Cass Page #4

tell him to shut his f***ing gob an' all.

Come on, then, you dirty c*nts!

F***ing hell!

Calm down, fellas.

This is Dennis's big night.

Jesus Christ!

Let's have some f***ing lagers.

He's gone f***ing mental!

Jesus f***ing Christ!

I've had it here.

Right, well, good luck, Dennis.

Kiddy firm! F***ing Kiddy firm!

Come on!

Guilty.

Britain's first long-term prison

sentence for football hooliganism

was today handed to Cass Pennant,

a painter and decorator from East London.

Pennant was found guilty

of grievous bodily harm and affray

following the clash at

a Tyneside working man's club last month.

The jury heard how he was one of the

leaders of the infamous Inter City Firm,

a violent gang of hooligans who attached

themselves to West Ham United.

Weather now. In the north of the country...

Next.

- Hello, Harry.

- Good afternoon, Ron.

- What are you in for now, then?

- Got caught, mate.

- Well, that'll do it every time, won't it, mate?

- Certainly will.

Cheers.

Next.

Extra large, mate.

No, thanks. I'll take the Lacoste ones, pal.

Yeah? No, you f***ing won't,

you cheeky bastard.

You'll have the ones

that I decide you're having.

Listen, mate, if I was doing your job,

I'd be a miserable old c*nt an' all.

But look at it this way. At least you get to go

home and take a shower with a f***ing bird.

F***ing hell,

you ain't seen my missus, mate.

You'll never get the fat old c*nt

in the shower when I'm in it. Name?

Pennant.

Hold up. You're the hooligan on the news.

I used to go and watch QPR

back in the day.

Yeah.

Here, Pennant. Who was the best mob

you went up against, then?

Eh?

Eh?

Suit yourself.

Next.

Name?

F*** me. Have a word.

They never said it was a five-star gaff.

All right, mate?

Suppose I'd better take the four poster,

then?

I want my draw.

When I ask you for a draw,

you give me a draw, you understand me?

Don't let me f***ing ask you again!

I want a f***in' draw, boy.

- Give it to me!

- Mate! Mate! Leave it out.

What you saying there choc-ice?

You what, mate?

You're not a brethren.

You can't talk to me, raasclat.

You talk like a white man.

Sorry, mate, me no understand you.

You're not a black man!

Black? Not f***ing really black?

Well, what the f*** is that then, you c*nt?

Black power gonna deal with all you

white devil...

All you Uncle Tom collaborators.

You've been watching too much

American TV. This is Britain, mate.

British colonial oppression!

Black man gonna rise up

and go back to Africa. One nation!

Haile Selassie!

Kill all the Babylon then!

Rastafarai!

You'd best leave your BMW

and gold chains behind, then, mate.

Cos there'll be no use for them

in a f***ing mud hut.

Raasclat!

I f***ing thought Jamaicans and Africans

f***ing hate each other, anyway.

Go back to Africa, then,

where black man is killing black man.

And take that f***ing chip on your shoulder

with you.

But there'll be no more playing the rude boy

in the nightclubs, and f***ing white p*ssy,

you racist f***ing hypocrite!

F***ing Dimlo!

F***ing put me in with f***ing c*nts like...

Come on, then, you c*nt!

Come on, then. F***ing slice me.

Why f***ing stop it?

I don't want to share my cell

with a white honkie hooligan.

I was fine

because of the colour of my skin again.

But hate was coming from another direction

this time.

Mmm, new boy always rolls.

What? Problem?

Sorry, mate. I don't know how.

All my years inside, me never meet

a black man that can't skin up.

I know, and it gets worse.

The f***ing screws

think I'm a f***ing schwartze,

and the rastas think I'm a f***ing coconut.

You ever look in the mirror

to check what colour you are, hooligan?

Look, mate, I ain't no Uncle Tom, all right?

I bet I've had more stick for being black

than you.

- Hey, chill, chill it, hooligan.

- Look, mate.

My mum was a 50-year-old white woman

when she brought me home

from the orphanage.

Nobody gave her an instruction manual

on how to bring up a black kid.

How's she supposed to know about plaiting

up your hair and moisturising your skin?

I never thought about it like that, mate.

Well, I did. Every f***ing day.

Oh, you don't understand patois, then?

Yeah, mate.

Just like you don't understand Japanese.

Why the f***

do you still speak that bollocks, anyway?

It's in my heritage, man.

I mean, I only speak it with my mother,

you know,

and in here, just to piss off the screws.

You got a lot to learn about your culture,

Mr Hooligan.

The only culture I got

is West Ham f***ing United.

When you get sent down,

they give you a number

and brand you

with Her Majesty's cattle prod.

But only after having the pleasure of some

nonce doctor playing with your balls

and sticking his hand up your arse.

No matter what anyone tries to tell you,

prison is a shithole.

And Wormwood Scrubs

was an old Victorian karzi.

Piss in a bucket, sh*t in a bucket,

and clean your teeth in a bucket.

Let's just say, it ain't the four-star treatment.

Someone wants a word with the hooligan.

Come on.

What the f***'s going on here?

I ain't done nothing.

F***ing hell!

Here he is, the big man.

How are you?

- Come on, sit down.

- I thought you was in Wandsworth.

Yeah, I am sometimes,

but you know what these f***ers are like.

They like to keep you on the move,

stop you from getting too cosy.

It don't seem to have taken you long to get

your feet under the table in here, though.

Yeah, well, you can talk.

In all the newspapers.

So what are you, then?

The world's first celebrity football thug?

- So, how are you settling in?

- Oh, don't.

Well, you know what they say. The first

couple of months are always the hardest.

- You'll be all right. How long did you get?

- Four year.

F*** me. Four years

for fighting for a poxy football club.

I know. It weren't even a game, either.

F***ing liberty, mate.

Don't worry, you'll be out in two.

What's all this about an Inter City Firm?

Whatever happened

to the old South Bank Crew or the Mile End?

- What do you mean?

- Where's the money in it?

- Who's the guvnor?

- There's no real guvnor, really.

It's just a few of us who organise it,

and a few firms come together

under one banner.

Where does the money come from?

Protection? Gear?

No, there's no money in it.

Unless you count the under-fives

for taxing some poor c*nt for his Burberry.

A bunch of f***ing wannabes,

if you ask me, Cass.

How many bodies can you get together

at any given time?

Depends what's going on.

Anything from nifty to a carpet.

And that's hardcore. No hangers-on.

Another couple of ton if it's a big one.

F*** me, that ain't bad.

So what are you, then? Some kind

of a black hooligan pope or something?

Or the Pied Piper of Plaistow?

Listen, I'm being serious here, mate.

If you're interested, I might have

a little bit of graft for you on the out.

Cheers for the offer, mate,

but I ain't into anything criminal, yeah?

What the f*** do you think

you're doing in here then, you silly bastard?

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