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I know I am I'm sure I am
I'm West Ham till I die
Go on, bruv. Go on, bruv.
Fuck me.
If I knew we was going to a bar mitzvah...
...I would have brought me fucking skullcap.
Mate, Tottenham's due north.
Are you lost? Or just fucking stupid?
- Still a stand-up comedian, eh, Dunham? - Oh, shut up.
All right, mate. You know, back when the Major...
...was doing your job, he wasn't nearly so chatty.
Probably because he wasn't quite so nervous either.
Yeah, the Major always preferred a scrap to your yammer.
- What's all that? What is that? - Yammer?
- You reckon? - Yeah.
Mate, I think you should get on the next train and fuck off out of here.
Before something bad happens.
Maybe we'll be interested to see exactly what that is.
You're not exactly top-flight mob these days, are you?
Hey? More like a two-bob mob.
See? Now that's just plain rude.
But, hey, if you fancy it, who are we to let you down?
You fucking cunt. You.
Let's go.
I'm telling you, you don't need Lewis.
No, I know-- Look, I will trade you Keyshawn and Maddox for Lewis.
- Maddox? - And I'm gonna be losing out on this deal.
Because Keyshawn, he's back with the--
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.
Hey, look, man, he was comeback player of the year.
You know? Not many guys have thrown over 6000 yards.
Come on, you--
Look, let me call you back. I gotta deal with something.
All right, but I--
Buckner.
That's $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.
I mean, a Van Holden getting expelled from Harvard.
There's 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 with the Foreign Correspondence Desk...
...of the Washington Bureau of the Times...
...and I will 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 Ivy-League school in the world could teach me.
Mind the gap. Please stand clear of the closing doors.
Mind the gap. Please stand clear.
All right.
Matt?
- Hi. Hey. - Hey.
- Oh, my God. - Oh, it's so good to see you.
You too. Was there a terrorist attack? What happened here?
Oh, welcome to match-day madness. Tottenham was in town last night.
Are you a soccer fan now?
Don't let them hear you say the word "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 just doesn't make any sense, Matt.
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.
No, I mean, you could tell me if you were taking--
- It's not like that. - 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."
Oh, "I'll be in the Ivory Coast for the next 57 years."
- Kabul this time. - Whatever.
Seriously, though, when you spoke to him, what'd he say?
- I didn't tell him. - He doesn't know?
You know what? If I was you, I probably would've done the same thing.
- Yeah? - Once he finds out that his golden boy...
...just 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.
Hello, mate. How you doing?
- It's good to finally meet you. - And you.
Finally made it across the pond, then, did you?
Yeah.
Who's this? Who's this? Come on.
I missed you. Come here.
- Yeah. - I missed you, my little lord Ben.
- Honey, you want some tea? - That'd be great.
- Tea, huh? - Get over it.
- Good-looking little geezer, isn't he? - He sure is.
Listen, Matt, I'm really pleased you're here, mate...
...but I kind of made some plans for tonight.
I've got this romantic evening set up. Got a babysitter booked...
...and we got tickets to see Chicago.
You wouldn't mind if we go, would you?
Hold on, excuse me.
What a surprise.
- What 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.
- Hey. - Hi, son.
Good to meet you.
Hello, Ben.
I'm West Ham till I die I'm West Ham till I die
I know I am I'm sure I am
- I'm taking him to bed. Hey. - All right, babe.
See you later, Ben.
- Well done. - What?
- I thought you were going to the match. - Well, technically, yes.
But me and the boys got into a bit of a drinking session last night.
One thing's led to another--
- Let me guess. 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 100, could you?
- Yeah, how does "piss off" sound? - Oh, fuck off, come on.
Get some drinks in Get some drinks in
- Get-- - 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 to the match.
Oh, fuck off, you're having a bubble.
Bruv, you know I can't take a Yank to football.
Yeah, you can. And you're gonna be on your best behavior, 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. Okay? 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.
- Yeah, have a good time. - Hurry up.
See you.
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, can't he?
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.
Look, mate...
...I'm not being funny.
But the last thing I wanna do is take you to the match with me.
So here's how it works.
Give me half the money. I'll go to football.
You can have a wander round where Churchill took a tom.
Or whatever it is that you Yanks do in jolly old.
- A tom? - A tom. A tom tit, a shit.
It's rhyming slang. Like "bees and honey" for money.
All right, I can say to you, give me the fucking bees.
I made a promise to Steve.
Well, Steve ain't here, is he, mate? I am. And to be honest...
...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 girl's game?
The Red Sox have a guy that pitches a ball at over 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 ass again.
Save our ass?
Yes. And then, on top of that, you kill half our soldiers in friendly fire.
- That's called an accident. - Yeah, accident, my ass.
- All right. - All right, Dunham.
You all right, mate.
Look...
...we're sort of going into my place of business, right?
Shut up until you're spoken to and you might have a better run of things.
Only thing regarded worse than a Yank around here are coppers and journalists.
- What do you got against journalists? - How long you got?
They're lying fucking scum who'll write anything just to fill papers.
I mean, not your old man, of course. He's the exception maybe.
That's a point. These boys don't know about your old man.
And 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 how your day was or 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!
Welcome back.
- We good? - Yeah, good. yeah, good.
How you doing, mate.
All right, boys. This is Matt, Shannon's brother.
- You got Ned. - Nice to meet you.
- Dave. - Nice to meet you.
- Swill. - Hello, mate.
Ike, and the one with the dodgy haircut's Keith.
- Hey, Keith. - I'll get the drinks in, then.
Yeah, go on, get the drinks in.
- Does that mean I'm getting them? - Every fucking time.
Every fucking time. Every fucking time.
- Fine. - Where's Bovver?
Been in the toilet for 15 minutes.
Like dodgy Ruby or something, down at Bengal last night.
Look, he looks lost.
No, "Ruby Murray" means curry. We call it Cockney rhyming...
- ...slang. - Slang. Like "bees and honey" for money.
- That's it, yeah. - Like "struggle and grunt" for cunt.
- Oh, you went dark. Why'd you go--? - I'm not a cunt.
Like "septic tank" for Yank.
Hello.
- All right, Bovver. - Pete.
- How you doing? All right? - Sweet.
This is Matt, Shannon's brother.
Hey.
That's the proper, right? He don't give a fuck, does he?
Mate, he's practically family.
Mate, it's fucking painful.
Bov's a miserable cunt, but we love him dearly, don't we, boys?
- Sometimes. - Like a fucking brother.
- Matt, grab these two pints for us, will you? - Sure.
- While you're there, get some peanuts. - Sure.
- Good boy. - Bov, come on.
He's all right, man.
What's with all the fucking babysitting?
You know we had a meet set up.
It's all right, Bov. He'll stay out of the way.
- It's not like we didn't have it last night. - What?
That's not the bloody point.
We look like mugs if we set something up and our fearless leader...
...don't show because he's playing Pin the Tail on a Fucking Yank.
No, he's right, man. 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, no, no.
Bloody Karate Kid film? Based on his exploits.
- Really? - Yeah.
- Really? - Yeah, it's true.
- Fucking straight. - Bollocks. Bollocks.
- Come on, why not? - You're lying already.
You've been here fucking five minutes and you're lying.
Hurry up, will you.
Hurry up.
He's now officially cockney, the boy is.
- Oh, East London - Is wonderful
Is wonderful
Oh, East London is wonderful
It's full of tits, fanny and West Ham
Oh, East London is wonderful
- Oh, East London - Oh, East London
- Is wonderful - Is wonderful
Hey, Matt, that bollocks you was talking about earlier about the Karate Kid.
- I mean, that-- That's horse piss, right? - Oh, no, no.
- No, mate. Shit's Gospel of Paul. - Really?
What was your coach's name?
Little chink geezer. What was his name?
- In the first one? - All fucking three of them, for fuck's sake.
Why weren't you in the fourth one? Why'd you let the side down?
I remember thinking why the fuck weren't you in there?
The bird was in it.
Stick your blue flag up your ass
Up your ass Up your ass
What was his fucking name, you cunt? Your mentor, man.
- Yeah, his name. - You owe it all to him.
- I can't remember it. - Wait, wait. Miyagi.
- Miyagi. Fuck's sake. - Miyagi.
- Miyagi, Miyagi. Mr.-- Mr. Miyagi. - Mr. Miyagi. He would have--
He was based on a real person. Based on a real person.
They based him on a real person. That's fucking out of order, if you ask me.
Did they pay him?
- Of course he got fucking paid. - Imagine this. Just imagine this situation.
He's getting all--
No, listen, seriously, imagine the situation.
Someone used you in a fucking film...
...and don't pay you-- Don't take the piss out of me.
I'm talking-- This is real stuff that I'm talking about.
The real Mr. Miyagi!
Listen to this, this is our song.
They reach the sky And like my dreams they fade and die
Fortune's always hiding I've looked everywhere
I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
United. United. United.
Let's go fucking mental Let's go fucking mental
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?
Cover your ass.
Morning, mate.
Hey, Pete, look, I'm gonna head home. I'm not feeling so hot. Jet lag.
Oh, fuck off. You're not missing the game.
You're the one who wanted to learn about "soccer."
I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high They reach the sky
And like my dreams they fade and die
Fortune's always hiding
I've looked everywhere
I'm forever blowing bubbles Pretty bubbles in the air
United. United. United.
Come on, United
Look out, mate. We're the most watched country in the world.
Keep your head down.
Will the parents of a little John Deale please contact the nearest steward.
Our next three games are Fulham away, Everton at home, Newcastle United away.
Sweet, innit? Come on.
Get the fuck out of here.
Come on, United.
- Go on, son, fucking have him. - Forward, team.
In the box, son.
What the fuck?
Come on.
Dirty northern bastards.
You fucking wanker. You fucking--
Come on, you fucking Zulu cunt. Come on, I want you, you cunt.
Come on, you fucking mug.
I don't fucking believe it. He's over there.
Look, it's fucking Bovver. It's fucking Bovver. Look, he's over there.
Go on, son.
Yeah. Yes, fucking A.
Fuck you.
There he is. Oi, Bov. Fucking quality, son. Fucking quality.
- Stuff of legends. - Well, you had your hands full, didn't you?
Don't worry. It ain't over yet, boys.
Word is these twats are gonna have a pop.
- What you heard? - Oh, the usual.
Fucking Zulus. There's like 50 or more mobbing up the tube right now.
It's gonna kick off near East Ham.
- Time to go then, boys. - What are we standing here for?
All right, keep going...
Let's get them.
- I should head home. - You know where you're going.
- Back to Shan's. - Bank Station?
Yeah, but keep your head down. Bloody Birmingham lot will be on the tube.
That's all right, I'll manage.
Fuck, wouldn't he be better in a crèche?
Don't get on at East Ham. If you see trouble, walk the other way.
Yeah, yeah. 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?
GSE? I don't know anything about the GSE. I'm just a tourist.
Oh, well, in that case, how's about we leave you with a proper souvenir?
Ever heard of a Chelsea grin?
No, come on, please.
Do you take American Express?
I bet the Major gave out his shares of Chelsea grins...
...back in the good old days, eh? Back when the GSE weren't so sloppy...
...to leave one of their own behind.
We don't leave our mates behind.
Come on.
You horrible bastard.
- Look, he's getting away. Go. Come on. - Don't lose sight of me.
I'll get the van.
Where the fuck's he gone?
Two-foot small. Where the fuck is he?
I'm getting too old for this shit.
Seriously, I could use a beer and a lie-down.
- Get it out of first. - Can't get it out of your mom.
This has to be financed though, right?
Come on, lads, back to the Abbey.
- Whose round is it? - Whose fucking round do you think?
- You're all supposed to be fucking-- - It's your round, then, Ned.
- Oh, shut up, mate. - It stinks.
- Sit down. - Who was that?
- Fucking hell. - Fuck off.
Come on, boys. This is fucking up.
Let's sock the little cunt.
Zulu! Zulu! Zulu!
What the fuck is that?
Well, come on, eh! What the fuck you standing there for, you cunts?
Fuck off, you cunts!
What the fuck is that?
- Come on, let's get out of here. - What?
- There's 20 guys. - You don't run.
Not when you're with us. You stand your ground and fight.
- Fight? I don't know how to fight. - Just think of someone you hate.
Come on, then.
Get up-- Get up, you fucking twat!
Come on!
You fucking--
Get off me.
GSE! GSE!
Come on! Come on!
Come on!
- Fuck, Pete. - What do you make of that, then?
What a fucking result, Bovver.
You are a fucking maniac, Matt. Look at me.
Fair play, son.
There's plenty would've bottled it and run. You stood your ground.
I'm proud of you. Good.
- Who was he, then? - Who?
The geezer you was just fighting.
Jeremy Van fucking Holden.
You done yourself proud. Now we gotta stop kissing each other's asses. Got to point out.
- You see the first punch he threw. - Yeah.
- A little bit on the feminine side. - A bit gay.
Come on. That was my first hit. Come on.
Come on, youse all wanna get pinched?
His got it, 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.
Here.
I gotta piss like a racehorse.
Fucking journos. Look at this.
West Ham wins 3-0, 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. - Lower it, son.
What are you guys, like an organized political movement or something?
No, mate. We're a firm.
- You never heard of a firm in the States? - No.
All right. 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 is the stadium riots on TV, innit? Come on.
- Here you go love, two bacon sarnies. - Thanks.
See, West Ham football is 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 actually put their main lad through a phone-box window the other day.
- 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.
- Well, who's the Major? - Ah, the Major.
Quite a legend around here.
He ran the GSE in the early '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.
I mean, shooting a machine gun out of a moving car at an 8-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 that 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.
That's all right.
Look, Pete, I don't know how to thank you for what you did for me.
Don't give it another thought. Yesterday was a good result for us.
We had a laugh, we had 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 happened.
That's what it's all about.
- Look at the fucking state of him. - Now, don't fucking start, all right?
What did I say to you? I said to you one simple thing: No trouble.
It had nothing to do with me.
He's walking home. He gets jumped. Bruv, he's lucky we was there.
Right. You're a real hero, ain't you, mate?
You saw the whole thing from your sofa, did you?
Tell you what, bruv. You concentrate on your family...
- ...and leave my business to me, all right? - My family? What is it with you, eh?
Do you want Mom to come and 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-- - Get off him! You got the wrong idea.
- Get your hands off me! - Stop it!
Steve! Leave it, leave it.
Get the fuck out. Get out!
Lying little 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's that's gotta buy the bleeding thing.
Get your cash out, the fat bird's about to sing.
- So you still got your dough? You got it? - Yeah.
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.
I mean, 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 got a problem, then it's your fucking problem. Not mine.
But if you wanna discuss it further, we can go outside.
Beers, boys.
- Hey, Bov, come on. It's your shot, mate. - Pete.
- Yeah, come on. Fuck all that. - Go on with the game, mate.
- Pete. - Watch out.
Everything all right, mate?
I can't believe that you came all this way and you didn't even stay the night.
I don't want to mess anything else up for you.
Oh, you didn't mess anything up.
- So you and Steve are okay? - Yeah. Yeah, we're fine.
All right, well, I'll call you from Pete's.
Matt.
Please don't go.
It's just 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.
You know Pete and his thug friends aren't the answer.
What are you talking about? What answer?
It's just, I've been begging you to come and visit me for the last three years...
...and you-- You didn't even come to my wedding...
...and you don't know my husband, and you haven't held your nephew...
...and you show up yesterday and you're leaving already--
Look who's talking. I mean, you ran to another fucking country after Mom died.
I'm sorry.
- Will 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? Do you think the GSE pay the bloody wage?
Mate, 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.
Now, 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 gonna play five-a-side. Mr. Buckner will be goalie for the away colors.
Now, go easy on him, boys. You know how these Americans bruise.
So how do we keep this fair?
I should let every other ball go through?
I wouldn't worry about that, mate.
All right. You ready?
Go on, son.
That's it, that's it.
Beautiful. Beautiful. Thing of beauty.
Yes, yes.
Go on, Duncan.
Go on, son. Get out of it. Take it all the way.
Have it. Have it in, mate.
All right, that's it.
What was that?
Beautiful. Oh, it's such a beauty.
I love it.
All right, kids.
All right, let's go. Home team 10, away team 3.
Thanks to some pathetic goalkeeping from the away keeper.
All right, get yourselves changed, boys, all right?
- Now, that's what I call a real ass-whipping. - Oh, you set me up.
That was like the Junior Olympic football team, right?
No, mate, just regular English boys.
We got history next. Why don't you come say a few words...
...about the American War of Independence.
They'd get a kick out of hearing it from a colonial.
Well, American history isn't really my specialty.
Mate, they're 10. Teach them whatever you want.
Well, I sort of have plans with Shannon this afternoon. So...
Fuck you, then. We'll have a beer later, yeah?
- Yeah, see you at the pub. - All right, mate.
Who are you! Who are you!
These kids. He set me up, man.
I'm in there thinking this is some class of kids.
Shut up.
And they're coming in fucking everywhere.
Oh, come on.
You say that?
I saved more goals than you say.
- No, no. No. - No.
- Jesus. - Look at that fat cunt.
You fucking little bastard.
Go on, then. Get the fucking chips in.
Well, I'll be fucked.
If it ain't my old mate Bovver.
How you doing, son? All right?
I'll say one thing for you. You got some fucking front...
...showing your face over this side of the water.
There's plenty of people here love to kick your fucking ass, given half the chance.
There's four of them stood over there.
Fucking right, son.
So tell me, what's this I'm hearing...
...about your firm gone all fucking international?
Don't you even fucking think about ignoring me, you little cunt.
Now, I said, what's this bollocks I'm hearing about you having a little Yank on the firm?
It's only temporary.
Temporary, eh?
Do you think I might be able to get a bit of quiet here?
I'm trying to have a fucking conversation.
What's his problem?
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?
Yeah, I guess he 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.
Did you come alone?
Should I wind him up? If I 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.
Because now you ain't got no excuse for not keeping that shit cunt of yours quiet.
Excuse me? George, you can't let him talk to me like that.
George, your bird hasn't stop 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-- My God!
You see what she's doing? Does she ever fucking stop?
Ever, fucking, ever?
- That's enough! - That's enough?
I'll tell you when it's enough, son, all right?
Look at her. Tommy.
The Paki's called the old bill, mate. Come on, 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?
Just two little words keep every Hammer in England up all night.
United. Away.
- Oi, oi. - All right, boys.
Aye, aye.
- All right, mate. You all right? - Yeah, all right, big man.
- How's it going? - Good.
Hello, Matt.
- Where's Bovver? - Fuck knows.
He's been a pain in the ass all week. Must have PMS.
Pre-match stress. Guy's being a right cunt at the minute, isn't he?
- Come on, Pete, the train's in five minutes. - Yeah, hang on.
His fucking phone is off. I can't believe he's gonna pull a runner for United away.
They're gonna 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. - Yeah, just a bit?
- Where's Dave? You heard from him? - Have you?
Oh, everything's just falling right into place, innit?
I'll go.
- No, mate. - What?
I'll go. You can't just go up there with Ike and Swill.
No offense, mate, but we can't take passengers on this trip.
Go on, piss off. Give you a bell later.
So how many Reds do you reckon we're gonna tear up today?
Fuck knows. Enough.
- Catch it. - How's that?
The 2:55 train to Manchester Express will be approaching...
- All right, lads. Bovver. - Sweet, mate.
I thought we agreed to meet in the car park.
Decided to wait here.
Look, Bov, you wanna play the wanker, that's fine with me.
But leave it out till we got today out of the way, all right?
You all right, mate? Keith. Come on, boys.
- What the fuck you talking about? - Let's have it.
No, I'm not lending you any more money.
- I don't owe you any money. - For fuck's sake, come on, play the game.
- You never paid me for the last time. - You taking the piss or what?
What are you doing here, Matt?
- I thought it was just the three of you. - Oh, isn't that sweet?
This what--? This your proper planning, eh?
I ain't going in with that fucking mug.
- Sit down, mate. - Come on, mate.
Hello, mate.
- Who's calling what? - I ain't got any money.
- He's here now... - Fucking hell.
No, I don't. Think of any footballer.
- Think of any other fucking footballer. - Robbie Fowler.
- He's not, not really. - He looks like...
Dave, where are you?
- Sorry I missed you. - Plane late?
The flight was an hour late.
- Fly faster. - I'm here.
What, Manchester?
Yeah. But...
There's like 40 of them waiting here, all getting very fucking excited.
- So have a listen. - United! United!
Oi, Bov.
- Fuck. - Do you hear that?
- Yeah, mate. - They're waiting here for you.
Don't roll into Manchester. Do you hear me?
- All right, nice one. - All right, laters.
We are fucked.
- What's happening? - They're waiting for us at the station.
What, they know we're on here?
Yeah, must have had a scout watching us.
- How many? - Forty, 50.
- Can't we get off at the next station? - This is the express train.
- Don't stop till Manchester. - Is that right, bruv?
Come on. Come on, boys. If we don't show up now, they'll claim a result.
- Fuck that. We got to get to that station. - Are you insane? We just got away.
Shut the fuck up. You shouldn't even be here.
This is what it's all about. It's what we fucking live for.
- Fuck him. - All right, 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 told you to shut up. - Fuck you, Bovver.
- You what? - 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 have been here 10 minutes ago.
They'll be here soon enough. There's no way off that train. Stay sharp.
And remember, Nigel gets that Dunham cunt all to himself.
- That's right. - Nice one.
- What the fuck do you want? - Sorry, we're with Paramount Pictures...
...shooting the Hugh Grant film. We gotta get this through.
Hugh Grant film? Any decent women in it?
- Cameron Diaz, I think. - I hope so. She's fit as fuck.
- All right, lads, let this come through. - Thanks.
Give me 30 seconds, then I get the fuck out.
Where's your famous, Where's your famous? Where's your famous GSE?
There's your famous, There's your famous GSE
We could have died that day in Manchester.
Everybody knew it. But we didn't.
Ike said later that the story traveled 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 guard. - The old guard.
People around town had heard of me.
They would hear my accent and say, "So you're the Yank."
Till I die
United! United!
You know the best part?
It isn't knowing that your friends have your back.
It's knowing that you have your friend's 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 realize 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 had 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.
Well, I'm tired of having a relationship with your voice mail.
You know what? I don't need this.
Hey, Matt. Matt, come--
Hey, come on. Shannon says you were set up. Is that true?
- Yes. - Well, then 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 even contact your father?
We could have fought this together if you were innocent.
- If I were innocent? - If you're innocent...
- ...why didn't you ask for help? - You think I'm a dealer?
- Obviously, I don't know. - But 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-- You came to England?
- Yeah. - Okay, what now, Matt? What's the plan?
- What do you really want? - Come on, 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-- 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 5 years old anymore. It takes a little bit more to manipulate me.
Just an old friend from my Tribune days. I thought--
You thought all it takes is a handshake from the editor of the Times...
...and I'll have my old life back?
It's just a free lunch.
Welcome to the quarterfinal draw for the Football Association Cup.
The oldest and most prestigious tournament in world club 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.
- Number three, Liverpool. - Yes.
Number seven.
- Number seven, Sunderland, will play... - Number six.
Number six, Newcastle United. Bit of a northeast derby.
- Number eight. - Number eight, West Ham United...
...will play...
- ...number five, Millwall. - Fucking yes!
Yes!
- Yes! - Come on, you Lions!
Fucking nice.
Bov, mate, we got them, mate.
Oi, bruv, this is gonna go off.
You're not gonna believe who I've seen walk 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, he's sly.
Here, I'll 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.
Well, 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? - No, look...
...you may not trust me as your father, but as a journalist...
...I'm telling you your reputation is all you have.
You've gotta get back to Harvard. You gotta clear your name.
We can-- We can fight it together.
Oh, 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. - Good to see you.
- Matt. - Hey.
I'm gonna get changed. What time's your flight?
You take your time. My cab will be here in about half an hour. So...
I have to say farewell to my grandson anyway.
I gotta take off, Dad.
Okay, 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, then?
The draw. Wait, who did we get?
- You mean you don't know? - No.
- Oh, come on, Steve. Who? - Millwall.
At home.
Hello. Hello.
Don't we want to play?
- Hey, gorgeous. - Hey.
You okay?
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 asshole 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, following 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 the boy two funerals.
We hate Millwall We hate Millwall
We are the Millwall haters We hate Millwall
We hate Millwall
Steve, what are you doing here?
I want a word with you outside.
- What happened? Is Shannon okay? - Yeah, Shannon's fine.
- Why didn't you tell me? - Steve Dunham just walked in.
Why didn't you tell me you're doing journalism?
I'm not. I quit. What difference does it make?
Well, listen, mate, to some people, yeah, it makes a huge difference.
Well, what would you know about that?
Listen to me. I like you...
...but you have no idea what you're getting into.
Now, I've got to 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. - The Major.
Major, Major, Major
GSE, GSE, GSE
All right, hang on.
All right, boys. What are you lot doing here?
- The Yank here? - No.
- He's a fucking undercover journo. - What?
No, bollocks.
Straight, mate. I see him down the Times with all the other journalists, shaking hands.
- I mean, proper pally. What's all that about? - Think about it.
Drops in out of nowhere. Never been in a scrap in his life.
Snugs in nice and tight with a top boy of the 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 100 reasons he was there.
Yeah, well, this time I'd like to make sure of that myself.
You sure of this, Bov?
Because if you're coming in here like this, you fucking well better be.
Yeah, watch your back, 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? - You fuckin--
You 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.
Here, make it go up.
"Bovver is Pete's thuggish right-hand 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 are the Major?
I was the Major.
I guess to some I still am.
Now, Terry here was my right-hand man back in the glory days.
That was a long time ago, 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.
I mean, you've heard all the stories about Millwall, yeah?
Last match I went to was Millwall, West Ham.
We're talking a good 10 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 his kid up, you know, to be like a little pit bull.
Well, we lost that match.
Three-nil.
And those Millwall cunts started laughing at us.
And I just fucking snapped.
I mean, 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.
Tommy! 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, mate, it fucking does, that madness.
I mean, when I hear, you know, the--
The roar of the stadium on match day, yeah, all the lads calling me down...
...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! - Oi!
Oi! Oi.
- Sure you know what you're doing? - He's fucking undercover!
- Don't tell him nothing! - I said, are you sure?
What? You already knew.
All I know is he studied journalism, right, at Harvard.
But he's dropped out.
We found his journal. Full of stories about all of us.
That's just 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 fucking journo, and you knew about it.
- Look, that don't mean nothing, Bov. - You what?
He studies to be a journo. His old man is a journo.
What's the fucking 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 or what he's done.
You don't do someone on the deck.
What's fucking wrong with you, eh?
He'll bury us all and, what, you just gonna sit down and watch him do it?
No.
No, Steve, you're the Major.
You started this firm.
I'm speaking for all the boys, 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.
Yeah?
Well, fuck the lot of you.
GSE?
Get out of the fucking way! Move!
Get yourself cleaned up.
Tommy.
This is it, mate. We'll finally get back at those fucking Hammer cunts.
Millwall! Millwall! Millwall!
Millwall! Millwall!
- What the fuck's he doing here? - Martin, 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.
People are gonna start to talk.
So, what you doing up so late, anyway, on a fucking school night?
Shouldn't you be at home with your pals...
...all shitting at the thought of us turning you over?
What, did you have a lover's tiff?
Well, what do you want, Bov?
Fucking Yank's an undercover journo.
He's at our boozer now.
Tommy, you gotta give him the chop.
He's got them eating out of the palm of his hand.
What makes you think I'd want to sort that out for you, eh?
Because the Major's there too.
Stevie Dunham's in there?
- Oh, thanks, Pete. - Shut up!
History student my ass. Who the fuck are you?
Look, I'm sorry I lied about being a history major, but that's it.
- I'm not a journalist. - Well, 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. Look, 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?
Listen, Tom, please. This is how it's gotta go down.
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 kids, all right?
And I'm sticking to it.
You know, there comes a time...
...when the best reputation you can have is the one where your family--
- What is it? - Get down. Get the fuck down.
Hello, boys.
Jesus.
Pete. Pete, come on, man!
Hello, Terry.
Fuck off!
Terry.
Look who's back in the fucking Abbey after all these years.
Hello, Tommy. 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?
- Listen-- - I had a son once!
- I'm sorry! - Do you remember him?
- You fucking remember? - I'm sorry!
It's too late.
- You bastard. - Ah, fuck.
No, Tommy!
- You listen to me. - Tommy--
You die tonight...
...and me and you are even.
It's done! Let's go!
Pete! Pete, over here, mate! Quick!
Jesus. The fucking punk.
Bovver, what the fuck did you do?
Get a fucking car!
Get him in the fucking--
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! - Get him on the trolley.
- Fucking hurry up! - Resus.
Go.
Infuse six units of O-neg.
What'd 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.
Bruv, please, I fucked up.
- Shannon. Shannon. - You asshole. You have to--
Sick! You're so sick!
I'm so sorry.
I know.
The doctor said that you're gonna be okay.
He said it's just gonna take a little time.
We're leaving tomorrow.
It's not safe for us here now.
- You all right, mate? - How is he?
He's hanging in.
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.
Ike, your mate 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.
What are you talking about? I've got just as much at stake as you.
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.
I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high
They reach the sky
And like--
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.
This is Charlie-27, MPCP-501, at Brixton Road.
Disturbance...
The cab's on its...
...way.
Matt?
Now, at least one of you Dunham cunts are gonna pay for my fucking boy.
Me old mate, Bovver. Never could turn down a good scrap.
You know me, bruv.
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! - Shannon, stop!
- Pete, what're 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!
Come on, let me in the fucking car!
Let me in, you slag! I'll smash this fucking window in!
I'll smash this fucking window!
- Are you okay? Is Ben okay? - Yeah. Matt!
You're gonna get it now, you little Yank.
Bov, you wanna make up for what you've done?
Get my brother's family out of here.
Tommy!
Don't you want to 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, Tommy!
- Get in the fucking motor! Get in the car! - Get Pete!
Only a poor little Hammer!
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 or singing-- - No, Tommy, he's had 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 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 honor him.
It's too much.
Well...
...congrats on the Epstein account, Van Holden.
That should be a nice commish.
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?
When I took the fall for you at Harvard, you said you'd hook me up.
You gotta be kidding me, man.
They were your drugs, and you said you had more to lose...
- ...and that you'd hook me up if-- - All right!
Yes, I said I would hook you up.
Jesus, Matt, I--
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, you spineless shit.
- That you'd hook me up if-- - All right! Yes, I said I would--
- What the fuck is this? - Oh, this?
- It's my ticket back to Harvard. - Give me that.
I wouldn't do that.
I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high They reach the sky
And like my dreams They fade and die
Fortune's always hiding
I've looked everywhere
I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
United!
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