bit of bottle, you.
- So tell me, Bov. You come over to Millwall.
- Is he a bit of a bully?
- Did you come alone?
What do you think?
Do you think that'd wind him up?
- Excuse me a minute, Bov.
Hello. I'm Tommy. Tommy Hatcher.
- Yeah, I know.
- Oh, you know?
Well, now, you see, that's bad.
That's really, really bad.
You ain't got no fucking excuse
for not keeping that shit cunt of yours quiet.
George, he can't talk to me like that.
George, your bird hasn't stopped
fucking rabbiting since I've walked in here!
Now, can I recommend that you shut her up?
So I can continue my conversation
with our guest there, Bovver,
of the once-proud GSE firm.
- You can't tell me... Oh, my God!
- See what she's doing?
Does she ever fucking, sodding, ever...?
- That's enough!
- That's enough?
I'll tell you when it's enough, son, all right?
Tommy, the Paki's called the Old Bill, mate.
We best fuck off.
Tommy, we best fuck off sharpish, mate.
I'll see you again. Soon, Bov.
I don't reckon I'll be back till tomorrow night.
- Be gentle with her. And remember, left side.
- Left side. Right.
- You seem nervous.
- Nervous? Fuck off.
What's on your mind, then?
Two little words keep every Hammer
in England up all night: United away.
- Oi, oi!
- Aye aye!
- All right, mate. You all right?
- Yeah, all right, big man?
- Hello, Matt.
- All right?
- Where's Bovver?
- Fuck knows.
He's been a pain in the arse all week. PMS.
Pre-Match Stress.
He's being a right cunt at the minute.
- Come on, Pete. The train's in five minutes.
- Yeah, hang on.
His phone's off. I can't believe
he's gonna pull a runner for United away.
They'll be gunning for you, too, after the job
you pulled on their top boy last year.
What happened last year?
- I may have gone a bit over the top.
- Just a bit.
- Where's Dave? Have you heard from him?
- Have you?
Oh, everything's just falling
right into place, isn't it?
- I'll go.
- No, mate.
What? You can't just go up there
with lke and Swill.
No offence, but we can't
take passengers on this trip.
- Go on, piss off. Give you a bell later.
- How many reds d'you reckon'll turn up?
Fuck knows.
- Catch.
- How's that?
The 2.55 train to Manchester...
Oi.
- All right, lads? Bovver?
- Pete.
- I thought we agreed to meet in the car park.
- Decided to wait here.
You want to play the wanker,
that's fine with me.
But leave it out till we've got today out the way.
- All right, mate?
- Sweet.
Come on, boys. Let's have it!
- I'm not lending you any more money.
- For fuck's sake, come on, play the game.
- You never paid me the last time, you cunt.
- You taking the piss or what?
- What are you doing?
- I thought it was just the three of you.
Oh, isn't that sweet?
This what you were planning, eh?
I ain't going in with that fucking mug.
- Sit down, mate.
- Hello, mate.
- Who's calling what here?
- Get on with the game.
He's here now.
- Dave, where are you?
- Sorry I missed you. Flight was an hour late.
- Fly faster.
- I'm here.
- What, Manchester?
- Yeah.
There's 40 of them waiting here,
all getting very fucking excited.
Listen.
United!
- Bov.
- Unitedl Unitedl Unitedl
Fuck.
- Do you hear that?
- Yeah, man.
They're waiting here for you.
Don't roll into Manchester.
- All right, nice one.
- All right, laters.
- We are fucked.
- What's happening?
- They're waiting for us at the station.
- They know we're on here?
- Must have had a scout watching us.
- How many?
- 40, 50.
- Can't we just get off at the next station?
Fucking express train.
Don't stop till Manchester.
Is that right, bruv?
Come on, boys.
If we don't show up now, they'll claim a result.
- We gotta get to that station first.
- We just got away.
You shouldn't even be here!
This is what it's all about.
- It's what we fucking live for!
- Fuck him!
Here's the plan. Ike, call Dave.
Tell him what's happening.
It's about 12 miles to Manchester.
We need a couple of cabs immediately.
Fuck! Where's all the fucking cabs?
- Pete, I got an idea.
- I thought I told you to shut up.
Fuck you, Bovver.
Cut it! Fucking cut it out!
What is it?
Who the fuck are Man United?
MP, this is MM5
in the vicinity of the last report responding.
Where the fuck are these cunts? That train
should've been here ten minutes ago.
They'll be here soon.
There's no way off that train.
Stay sharp, lads. And remember,
Nigel gets that Dunham cunt all to himself.
Nice one.
- What the fuck do you want?
- Sorry, guys.
We're with Paramount Pictures,
shooting the new Hugh Grant film.
- We gotta get this gear through.
- Hugh Grant film?
Any decent women in it?
Cameron Diaz, I think.
I hope so. She's fit as fuck.
Let this cunt through!
Thanks.
Give me 30 seconds,
then I'd get the fuck out of here.
Get off me, you fucking monkey!
We could have died
that day in Manchester.
Everybody knew it. But we didn't.
Ike said later that the story travelled across
England faster than the death of Lady Di.
The GSE were finally back.
Suddenly, I was part of the firm
with the best rep in London.
- The old guards.
- The old guards.
People around town
had heard of me.
They would hear my accent and say.
"So you're the Yank."
United! United! United!
You know the best part?
It isn't knowing that your friends
have your back.
It's knowing that you have
your friends' back.
They're on me.
I'd never lived closer to danger.
But I'd never felt safer.
I'd never felt more confident.
And people could spot it
from a mile away.
And as for this, the violence,
I gotta be honest.
It grew on me.
Once you've taken a few punches
and realise you're not made of glass,
you don't feel alive unless you're
pushing yourself as far as you can go.
So what couldn't you tell me...?
I have to find out from your sister
that you're expelled?
- Why didn't you call me?
- I did.
- Your machine answered.
- You could have left a message.
Yeah, well, I'm tired of having a relationship
with your voicemail.
- You know what? I don't need this.
- Hey, Matt!
Matt, come on.
- Shannon says you were set up. Is that true?
- Yes.
- Why didn't you find me?
- Why didn't I find you?
- What's your fucking point?
- My point is, this doesn't look good, Matt.
You say that you're set up.
You don't contact your father?
We could've fought this if you were innocent.
- If I were innocent?
- If you're innocent,
- Why didn't you ask for help?
- You think I'm a drug dealer?
- I don't know.
- What do you think?
- I don't know.
- Well, that's why I didn't find you.
Of course you don't know what to think.
You don't really know anything about me.
- So you came to England?
- Yeah.
- OK, what now, Matt? What's the plan?
- What do you really want?
- It's just a question.
- Listen, Carl.
Do you really expect me
to unburden myself to you?
You just show up and decide
you're the Dad again?
Look, I have to go to the London Times.
- You're unbelievable. You know that?
- Just someone I'd like you to meet.
I'm not five years old anymore.
It takes a little bit more to manipulate me.
An old friend from my Tribune days.
You thought all it takes
is a handshake from the editor
and I'll have my old life back?
It's just a free lunch.
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,
to the Quarterfinal Draw
for the Football Association Cup.
The oldest and most prestigious tournament
in World Cup Football.
Fortunately, today we have with us
the West Ham legend, Mr Frank McAvennie
and chairman for our sponsors,
Mr Phil Peters.
As usual, the home team
will be drawn first. Frank.
- Number two.
- Number two. Cardiff City
- will play...
- Number three, Liverpool.
- Yes.
- Shhh!
- Number seven...
- Number seven, Sunderland will play...
- Number six.
- Number six, Newcastle United.
- Bit of a North-East derby.
- Yes.
- Number eight.
- Number eight, West Ham United...
...will play...
...number five, Millwall.
- Fucking yes!
- Yes!
- Yes!
- Come on, you Irons!
Fucking nice.
Bov, mate, we've got them, mate.
Oi, bruv, this is gonna go off.
Oi, oi, oi...
You won't believe who just
walked into the Times.
What? Who?
Our little Yank mate.
I fucking knew it. I knew there was
something dodgy about that little cunt.
Yeah, mate, sly.
- Tell you what. Pick me up after work.
- All right. I'll see you after work. Sweet.
You know, your sister's worried sick
about you.
She says you're running around
with some kind of gang.
It's not a gang, Dad. They're my friends.
- Are you at least writing about it?
- Am I writing about it? No.
Hey, Matt, listen.
I want you to come home with me.
- What?!
- Look.
You may not trust me as your father,
but as a fellow journalist,
your reputation is all you have.
You've gotta get back to Harvard
and clear your name.
- We can fight it together.
- Forget it, Dad.
- I'm not going home.
- Jesus...
Look, if it makes you feel better,
I am keeping a journal.
It's one thing you taught me I held onto.
I knew that.
I was just making sure.
- Hey, Steve.
- How you doing?
Good to see you.
- Matt.
- Hey.
I'm gonna change.
What time's your flight?
Take your time.
My cab will be here in half an hour.
I have to say farewell to my grandson.
I gotta take off, Dad.
Oh. OK, Matt.
Look, I know things have not been...
Great to see you.
- How you doing?
- Good.
So you'll be celebrating the draw
with the lads?
The draw. Wait, who did we get?
- You don't know?
- No.
- Oh, come on, Steve. Who?
- Millwall.
At home.
Huh!
Hello.
Don't we want to play?
- Hey, gorgeous.
- Hey.
- You OK?
- Mm.
Yeah, I was just watching my dad
playing with Ben.
He's already a better grandfather
than he ever was a dad.
You know, he seems like
a decent bloke now.
For a bloody journo.
So he was an arsehole
when you were growing up.
I guess that's why neither of you
joined the old man's racket.
What do you mean?
- You know. Followed in his footsteps.
- What are you talking about? Matt did.
What do you mean?
Matt was always a little more fascinated
with our absentee father than I was.
Shannon, what do you mean, "Matt did"?
That's what Matt studied at Harvard.
He was a journalism major.
I just really hope that he gets back to it.
You know, once he gets your brother
out of his system.
So he's a Yank and an undercover journo.
Looks like we'll have to give him two funerals.
- We hate Millwall!
- What are you doing here?
- I want a word with you outside.
- What happened? Is Shannon OK?
- Yeah, Shannon's fine.
Why didn't you tell me?
Steve Dunham just walked in.
- Why didn't you say you're doing journalism?
- I'm not, I quit. What's the difference?
Well, listen, mate, to some people,
it makes a huge difference.
What would you know about that?
Listen. I like you, but you have no idea
what you're getting into.
I've gotta tell my brother
that his new best mate is a journalist.
So me and you are going outside now.
A toast.
Stevie Dunham, back in the Abbey
after all these years.
Welcome home, Major. The Major!
Major! Major! Major!
GSE! GSE! GSE!
Hang on.
All right, boys. What you doing here?
- The Yank here?
- No, he's...
- A fucking undercover journo.
- What?
- No, bollocks.
- No, it's straight, mate.
I seen him down at the Times walking out.
Shaking hands, proper pally.
What's that all about?
Think about. Drops in out of nowhere.
Never been in a scrap in his life.
Snugs in nice and tight with a top boy
at a firm.
For fuck's sake, Pete,
what else was he doing at the Times?
No, that means fuck all.
Could've been any one of a hundred reasons
he was down there.
- This time I'd like to make sure of that myself.
- You sure of this, Bov?
'Cause if you're coming in here like this,
you fucking well better be.
Yeah, watch out, son.
- What? This his, is it?
- Yeah.
Yeah? What the fuck is this?
Here, Keith, you know about all this
computer stuff. Have a look.
What's this?
Fucking cunt.
Here we go.
"First match:
West Ham v. Birmingham. Home.
"Pete brought me to the Brigid Abbey Pub
on Walsh Road,
"his main hangout,
and introduced me to his gang."
Oh, look, we're a fucking gang now.
Make it go up.
"Bovver is Pete's thuggish righthand man.
"Keith is sort of Bovver's enforcer."
You happy now? We're all in there.
He didn't say nothing about me.
Wait here. I'll put some clothes on.
- So you're the Major?
- I was the Major.
I guess to some I still am.
Terry here was my righthand man
back in the glory days.
That was a long time ago, though, mate.
Why'd you get out of it?
I was a crazy bastard back then.
All I fucking cared about was my reputation
amongst the firms of England.
You've heard all the stories
about Millwall, yeah?
Last match I went to was Millwall-West Ham.
We're talking a good ten years ago.
I mean, we'd been waiting for this match
all year.
At Millwall. Yeah, stepping into their ground.
Completely outnumbered.
We were fucking wired from the start.
Now, Tommy Hatcher,
he was their main man back then.
He used to bring his 12-year-old boy
to the grounds, Tommy Jr.
Always banging on how he brought this kid up
to be like a little pitbull.
Well, we lost that match, three nil.
And those Millwall cunts
started laughing at us.
And I just fucking snapped.
I couldn't let it lie, you know?
So I assembled all our troops
and we hunted them down.
I saw that little lad go down.
Wait! No!
And I saw his skull get crushed
under the boots of the GSE.
I never went to another match after that.
And I left "The Major" behind.
And that's when I met your sister.
She was my angel. She really saved me.
Showed me a new life.
Helped me forget all this bollocks.
And she swore she'd leave me
if I ever returned to it.
And when it comes back to me, and
believe me, it fucking does, that madness...
I mean, when I hear the roar of the stadium
on match day,
the lads calling me to get pissed
out of me fucking tree...
When I think of that,
I think about getting back into it...
And Shannon and Ben, they remind me...
...there's more to life than all this.
Get all those juicy details, mate?
Writing it all down?
- What?
- You fucking journo cunt!
- You sure you know what you're doing here?
- He's fucking undercover.
- Don't tell him nothing!
- I said, are you sure?
What? You already knew.
All I knew is that he studied journalism,
right, at Harvard. But he's dropped out.
We found his journal,
full of stories about all of us.
- It's a fucking diary!
- Ned saw you at the Times
with a couple of journos.
That was my Dad.
He's the journalist, you knew that.
- His old man's a journo and you knew.
- That don't mean nothing yet.
He studies to be a journo,
his old man is a journo.
What's the difference?
You let one of them get in with us.
- I wasn't trying to get anything.
- You, shut the...!
I don't care who he is.
You don't do someone on the deck.
What's wrong with you? He's gonna
bury us all and you're just gonna watch?
No. Now, Steve, you're the Major.
You started this firm.
We got the biggest ruck of our lives
coming up,
and your brother's too much
of a bottle-job to lead us.
The GSE is Pete's firm. All right?
He calls the shots.
Well, fuck the lot of you!
GSE.
Get out of the fucking way! Move!
Get yourself cleaned up.
Tommy.
This is it, mate. We're finally gonna get back
at those fucking Hammer cunts, eh?
Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!
The fuck's he doing here?
Marky, sit down, son. Sweet.
- That's it. Do as you're told, you mug.
- Fuck off.
Bovver. You know, we're gonna have
to stop meeting like this, don't you, son?
People are gonna start to talk. What you doing
up so late on a school night?
Shouldn't you be at home with your pals all
shitting at the thought of us turning you over?
What, you had a lover's tiff?
What do you want, Bov?
Fucking Yank's an undercover journo.
He's at our boozer now.
Tom, you gotta give him the chop.
He's got 'em eating
out of the palm of his hand.
What makes you think that I'd wanna
sort that out for you, eh?
Because the Major's there too.
Stevie Dunham's in there?
- Thanks, Pete.
- Shut up! History student my arse.
- Who the fuck are you?
- Sorry I lied about being a history major,
but I'm not a journalist.
It don't look fucking good, does it?
- Why are you keeping a record?
- It's a journal. I've kept that my entire life.
- Are you working for the Times?
- No. I'm telling you the truth.
You've gotta trust me, Pete.
Mate, you've put me right fucking in it.
If I don't convince those boys that
the head of their firm was not just taken
by a fucking Yank journo,
the GSE is done.
So I'm gonna go out there and I'm
gonna tell them that Bov's got it wrong.
And that you're one of us.
And I had better be fucking right.
So, Bovver, is there anything else
you wanna tell us?
Tom, please.
This is how it's got to go down...
You fucking... Go on, Marc.
Afraid you're the only one
going down, little Bovver.
Grass.
Fuck!
This shit with Bovver
could tear this firm apart.
Mate, I need you.
Stay with us, just through Millwall.
I'm not gonna help you.
I made a promise to my wife and kid, all right?
And I'm sticking to it.
You know, there comes a time
when the best reputation you can have
is the one with your family...
- Down, get the fuck down!
- Hello, boys.
Jesus!
Pete! Pete, come on, man!
Terry.
Fuck off!
Terry!
Look who's back in the fucking Abbey
after all these years.
Tommy, I'm done with all this, mate.
Retired, did you?
Got yourself a Yank wife, did you?
Had a son of your own, did you?
I had a son once!
Do you remember him?!
Do you fucking remember him?!
- I'm sorry!
- It's too late!
You fuck!
Tommy!
- You listen to me.
- Tommy!
You die tonight, and me and you are even.
It's done! Let's go!
- Pete! Over here, mate, quick.
- Jesus, fucking hanging here, like!
- Ah, fucking hell.
- Get him down.
I've messed.
Bovver, what the fuck did you do?
Get a fucking car!
Move!
Agh! Fucking hell!
Move!
Get in there.
Get him the fuck in the car!
Get in! Go!
Go! Fucking go!
Get out of the way! Move, move!
Somebody help!
Help us, he's been fucking stabbed!
Come on, hurry!
Fucking hurry up!
Resus. Go, go.
- What did he say?
- He's hanging on.
Trusting lads.
You always said trusting lads
was my problem, Bov.
I trust lads too much.
Trust the Yank too much.
This is how you prove your point?
Backstabbing me? Teaming up
with Tommy Hatcher to kill the Major?
Kill my fucking brother?!
I'll kill Tommy.
Just say the word and I'll do it.
I don't need you for that.
I don't need you for anything anymore.
Go away.
Please, I fucked up...
Shannon.
Sick! You're so sick!
I'm so sorry.
I know.
The doctor said that you're gonna be OK.
He said it's just gonna take a little time.
We're leaving tomorrow.
It's not safe for us here now.
- How is he?
- He's hanging in there.
- So, what now?
- You let Tommy know I want a straightener.
- Tomorrow.
- All right.
We finish this once and for all.
Somewhere quiet.
Away from Old Bill.
- Your mate still runs security at Trinity Wharf?
- Yeah.
- Get hold of him. Set it up.
- Sure.
Come on.
What's going on?
Ben and I are on the noon flight
to Boston.
You can't leave him.
He was trying to protect us.
- You can't do this to him, Shannon.
- Yes, she can. She has to.
So should you.
I'm going with you to that wharf tomorrow.
Jesus Christ!
They crash our pub, they put your brother
in the hospital.
- That ain't your problem anymore.
- What are you talking about?
- I've got just as much at stake here as you do.
- Matt, listen to me.
It's time to go home.
- I don't know where my home is anymore.
- I think we both know where it ain't.
Mate, this is my fight.
It's my brother in the hospital.
I'll take care of Tommy.
Go home, mate.
You're doing the right thing, Matt.
Yeah.
You know that back home nobody's
gonna care about your rep here.
You know that, right?
I'm gonna call a cab.
- Where's Matt?
- Finally went home.
Come on.
I know, fucking terrible.
This is Charlie 27,
MP CB 501, at Brixton Road, disturbance...
The cab's on its... way.
Matt?
Matt?
Matt?
- Fucking have 'em!
- Come on!
Come on!
You fucking mug!
At least one of you Dunham cunts
are gonna pay for my fucking boy!
Me old mate, Bovver, you never could
turn down a good scrap.
You know me, bruv.
Come on, get him up!
Holy shit! Shannon!
Shannon! Stop!
Shannon, over here!
Matt, don't be a fucking idiot!
Get her out of here! Shannon, stop!
- Matt!
- Wait, Pete, what are you doing?
Fucking hell, Tommy.
It's Steve Dunham's wife.
If Tommy reaches that car,
do you know what he'll do to her?
He's a fucking animal!
Hello, love.
Matt!
Let me in, you slut!
I'll smash this fucking window in!
I'll smash this fucking window.
Are you OK? Is Ben OK?
Matt!
You're gonna get it now, you little Yank!
Bov, wanna make up
for what you've done?
Get my brother's family out of here.
Tommy! Don't you wanna
finish me off, then?
You're already finished, little Petey.
The NTO will take care of you in a minute,
you mug.
We didn't kill your son, Tommy! You did!
You should have protected him, mate.
He was your son!
- Don't you talk about my fucking son!
- He was your son!
Get in the fucking motor!
Get in the fucking car!
He's only a poor little hummer!
His face was all battered and torn!
He made me feel sick,
I hit him with a brick!
Now the cunt's not laughing
or singing no more!
- He's not laughing at us...
- That's enough.
I'll get us out of here! Go!
- You can't leave him.
- Pete! Pete!
Fucking help him!
Pete Dunham's life taught me
that there's a time to stand your ground.
His death taught me there's a time
to walk away.
I would never have the chance to thank him.
But I could live in a way
that would honour him.
Too much.
Well, congrats on the Epstein account,
Van Holden.
That should be a nice com-mish.
I bet your father's election
had nothing to do with it.
Fuck you very much, Todd.
Gentlemen, if you will excuse me,
I must partake, once again,
in this restaurant's fine facilities.
Fucking lucky bastard.
What the fuck?!
Matt Buckner? Is that you?
Jesus, Matt, you look like shit.
Hey, Buckner, do you mind?
- You said you'd hook me up.
- What?
I took the fall for you at Harvard.
You said you'd hook me up.
- You're kidding.
- They were your drugs.
You said you had
more to lose, that you'd hook me up.
All right. Yes. I said I would hook you up.
Jesus, Matt, I'm in a meeting right now.
Call my office. Talk to Cindy.
She'll make an appointment for you.
You gotta be joking me,
spineless shit.
- ... that you'd hook me up...
- All right. Yes.
- What the fuck is this?!
- This?
- It's my ticket back to Harvard.
- Give me that!
I wouldn't do that.
United! United! United!