Gangster No. 1

Synopsis: A middle-aged crime boss smugly reflects back from 1999, narrating the brutality which made him triumphant - and feared. As an unnamed young hood in Swinging 60's London, he aped his mod boss Freddie Mays, and seemed to do anything for him. But his narration exposes all-consuming envy: of Freddie's supremacy, and especially his tall bird. The baby shark develops his viciousness and backstabbing, scheming to be Gangster No. 1.
Genre: Crime, Drama, Thriller
Director(s): Paul McGuigan
Production: IFC Films
  1 win & 9 nominations.
Rotten Tomatoes:
103 min

What, with Scotland Yard

breathing down me neck?

F*** off!

"Do me a favor."


That was around the back, wasn't it?

Down that alley.

We went there to meet,

what's his name? Mickey... Mick...

- Mikey?

- No, no.

Harry... Harry...

Not Harry Michaels?

That was it! Harry Michaels,


Of course it was.

Harry Michaels.

What was it about?

Didn't he have some problem?

What the f*** is he going on about?

His brother had a record business

with a funny sort of name.

- I can see it spinning round.

- They usually do, Dodgy!

Someone take him home, eh?

Barry! That was it. Barry.

Deram Records.

Barry...? Barry...? Barry...?

Barry, Barry... What the f***

am I talking about?

I'm f***ed if I know.

Wouldn't think he just

got out of the clinic, eh?

- Losing it?

- F***ing senile, ain't he?

Here, you'll never guess

who I bumped into the other day.

Larry Lord!

- Ol' Lordy?

- Yeah.

- Put on weight.

- Poor blimey.

Fat as a pig.

Here, here, here.

Talking of golden oldies...

...Freddie Mays is

getting out next week.

Be good to see old Freddie

again after... What is it?

Thirty years?

That's a bit of a stretch,

ain't it, eh?

Lock up your daughters!

Lock up your granny, more like!

Hello. Where's he gone?

You haven't invited him

to the party, eh?

"Do me a favor!"

You done well for yourself,

didn't you?

Come here, pops.

Here you are, grandad.

Go get yourself a nice bird.

What do you take me for?

A c*nt?

This is 1968.

I'm playing Jack the Lad at snooker,

when all of a sudden...

...Fat Charlie's come in.

Not that he was fat,

'cause he wasn't. He was skinny.

But he was called fat

'cause his mum was fat.

It's how he was distinguished from

the other Charlie, "Skinny" Charlie.

Now he was fat. But it was

too late by then to swap it around.

Anyway, he says to me:

"Go and see Freddie Mays."

F***ing hell!

My heart was going mad.

Freddie Mays.

Freddie Mays,

"The Butcher of Mayfair."

The man was a legend.

He'd done a copper in Bethnal Green

and got away with it, for f***'s sake!

That's how you get to the top.

Kill a bent cop. Make a splash.

After that, Freddie was king.

What a place.

A f***ing palace!

In he came.

There he was, in those handmade

Italian leather shoes, silk socks.

The suit? Do me a favor.

The man was class.

A class act.

Style. Im-f***ing-peccable.

What a man.

I mean, a real man.

How you doing?

Yeah, good.

Do you want a drink?


You look a bit scared, son.

Are you scared?



I didn't need a drink.

I was drunk enough.

Drunk on the smell

of Italian leather.

Arse-holed on the smell of success.

I hear you've been hanging

around with Mad John.

This incident last week,

apparently you did well.


Trevor heard that as well,

didn't you, Trev?

- He thinks you're a bit of a laugh.

- Does he?

He's a wideboy, our Trevor.

Bit of an independent thinker.

Enjoys taking the piss.

Things he gets up to.

See, when you work for me

you do things my way.

No going behind me back.

No going out on your own.

And there's no independent

f***ing thinking.

Oh, f***!


- Because it irks me.

- For f***ing sakes!

Yeah, that's the word. "Irks."

Anyway... appears we have a vacancy.

You're in, son.

Straight off he gives

me 500.

Five hundred in me hands!

This is 1968!

Do me a favor.

Take out the rubbish.

Oh, and get yourself kitted out.

There we were, suited up.

Wasted on these f***ing toerags.

Come here, you c*nt!

Come here, c*nt!

No! No! No!

- Give me until next Thursday, please.

- Thursday never f***ing comes!

"Give me until next Thursday"?


It's pathetic.

F***ing excuses. All sorts.

From A to zed, the whole alphabet.


Later, they're in the Green Man

giving it the big one... you're Harry the Spastic!

Hold him.

- Hey, what's the problem?

- You are!

Nothing I can't fix

with a few tools, eh?

Come on, don't do this sh*t!

While I waste my time

with an arsehole?

Remember the last time

we went through this?

That put a smile on your face,

didn't it?

Leather seats, sir?

Better roll down the windows.

Freddie, come on.

It's not even my taxi.

It's not even my f***ing taxi,

you bastard!

What are you looking at?

Freddie! Don't f***ing do it,

you bastard!

What is it with you, you cockneys, eh?

There you go.

I know a bloke who'll

take a look at that for you.

Now let's see that money, eh?

By tomorrow.

- Come on!

- Freddie!

No! No!

Get back to work, you lazy c*nt!

Now, let's get this car

back on the road, eh?

- Hold him.

- No! Please! No!

Now, Giggler, you stay lucky, eh?

Get it off me!

Get it off me!

- You all right?

- Yeah.

Nice. Very nice.


I like that. It deserves a drink.

What are you having?

Put it on. Here we go.

Is it on?

Here we go!

Go on, Billy!

My old woman loves this one.

Pity she ain't here.

Nice bit of bubbly, darling?

Not right now.

Piss for f***ing carpet, ain't it?

Charlie, you got no sausage rolls?

If we had a good day...

Well, we always had a good day...

- we'd end up at Fat Charlie's.

The whole gang of us.

There was Mad John.

Yeah, well, he was really mad.

Billy Not-So-Smart.

Roland. Always with two birds.

Derek. One would do for him.


Poor little Eddie.

And Tommy, Freddie's old house pet.

Happy as f***ing monkeys in a cage.

Shag pile and Babycham.

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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