Ill Manors

---

1

(Woman on TV)

I had to, I had to put my foot down

'and make my kids do well in school.

'And, and I-I did my best with mine,

'so a lot of these mothers and fathers

has to be blamed for this as well!

'A lot of mother and father! Listen...

'Don't blame the children.

As adults, we should-

'The mother the father, the big people!'

'But, you know, sometimes it cannot be

a good time at all, you know,

'for people who grow up in foster care.

'And, you know, things can happen

to them and they can have a bad time,

'and they can end up, like, you know,

not in a good place, like, mentally,

'and a lot of the time physically,

'so it is a definite bonus to have,

like, a strong family background.

'I'm not saying

it's the be all and end all...'

(Plan B) 'Are you sifting comfortably?

'Well, put your seat belts on

cos you're in for a harrowing ride

'cos this is iLL Manors

where dark sh*t goes on at night.

'I am the narrator,

the voice that guides the blind,

'follow it not with ears but your mind

'and allow me to take you

back and forth through time

'to explain the significance of things

you may think are insignificant now.

'But won't... further down the line.'

( Drum and bass)

I be that lyrical narrator

Social commentator

Socially commentatin'

What I say is verbatim

Verbal stipulator, oral illustrator

Orally illustrating what I'm stipulatin'

Drugs rule everything around me

Thugs making money

My manor manor's ill, y'all, ill, y'all

Pushers on my block shottin' rocks

This is real, y'all

B*tches sucking c*cks for them rocks

Yeah, they're real low

Prozzies on the corner

With their f***in' high heels on

Pick 'em up, drop 'em off

Yeah, they ride real strong

Crack addicts looking for other addicts

To steal from

Walkin' round wondering

Where they get their next meal from

Cokeheads on their reds

Sniffing up their wages

Dealers on speed dial

Suckin' all their papers

Still on the same number

That they've had for f***in' ages

SIM card so old the logo's f***ing faded

But turn it over

And you see the gold nugget

Reflecting off the light

That shines down above it

Unregistered chip you gotta love it

Pay-as-you-go so the feds don't bug it

Twitter for the streets

If you want tweets

Eleven little digits

And a blower's all you need

Tell me what's your poison

They've got everything from weed

Up to methamphetamine

Everybody, follow me

And join up to their antisocial network

Database of smack, coke

And crack-smoking experts

Without they'd go out of business

They'd no longer get work

So anybody trying to f*** with it

Is gonna get hurt

Lyrical narrator

Social commentator

Socially commentatin'

What I say is verbatim

Verbal stipulator, oral illustrator

Orally illustrating

what we stipulating

- What's happenin', bruv?

- You got that?

- Yeah?

- You enjoy that, yeah?

F***in' fat c*nt.

F***in' waddle, waddle, waddle, waddle.

Who the f*** is this?

- You all right, guys?

- Yeah.

- You got anything?

- Nah. What are you talkin' about?

- Couple of tickets or anything?

- Don't know what you're talking about, bruv.

I'm Tony's mate.

Nah. I don't know Tony, mate.

I don't know no Tony.

Oi!

(Police siren blares)

Oh, for f***'s...

Aaron! Come on, bruv!

Quick!

(Shouting)

What the f***!

(Police siren blares)

(Police siren blares)

(Door slams shut)

(Doors slamming shut)

(snores)

(Phone vibrates)

(Breathes heavily)

(Puffs)

(Grunting)

You love it, don't ya?

(Groans)

(Groans)

(Knock on the door)

What the... Who the f*** is that?

What's goin' on?

(Sighs)

Oh, f***'s sake!

It's 7.30 in the f***in' morning, man!

I got sh*t to get to-

I don't give a sh*t! What, you think

I'm holding this time of f***in' day?

You got money, have ya?

Is it all there?

Don't make me count it, bruv.

- You got a phone with ya?

- Use Ed's phone.

- What happened to Ed?

- He got f***in' shifted. Some madness.

- Oh, wanker! The lot of ya!

- Take the phone, bruv!

Let me put another chip in that, son.

F***ing wankers!

(Sniggers)

Who you picking up off? Chris?

- Chris?

- Yeah.

Don't make me laugh!

I don't pick up anything from Chris!

- Is it?

- All right?

Me and Chris have some business.

I've kept that man in f***in' business

ever since he was a wee pickney!

If it weren't for me,

that c*nt wouldn't be doing anything!

Even when I went away for 15 years!

That's the only reason he's got my turf,

but not for long,

so don't f***ing talk to me

about that c*nt!

Do you understand me?

(Drumbeat)

(Man) Prisoner GF9093 Kirby Cropper.

One panelled mac.

One forest-green shirt.

One pair of black jeans.

One pair of black Chelsea boots.

One minidisc player. Six discs.

One Nokia mobile phone.

Three items of jewellery.

Sign there for me, please.

(Music stops)

Mr. Drug Dealer

Mr. Drug Dealer

Mr. Drug Dealer

(Plan B) In 1975

There was this chick named Janet

A pregnant heroin addict

Who said she didn't plan it

So never thought to stop

Or ever kick the habit

Cos Kirby let her do it

And she knew he always had it

Down in the cellar with Trevor

Another addict

Who was at it like an asthmatic

Trapped in an attic

Suckin' on an asthma pump

Though you'd never know

By looking at him that's the c*nt

Who by 1983 was in the National Front

He had a shaved head

But still got mashed on drugs

So Kirby didn't mind him

Hangin' round that much

Especially any time Janet

Came around to f***

Get her fix while her kid, Chris

Waited around

'A nine-year-old boy

Who was healthy and loud

Considering when she was pregnant

She was smoking the brown

She was lucky that he wasn't born

Disabled or Down's.

Still, when you're too loud

You get a clap round your head

Kirby ain't his dad

But he does what he says

Stays downstairs

in the cellar with Trev

While Kirby's upstairs

Giving Janet her meds

At least that's what they told Chris

Still he ain't that dumb

He knows Kirby's upstairs

Bangin' his mum

While he's left in the basement

With some racist c*nt

Who's been waiting round for ever

For the motherfuckin' day to come

What an environment to raise a kid

Round crack dealers' houses

And racist pricks

Trevor looted the place

As well as maiming Chris

Left a permanent scar on his face

The same as his

With a razor blade

Yeah, it takes the piss

Whether you're prejudiced or not

Man, he's just a kid

But that's what Trevor done

No one ever saw him after that

Six years pass now

Kirby's cookin' up the crack

It's the new drug

Everybody's going crazy for

1989 the year Chris

started selling draw

Picking up from Kirby

Scar there beneath his eye

You'd think that after everything

That's happened he would treat him right

Not par him off

With just another ounce of weed

Cos a quarter of the bag

Is a bunch of f***in' seeds

Hundreds of 'em

And twigs the size of f***in' trees

But if he ever moaned

He'd get a slap across his cheek

1990 is the year that really took its toll

Cos that's the year his mother Janet

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes