Dom Hemingway

---

Is my cock exquisite?

Oh, cos I think it's

f***ing exquisite.

I think it's a f***ing work of art.

Like a Renoir.

Or a Picasso.

The painting of my cock

should hang at the Louvre.

They should study my

cock in art classes,

spend whole courses...

studying the splendid contours of

its exquisiteness, don't you think?

They should also study

my cock in science class

cos it defies nature.

My cock is hard.

It's metal, it's steel,

it's titanium.

It does not break.

It does not weaken.

My cock can stand all day

like a good soldier trying

to impress his superiors.

If my cock could win

a medal, it would.

If they could name a school

after it, it should.

If it could save small Somali

children from starving,

it would and should, and it'll have

a Nobel f***ing Peace Prize for it,

the first such prize

ever given to a cock.

My Nobel Prize-winning

cook's like a cheetah,

all sleek and dangerous and deadly.

Sonnets should be written about

how dangerous my cheetah cock is.

Poems, plays.

Wars should be won over it,

kingdoms fallen because of it.

My cock is lightning. It is fire.

It is a volcano brewing with

the sacred semen, lava...

Sugar and spice and all things...

nice.

Sorry for the lack

of warning, dearie.

Things happen.

Sometimes you expect 'em,

sometimes you don't.

I said, "Give me 200 quid, I'll light

my fag off two f***ing fireworks."

- Dickie nips off round the corner...

- Hemingway.

I'm eating my pudding.

I couldn't give a toss

about your pudding.

Put your fork down

and get over 'ere.

I'll put my fork down when I'm

ready to put my fork down.

I'll finish my pudding when I'm

ready to finish my pudding.

You wanna disrespect

me, disrespect me.

But then I won't be able

to tell you what I know.

And I know you'd like

to know what I know.

- What would I like to know?

- Wouldn't you like to know?

- I would like to know.

- Yeah, you would, wouldn't ya?

- Tell me.

- Fork.

F***.

Oh, for Christ's sake, Dom,

just put the fork down.

Tell me what it is

you have to tell me.

Call came in.

Call?

The call.

The call?

Came in.

Dom! Dom! Dom! Dom!

Oi! Where's Sandy Butterfield?

- Dom? Dom, is that you?

- Where's Sandy Butterfield?

Dom, you really don't wanna...

Where's Sandy Butterfield?

Where?

He's still working at the depot.

- Hey, where are you going?

- Where's Sandy Butterfield?

- Sir, I...

- Where's Sandy Butterfield?

Sandy.

So that's what you do, is it, mate?

You f*** other men's wives

while they're in prison.

That's what you do with yourself,

how you conduct yourself, how

you conduct your business.

- I don't know...

- She was my wife. My wife!

- You were divorced and in jail!

- She was still my wife.

Always my wife, you f***.

You f***er! My betrothed.

You're nothing but a pestilence, an

uphill gardener with a weak chin.

You're a filthafising thief,

that's what you are. You

think you can steal from me?

- From me? From Dom Hemingway?

- God...

God!

Hello, Billy.

Andrew.

Hello, Dom. Long time.

Welcome home.

Thanks.

You good? Betty good?

Yeah.

Charlie just graduated university.

Little Charlie with his hair all growing

in his eyes graduated university?

Can you believe it?

I should f***ing kill you,

but I fancy a pint instead.

I've got anger issues,

Dickie, I just do.

Always have, haven't I?

I tried to work on 'em, you know,

in prison. Took some classes.

I tried the yoga, inspirational

CDs, I did it all.

But the anger's still inside of me.

I just lost it, I guess.

He married Keethy.

What's a man to do?

Well, I broke his f***ing nose.

He wasn't so good-looking

to start with.

He wet himself.

He had it coming.

Still...

Er, sorry, Dom, you

can't smoke in here.

- You what?

- They banned it, smoking.

In a pub? You can't

smoke in a f***ing pub?

Bad for your health.

Being a c*nt is bad for your

health, I'm just smoking a fag.

Got one for me while you're at it?

He's expecting you

in France, you know,

Mr Fontaine.

He knows what you did for him.

Mr Fontaine's a man who

doesn't forget his friends.

- I'm his friend now?

- You did right by him.

You'll get your due.

12 years, Dickie.

12 years of my life.

I missed a lot doing right by him.

Missed Keethy's funeral.

Missed out on my

Evelyn's childhood.

My daughter.

You got to see her yet?

I'm working up the marbles.

You've had 12 years to

work up the marbles...

I just made Bolognese out

of her stepfather's face.

As if she didn't hate me enough.

Mr Fontaine, he

bought them for you.

A little welcome-home present,

if you're interested.

- For me?

- For you.

Oh, I love this f***ing song!

You hear that, Dickie?

- Yeah, Dom.

- You hear that? You know what that is?

What, Dom? What is it?

That's the sound of

f***ing freedom!

Innit, Jeanie, eh?

Oh, my love! Innit?

Hello, ladies.

- Whoa!

- Come on, then.

No one call me for three days.

Oh, my head's throbbing.

It's f***ing throbbing, Dickie.

Like a disco in my head.

Like a f***ing Manila disco

full of transvestites

and suckling pigs.

I've got a seizure in my brain.

A diabolical seizure of

f***ing and sucking coke.

I did too much.

I tried to make up for

too much lost time.

I f***ed myself to death.

My head's gonna explode.

Bits of my brain's

gonna go everywhere.

I'm gonna ruin your blazer.

You're gonna be all right, Dom.

F*** you. You don't know my head.

You don't know the

revolution going on...

inside of it.

F***ing insurgents inside my brain.

Cossacks sodomising my cranium.

- Here.

- What's that? A hand grenade?

- Hair of the dog.

- That dog shat on my soul.

Drink it. It's mother's

little helper.

My mother left me when I was

three. F*** my mother.

Oh...

F***, I'm dying.

I'm dying. I'm gonna

die on this train.

If dying on this train will

shut you up, I'm all for it.

Some f***ing friend you are.

You can't make up for 12

years in three days, Dom.

Well, I tried.

I f***ing tried.

Mr Hemingway?

Mr Dom Hemingway?

What?

I've been sent by Monsieur

Fontaine. Follow me.

Oi, lardo!

If you're sent by Mr Fontaine,

then carry my f***ing bag.

Someone's feeling

his old self again.

Damn right. Now let's go

get my f***ing money.

It's interesting, the

French countryside.

Looks like a barmaid's snatch

after a Cup Final weekend.

Fontaine better have

a well-stocked bar.

He was raised in a Russian orphanage

and kills people for a living.

Of course he has a

well-stocked bar.

South of France.

Afternoon.

Dom, don't think what

you're thinking.

That's Mr Fontaine's property.

Property is a relative

term for a thief.

- Still.

- I'm just looking.

Admiring.

- She's rather fit.

- Not her, not Paolina.

- Fit to fiddle, I'd say.

- Dom!

- You don't admire that.

- Bugger off, Dickie.

I'll admire what I wanna admire,

think what I wanna think.

Fiddle who I wanna fiddle.

Domingo Hemingway!

As I live and breathe,

the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Mr Fontaine.

Call me Ivan. Are you crazy?

Ivan Anatolivich Fontanov,

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