Filth Page #4

her trousers, promotion.

Every time a man drops theirs,

disciplinary action.

Where's the equality in that?

Bingo!

There's the f***er we're after.

No, no, just you wait there, Gus, OK?

No point going in mob-handed.

OK.

Wanna buy some flowers.

Can I help you, sir?

How's business?

All right, I suppose.

Really? I just seen a man

leave empty-handed.

- No' have anything in his line, no?

- No.

- Who was he?

- Just some guy after roses.

- I guess he changed his mind.

- Mmm-hmm.

- Do I know you from somewhere?

- No.

No, you don't. No, you f***ing don't.

- What have I done wrong?

- Wasting police time,

withholding information and possibly

harbouring a murder suspect.

- That's shite.

- You will f***ing cough up

or I swear to God you will be stuffing

cuddly toys in Corton Vale Prison

faster than you can tie

a bunch of f***ing daffodils.

Or maybe...

maybe you would rather get

your tulips around my bulbs.

Would you like that?

I think you would.

Look, he's just a guy I

know from the clubs.

He comes in to talk about

music and that is all.

So, are you and your wee boyfriend just a

two-man musical appreciation society then?

- Is that what you're f***ing telling me?

- He's not my boyfriend, honest.

I hope not.

For his sake, you fat bastard.

- Watch where you're...

- Sorry.

Hello. Eh...

How are you?

Yeah, I'm just going to

pick the flowers up.

- Oh, what, is the funeral today, aye?

- Yeah.

Right. Was that your wreath?

The one that says "Dad"?

- Yeah.

- Um...

How many kids have you got?

Just one, a wee boy.

You ever lost anyone close?

Mmm-hmm.

Hurts like hell, eh?

Mmm-hmm.

Um...

Listen, I've got to go.

I'm really sorry, I've got to go.

Davie?

F***!

Ah, Bruce, I hear you

have a pain, yes?

Oh, a pain indeed, Doctor.

And would this pain be

one of your physical pains, yes?

No, Doctor, my other kind.

Well, the final destination

of the pain recovery train

is self-help via

abstinence, Bruce, eh?

I've already booked my seat in advance.

Super-saver all the same.

No more cocaine and chip suppers

for Bruce, eh?

Oh, those items were previously

favourites of the Detective Sergeant,

of course they were.

And what of this promotion, eh?

A mere formality, I'm sure.

Only champions can

rewrite history, yes?

Yes, I've always believed that

it's the winning that's important,

not the taking part.

Only winners are more attractive

to the opposite sex, Bruce, eh?

Like our successful friend

here, the tapeworm.

Yes?

Who do we trust, Bruce?

Why, no one, of course.

Not your friends, not your family,

not even yourself, Bruce.

Especially not yourself, eh?

Now, about that pain...

Yes!

Come on, big man, you stiffen up.

Come on, big man, you f***ing stiffen.

Come on, big man, you f***ing stiffen...

F***ing, f***ing!

Ugly little f***ing slag.

Dirty poofy bastard.

Peter. Peter, have you seen the

graffiti in the men's toilets?

What? No.

Some nasty little bastard

has written something which,

well, let's just say,

questions your sexuality.

Well, there's always something or other.

I don't let it bother me any more, Bruce.

It's silly.

Oh, come on, man. You elected

me your union representative

so I have to let it bother me

and I can't have your character defamed

in this outrageous manner any longer.

I'm going straight to Toal.

No, no, you're all right, Bruce.

I'll just go and clean it off.

Somebody is playing

silly billies here.

- Such a load of bloody nonsense.

- And I just hope...

I just hope

I don't find out who.

Gaffer? Gaffer, I want you to come and see

some more of this disgusting graffiti

that's been written about

poor Peter Inglis.

I don't have time for every...

As fed rep I don't have time

to see a fellow officer humiliated.

Of course. Listen, Robbo...

- Peter isn't...

- What, sir?

You're gonna have to be careful

what you say here, sir.

He isn't like the graffiti says...

Is he?

Whether he is or isn't

is entirely his own business,

but he's being harassed and we

operate a non-discriminatory policy

on the grounds of

sexual orientation.

But he can't be sexually harassed

if he's not really, well...

What, sir?

Gay, I think the fashionable term

for it is these days.

What he gets up to privately

is his own business.

To be honest with you, I don't even know

that much about the chap, but... Oh.

This bullying...

This bullying has to stop.

Did you do her up the arse?

Where else is there?

P*ssy's for faggots.

Right, come on, let's go and see what

Gorman and his wee boyfriend are made of.

Everything you need to know about

those guys are in the jars, darling.

- DN-f***ing-A, man. Really?

- Jesus Christ.

Maisie, gratitude.

See, this is the wonderful thing

about being polis, Ray.

Doesn't really matter

if everybody hates your guts

as long as they're civil

to your f***ing face.

Is that no' right, Maisie?

Same rules apply, darling.

Same rules apply.

See, Maisie here would teach you

things your mother wouldn't.

I only do it for love now, son.

If you change your mind,

this is the boy for the job.

Getting quite the reputation as a

young stallion, aren't you, pal, eh?

Right, we'd better be off-ski.

We've got the Christmas party.

Christ, I never thought I'd see the

day when I left a knocking shop

with more spunk than I came in with.

- Thank you.

- Thanks very much, son.

I tell you, Gus,

this is the only kind of networking

I don't mind doing with

the Indian community.

I do love a good

curry all the same.

Edith and I, we're

actually thinking of going

to Sri Lanka next year

for our holidays.

- I don't know. Show us your tits.

- Show me yours, I'll show you mine.

Party games. Gather round.

I remember when I used

to work in Sydney,

we played this party game

at the crimbo party.

What was that, then?

Oh, no. Listen, there's ladies

present, Karen, so I better not say.

Come on, Robbo, don't start something

you cannot f***ing finish, man.

- Come on, Brucie. Come on, Brucie.

- All right.

- Well, come on, pal. Let's go, man.

- OK, then, Raymondo.

What we would do is, all the men

would go to the photocopying room.

One by one, of course.

No offence if that's your thing.

And what we'd do is we would photocopy

an image of our wedding tackle.

Oh, I just knew

what was going on here!

And then one of the sheilas

would pin it to a notice board.

It'd then be up to the lassies to match the

male member with the corresponding owner.

- What a load of bollocks, man.

- Let's do it.

Come on!

F*** me with that horse's cock.

What?

Here we go, lads, another round.

Who the f*** is that?

Peter. Peter!

I haven't seen you in such a long time,

sweetie. Where have you been hiding?

Brought some friends along, I see.

Who the f*** are you?

Here, I don't know this guy.

Sorry, I didn't realise

it was that kind of scene.

Huh! Peter can be so sensitive.

Ho! I don't f***ing know you! OK?

- Hey, hey, hey. Come on, man.

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