John. John!
- What the fuck are you staring at?
- Nothing, mate.

- Calm down. Have a drink.
- Tell your mate to fuck off.

- I don't like being stared at.
- Fucking right!

Don't give us hassle.
We're Shadwell like you, alright?

You reckon? Who are we playing tomorrow?
- Pentland, away.
- I'm not asking you!

- When's our next home game?
- (JOHN): Wednesday, mate. Grimsby.

- Let him answer.
- Who did we sell to Wimbledon?

- Carera.
- You!

- Carera.
- Well done, Brain of Britain(!)

- Bloody good riddance.
- Trev...

He's the best player we over had!
Fuck off, mate. If he'd gone
any slower, he'd have grown roots.

- (JOHN): Trev...
- Hang on, he's got a point.

You've got to admit.
He did have some flair, though.

Oh, yeah. I wouldn't deny that, no.
For a white bloke he was pretty skilful.
- For a whitey, yeah. You're right.
- You prat!

I know they're fucking Neanderthals,
But we've got to face them.

I thought we might bump into you lot.
So you're really Shadwell?
Of course. Ignore him, he's new to the game.
One Josh Carera! There's only one Josh Carera!
- Do you fancy a game?
- Yeah, I'm on.

Five cards, two changes, no trumps.
Tell your mate he can play.
- I hope he's got some cash on him.
- Yeah. Cut him in, deal him out.

When do I over lose?
(TRAIN DRIVER): We'll shortly be
arriving at Pentland...