The Football Factory

These were the scenes

everyone feared.

Running battles

between English and Turkish fans...

...some here have been

seriously injured.

...it's very violent indeed.

Earlier, there was mayhem

on the main square...

Getting beaten up by football hooligans is like

having VD:
the f***in' pain goes on forever.

But that's

what makes it so exciting.

So this is me, Tommy Johnson

three weeks from now, nearly dead.

And do you know what the funniest thing is?

I could see it coming.

Anyway, it's almost over now

and all that matters is this: was it worth it?

There's nothing different about me.

I'm just ahother bored male approaching 30,

in a dead-end job who lives for the weekend.

Casual sex, watered-down lager,

heavily cut drugs.

And occasionally kicking

f*** out of someone.

Zeberdee, it's Bill.

What? How am I?

What do you mean, "how am I"?

I'm f***in' buzzin'!

We've gone right through the slit.

Keep your f***in' nut down.

He's a right f***in' stringer, this kid.

- What's he say?

- Nothing.

- What do you mean, "nothing"?

- He f***in' hung up.

Raff, call Tommy.

Find out where he is.

There's a pub on the corner called

the Ship and Billet. Head for that.

I'll have to bell you back,

Harris is trying to get through.

Just spotted their little firm

going to a pub in Denbigh Street.

They won't know what's f***in' hit 'em.

There you are.

Here, come here!

- Sweet, Bill?

- Yeah.

- Where's the others?

- On their way.

- Harris said there's about 25 of the others.

- There won't be when we've finished with 'em.

Wait round the corner!

What for?

Cos it's all going to be on top,

us all standin' here, you si.

- Jog on.

- Jog on!

Bill, it's Harris.

Hello, son. Yeah?

All right. See you there.

What happened to you last night?

Thought you was coming out for a drink?

Johnson had me on some nutty skunk.

Ended up down the petrol garage

at two o'clock in the morning.

What you driving for?

You're on a ban, you lunatic.

Ban? What am I gonna do, walk?

Here he is.

Right, there's someone

outside the pub.

- How old is he?

- He's only a kid.

Go on, crack him.

Keep the noise down.

Keep the noise down.

- Excuse me, mate, you got a light?

- Don't f*** about, ping him.

Let's go!

It's going good anyway.

Let's settle it.

- Come on, let's...

- Keep it down, keep it down.

- Keep it down.

- F***in' hell, come on, boys.

Keep it down, keep it down.

- Come on. F***in' hell.

- Keep it down.

Don't f*** this up.

F***in' clowns won't stop us.

You're f***in' animals!

You give this f***in' country

a bad f***in' name!

You ain't no football supporters!

You're f***in' muggy little c*nts!

What else are you gonna

do on a Saturday?

Sit in your f***in' armchair wankin' off

to Pop Idols?

Then try and avoid your wife's gaze

as you struggle to come to terms

with your sexless marriage?

Then go and spunk your wages on kebabs

fruit machines and brasses?

F*** that for a laugh!

I know what I'd rather do.

Tottenham away.

Love it!

How f***in' perfect was that?

Soppy bollocks here even managed to get

the canister inside the f***in' pub this time.

Do you remember that time at Upton...

That time at Upton Park,

he let it off on the tube!

Mind you, premature ejaculation,

that's right up your f***in' street!

Anyway, he's virtually throwing 'em

out of the f***in' pub at me, right?

He's throwing 'em out of the f***in'

pub at me. Crunch! Crunch!

I hit this geezer so f***in' hard,

his legs went like a f***in' baby giraffe.

State of that. I done me knuckles.

So hit people in the mouth,

not the back of the f***in' head.

Just as well I did or you'd be

in hospital, you c*nt.

No-one loved Chelsea

more than me and Rod.

We grew up on football terraces together

with my old man. He knew the score.

The first bit of advice

he give me was:

You know what to do

if someone tries to clump you?

Kick him in the f***in' bollocks.

Me and Rod did everything together.

Hurry up, Tom, I'm starving.

It took me an hour just to find it.

Still Rod didn't need to know that.

She ain't walkin' for a week.

My grandad old Bill Farrell,

drove us to drink

with his stories about the war

and how he fought to put the Great into Britain.

He said fighting at football was nothing

compared to the Germans.

"We'll fight them on the beaches,

we'll fight them on the..."

Although he went on, he was right.

We're an island race. It's what we do best.

It's not about colour or race,

it's just the buzz of being in the front line.

Truth is,

I just love to fight.

There's nothing wrong with me...

unlike Billy Bright, whose dad had a funny way

of setting a good example for his son.

Right, that's it.

I'll fight every one of you

before you move on next door to us.

Come on, son!

With parents like that,

he was never gonna end up in Greenpeace.

Still he was one of

the first football thugs

to see there was a fortune to be made

from England's love for ecstasy.

Oi, three bottles of Bud, please, mate.

Problem was he'd taken so many beatings on

the terraces that he weren't scared of anyone.

And the correct medical term for that is

a "total f***in' psycho".

Bill, let's get out of here.

There's about ten Stoke fans staring at us.

- How many of 'em did you say there was?

- About ten. Please don't start, Bill.

- Right, which one of them's staring at me.

- The big geezer with the Hackett cap on.

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