Cass Page #3

You had to earn respect

to be accepted at The Britannia,

and after the Wolves fight,

we thought our time had come.

Oi! No f***ing nig-nogs allowed in this pub.

You stick with the sambo snooker club

down the road.

F*** off, you nonce.

He ain't a nig-nog, he's West Ham.

Don't just f***ing' stand there, you little

c*nts. Get in there and get me a pint.

By the time the 1980s arrived,

me, Prentice and Freeman had taken over

from Stevie Hogan's South Bank Crew,

and we were now some of the main faces

drinking in The Britannia.

Have a look. Duran Du-f***in-ran, innit?

Look who it is.

- How are you, mate?

- All right, all right.

Ray, mate.

I thought you were in the nick, mate.

Got bail, didn't I?

How much did they fix your bail at, then?

- Twenty.

- Twenty grand?

No, twenty quid.

Of course, twenty f***ing grand!

Yeah, the c*nts. They proper stitched me up

this time. No way I'm getting out of it.

- How long do you reckon you'll get, then?

- Definitely a ten, but please God, out in five.

Five? Five years? F*** that.

Anyway,

I thought I'd make the most of it while I can.

Here, you still wasting your dough chasing

them Hammers all round the country?

Too f***ing right, mate.

Slice me open and you'll see my claret

is claret and f***in' blue, mate.

F***in' right!

I just stick to the boxing now, mate.

Couldn't bear to watch them Hammers

get hammered every f***ing week.

Yeah, well, you won't have to worry

about that for a while, will you, Ray?

What do you mean by that, then, son?

Nothing, Ray. I was only joking, mate.

You taking the f***ing piss out of me?

No.

No, I'm really sorry, Ray.

I never meant nothing by it, mate.

Just as f***in' well then, innit?

F*** me, kid, you smell like you pebble

dashed that seat. What's the matter wi' you?

Pull yourself up!

F*** me, Ray.

You f***ing sh*t yourself.

- Anyway, look, good to see you, boys.

- Cheers.

Liven yourself up, you,

I'm telling you.

I need a brandy after that.

Ray was on a different level from us,

though.

When Monday arrived, we were no different

from any of the rest of Maggie's miserables.

An honest day's work

for a dishonest day's pay.

We were just another cog

in Thatcher's square wheel.

What is it with you people, eh?

Your sort are all the f***ing same.

No good, and f***ing lazy!

- Oi!

- Leave it.

Now, get a move on.

No wonder his f***ing wife left him.

What a c*nt!

Even office workers like Prentice couldn't

wait till the bell rang on a Friday afternoon,

so they could get

their weekly fix of the ultra-violence.

You had to give yourself something

to look forward to at the weekend.

Times have changed since the mid-'70s.

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