Looking for Eric Page #9

Synopsis: Eric Bishop, a middle-aged postman working for the Manchester sorting office, is going through a dreadful crisis. For starters, his second life companion has not resurfaced although she was released from prison a few months ago. He is left alone with two stepsons to look after, which is no bed of roses since the two teens disrespect him and keep disobeying him. To make matters worse, Ryan, the older boy, fascinated by Zac, a dangerous gangster, has accepted to hide his gun in Eric's house. On the other hand, he is asked by Sam, his student daughter who has a newborn baby, to get back in touch with Lily, his separated wife. Now, Eric left her not long after she gave back to their daughter. As a result Eric panics... Having lost all his bearings, Eric Bishop soliloquizes face to the poster of his idol, another Eric, French footballer Eric Cantona, when the latter appears just like the genie out of Aladdin's lamp. Through a series of aphorisms peculiar to him, the footballer-philosopher w
Genre: Comedy, Drama, Fantasy
Director(s): Ken Loach
Production: IFC Films
  3 wins & 5 nominations.
 
IMDB:
7.2
Metacritic:
66
Rotten Tomatoes:
85%
NOT RATED
Year:
2009
116 min
£215,173
Website
409 Views


coming out of their arse, ain't they?

And they got, like... They got guns

and baseball bats.

I don't care about all this

bullshit gangster talk.

Listen, does anyone

want a drink? I'll get 'em in.

- Right. Who, who's on what here?

- Get me one.

- Yeah, get us a pint of bitter.

- Right, okay.

Oh, I'll just say f***ing

"same again". He knows.

Hurry up.

- Thanks, Eric.

- All right, all right.

I still say we've

gotta phone the police.

Oh, will you f*** off

with the police?

Steve. Can I have a round, please?

Usual, Eric?

Yeah, yeah, same again

for them lot, please, mate.

- Eric.

- What the f*** are you doing here?

He that sews thistles

shall reap prickles.

What?

He that sews thistles

shall reap prickles.

- Thistles, prickles?

- Yeah.

If they are faster than you,

don't try and outrun them.

If they are taller,

don't out-jump them. Right?

If they are stronger

on the left, you go right.

- Remember?

- Yeah. Yeah.

Right. But not always.

To surprise them,

got to surprise yourself first.

- Yeah, yeah, yeah.

- Right?

- Yeah. Okay.

- Okay.

F***, yeah.

Here you go, Eric. There's your drinks.

Right, yeah. Cheers. Listen.

Stick the rest of 'em on the bar

there along with me change, right?

- Okay. Thank you.

- Nice one, mate. Cheers.

- Nice one.

- F***ing hell.

Here we are, here we are.

- Good man.

- Who wants what?

- Have you got 'em all there?

- Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get 'em.

- Here you go.

- Right.

- Lager. Bitter.

- Ah, wrong one. Spleens.

Right, listen.

What is he frightened of?

- Spleen. Spleen.

- What's he frightened of?

Gangsters. Other gangsters.

- No. No.

- Police.

- His nana?

- No.

Knock f*** out of him, he'll come up

smiling just to spite you.

- Unions.

- No.

Go on. What?

Give us a clue.

Losing face. He's frightened of

losing face, ain't he?

Think about it.

F***ing wide-boy like him.

That's what I was saying.

Change. Me change, as well.

So if we could think of some way

of embarrassing him?

- Yeah.

- Yeah, his psyche.

Showing him up?

Yeah. Something like that. F***ing hell.

- YouTube.

- YouTube?

YouTube.

What the f***'s? Is that, is

that a new kind of Brylcreem or what?

No, he's right.

He's f***ing right.

YouTube. Listen.

When's the next away match?

What sort of video?

Okay. Here we go.

It's the East Lancs A580

directly to Worsley Road.

Take the...

Left turn on to A572 for rendezvous,

ETA 1200 hours.

Over. Do you hear me?

Meatballs, are you near me?

Getting me head down.

Travis, are you, where are you?

I have lost radio contact.

Where are you?

Where are you? Meatballs,

where are you, for f***'s sake?

This is going to cock.

This has all been planned.

- Where's coach two?

- There, d*ckhead.

Where's coach two? Where is it?

What the f***ing hell is going on?

You're worse than

the f***ing Yanks in Baghdad, you!

What the f*** is going on in here?

What are you doing?

Tell him to slow down.

What are you doing?

Slow down.

Driver, hurry up, for f***'s sake.

Spoil it. Just f***ing sit down!

Okay, men, take convoy. Stay back.

Okay, men, stay in

Let's get it done.

Let's go. Come on, let's f***ing go.

Come on,

let's sort this out now.

Stop f***ing about.

You know what you need to do.

We need to get in

and out of there, get that job done.

We got 45 minutes.

We don't wanna miss kick-off.

- Are we all right for it?

- Yes!

- Are we all up for it?

- Yes!

Operation Cantona!

What a friend we have in Jesus

He's our saviour from afar

What a friend we have in Jesus

And his name is Cantona

Ooh, ah, Cantona

Ooh, ah, Cantona

Ooh, ah, ooh, ah, ooh, ah

Cantona, ooh, ah, Cantona

Wait a minute. F***ing dog.

- How big is it?

- F***ing big.

Big. It's f***ing big.

Should have brought some steak.

Give us them sausages.

- Here are, here are.

- Here, for f***'s sake.

- Come on, get him. Get him.

- He's here.

F***ing hell,

look at the size of that!

Shut up, shut up.

God, you big ugly git.

Get it in the loop.

- All right. Hang on. F***'s sake, man.

- Come on.

Come on.

It's gonna have me f***ing hand off.

- Right. Here, here, here. Right.

- Go on, go.

Get the f***er.

That's it, that's it, take it.

He's going,

he's going, going, going.

That's it. Got the f***er.

Shut up, shut up.

Post, special delivery.

Come on.

Right, Sonny.

Get hold of this bloody dog.

Okay, men. Operation Cantona.

- Express yourselves.

- Express yourselves.

Come on!

F***ing hell's going on?

Oi! Nobby.

Go and get Fenner.

- Fenner.

- Fenner, get out of f***ing bed.

- Fenner.

- Where's the dog?

What? What you shouting for?

Have a look out

the f***ing window.

- Where's the phone?

- What?

- Fenner, phone, Buzz.

- Fenner.

F***ing hell!

The f***'s going on?

What? What? What the f*** is going on?

Get off the f***ing car.

Get the f***ing bat. Hey!

Have a look. Look out the window.

Get off the car. Hey.

- Come on then. Who f***ing wants it?

- Oh, there you are.

Come on. Get off the f***ing grass.

Who wants it?

I'll take your f***ing head off.

- Leave him alone, you.

- Shut up, you c*nt. Come on.

- What are you gonna do, eh?

- Turn that f***ing camera off

or I'll f***ing have you, you f***ing.

You gonna do us all, are ya?

I'll have you first, you f***ing fat

c*nt. And then this little c*nt here.

- You recognise that?

- Do I f***!

Eh, you f***ing do. It's yours. Eh?

F***ing. What you f***ing...

You're talking sh*t, you prick.

All of ya, f***ing come on.

Right, boys. Fire!

- Turn it off!

- What are you f***ing doing?

- There you go.

- Oh, f*** off!

- Come on.

- You're a f***ing joke.

F*** off.

F*** off. F*** off. Hey, is this it?

Right, boys. Get in there.

- Come on. Come on.

- F***ing come on.

Get away with that f***ing camera.

- D'you recognise it now?

- Get it out the face.

- What?

- Do you recognise it now?

It's a f***ing gun. What d'you want?

What d'you f***ing want?

Do you recognise it?

It's a f***ing gun.

There's hundreds of 'em.

Oh, f***ing nice one.

- D'you recognise it now, eh?

- F***ing nice one.

- Acknowledge it now.

- Get out of me...

No, it's a f***ing gun.

No, I've never f***ing seen it.

Get to f***.

F***ing hell! No! Leave it out! F***!

- Do you recognise it?

- F*** off.

Right, boys.

- Decorate!

- What?

F***ing hell. You got it in me eye!

You f***ing divs.

Do you recognise it now?

Do you recognise it now?

F*** off.

Okay, boys, hold fire.

Hold it. Hold it.

All right, boys, it's a court. Get back.

You f***er.

All right, fat Eric,

I've f***ing seen it.

- And?

- Well, you f***ing win.

You get that, boys?

Ladies and gentlemen,

before your very eyes,

I am gonna smash this

bleedin' gun into smithereens.

Whoa, not the f***ing tiles.

They're Italian, them.

- Are they Italian?

- Yeah.

You f***ing twat.

You f***ing c*nt. F***ing pack it in!

You know that family?

You don't go near 'em.

You don't look at 'em, you don't talk

to 'em, you don't even think about 'em.

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Paul Laverty

Paul Laverty (born 1957) is a Scottish lawyer and scriptwriter. more…

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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