Green Street Hooligans 2 Page #3

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but for me it's purely personal.

Personal?

Yeah, we've got some history.

His top boy's a geezer

called Tommy Hatcher.

He beat me best mate to death.

That's why we're in here.

D Block team is very good.

Winning team gains privileges

and red armband.

Trustee status.

I'd better get back to my mates. Thanks.

You fly out of Lyneham?

Sometimes, yeah.

- You seem well informed.

- Information has value here.

Could save life.

I'll bear that in mind.

See you around, Max.

Oh, see that move?

Oh. And again.

Oh. Hammers could use that

fella, couldn't they, eh?

You all right, mate?

Here, Dave.

- I assume they're no friends of Marc's.

- You could say that.

- Are they friends of ours?

- Let's say he's a possible resource.

What did they want?

What did they say to you?

He heard I was a pilot.

- That makes you interesting to them?

- Yes, you cheeky c*nt, it does.

Turns out he's a pilot an' all.

What? He's ex-RAF?

Nah. He's more like the

opposition, Keith, my old son.

More like the opposition. Come on.

Get these reports to the Governor.

- Screws are all riled up about something.

- I think it's your face, Ned.

Oh, it better not be mine.

- Oh, no, no, no.

- All right. Stay back.

- What's happening?

- Stay back.

Put him in Segregation. D Wing.

F***ing fraggle. Look at my sh*t.

That's my cell.

Junkie owes money and can't pay.

Acts out.

nows he'll get banged up in the

block. Figures he's safe for a while.

Bloody spanner.

Come on. You guys can eat in Level Two.

- You lot West Ham?

- Yeah.

Fair number of Millwall banged up in here.

You know what that means to us?

This transfer was supposed

to keep us out of trouble.

Yeah, well, you made your beds,

you lie in 'em.

So bang us up with the c*nts we got sent

down for scrapping with in the first place?

Prison board logic, is it?

Look, we just want to do our time quietly

and try and stay out of trouble.

The chaplain runs a good service.

It's a way to stay off the yard.

All officers to the

football pitch, all officers.

Good game, that.

Did you see that f***ing elbow?

Him-a slap the b*tch outta Bagshaw.

- Him a-bleed from everywhere.

- How much did we make?

200 quid.

And three carton of fag.

Love me a good game of footah.

Me never liked Bagshaw either.

Money.

Where are the rest of the f***ing cigs?

It's contraband, man. Soon come, yeah?

- Pack or so at a time.

- Yeah, well, make sure they f***ing do.

- Chill now, man.

- Chill?

You hold out on me,

you f***ing black bastard,

and I'll slit your f***ing throat,

and bleed you out

like the f***ing wog you are.

- Ease up, man.

- You f***ing tell me to ease up, you c*nt?

Bredren! Calm down, man!

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