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Once upon a time, in the faraway magical land of South London,

in a simple age when a cock belonged to a man and a cunt was married to a woman,

but sat in the pub all day talking absolute bollocks,

there was a little boy called Jack.

The very first word Jack ever spoke was

c-c-cocaine.

An ambitious child, Jack already knew what he wanted out of life.

What would you like to do when you grow up, David?

Put a stop to world famine, sir.

What about you, Sarah?

Invent something amazing, sir.

And what about you, Jack?

Drug, sir. And fuck Sarah.

Jack knew that being academic was about as useful as a dildo in a nunnery.

Round the flats, a different type of education mattered.

Fuck you staring at me, Jules.

This was Jack's university.

Happily, he graduated with venereal disease and a criminal record.

And it was here he met Danny,

the love of his life.

Jack and Danny, you've got to admit, it's got a ring to it.

Their love burned so brightly that Danny even gave up on her dream of art college

and settled into a life of domestic bliss.

She laid down her paintbrush and picked up the laundry.

And on the day their son JJ was conceived,

Danny scored over 100,000 on some generic mobile game

while Jack smashed her back doors in.

For a while, they were just like any other normal family.

But Jack had one little niggling problem.

For 60 quid, you can buy an electric kettle from Argos

or a Dayglo collar from XL Boy.

But for 50 quid, you can buy a gramme of cocaine.

He loved his wife and son, but being a dicky sniffing cunt was way more fun.

While most men took their sons to football,

ate Ginster's pies and reminisced about Coldplay gigs,

Jack slipped off with his old muggers Vinnie, Roger and Dino,

where they sniffed phenomenal amounts of cocaine

and enjoyed their favourite pastime, fighting.

Come on in, you fucking two bald cunts. I'll do the lot of ya.

But what became of poor Jack?

After years of sniffing dicky and casual violence with the morals of a pikey,

surely he would redeem himself and find his true place in society.

MUSIC PLAYS

Oi! I thought you fucking died on us!

Vinnie's wife threw him out when she caught him

with a Brazilian tranny in Whitstable.

He only sees his kids through a contact centre,

but he's too ashamed to admit it, so he lies

and says the missus has taken him to centre parks.

Here you are. You've been a fucking spark out since we left London.

Dino got his first bit of bird when off his nut on ketamine.

He stole 1,000 pairs of Loro Piano mittens

and tried to sell them at the local Flidermide centre.

Lime himself up, silly bollocks, and then in Brinsley.

Maybe not the brightest.

Roger thought Canvey Island was in the Bahamas

and was blown away by EasyJet.

He once flew to Helsinki, then came straight home

just to experience speedy balding.

That's better.

I feel brand new.

If you want to avoid wannabe cunts in snide Moncler jackets

fancying themselves as football thugs over police stadiums

and tickets that cost more than a gramme of dicky,

then the lower leagues are for you.

But be warned, this sport is only for the truly committed.

Fuck me, they're mob-handed.

No one runs. Stay together. Let's boo these cunts.

Here we go. Come on, Brinsley.

Well, we are in for a treat today.

Two great firms, bitter rivals and sworn enemies

meeting in the bombed-out streets of Grimsby.

And as the firms advance towards each other

it's great to see Grimsby with such a tidy-looking mob.

These flash cockney wankers won't know what's fucking hit them.

Oh, that's a lovely effort from Grimsby.

Dino's gone over like a granny on ice.

Doesn't look like VAR will be needed in this instance.

Oh, that's terrific from Roger the Dodger.

Right round the fucking canister with a beer bottle.

That'll require a few stitches, I imagine.

Oh, that's a shocking display from the mouthy cunt Vinnie

in the CP duffel coat.

Since when was pepper spray in the Fairplay rulebook?

Stone the crumbs, he's only going again.

Jesus, these cockneys are really ruthless cunts.

What a screamer from Jack Jones.

That's worth a look from another angle.

And there it is. A peach of a shot.

Despite the fact he's losing his hair and got erectile dysfunction.

Oh, I won! He's only gone and nutted the cunt.

And that's what I call entertainment!

It's all fun and games. The sheer indulgence of it.

The drinking and eating and fighting and fucking

until one day you wake up and realise you've done nothing with your life.

Everything you ever had, all your hopes and dreams

have come to absolutely fuck all.

Fighting at football. Possession of cocaine.

At your age.

Don't you feel the slightest bit embarrassed?

Dreadfully embarrassed, mate.

Your honour.

Your honour.

I swear if you don't send me to prison, I'll give him a blowjob.

I'm going to give you a chance, Jones.

I'll take that back. Nose job.

But you need to prove to me why I shouldn't give you a custodial sentence

and you need to convince me your liberty is worth fighting for.

You'll be bound over for six weeks.

Now, you say that the reason for your violent activity and drug use

is financial and marital difficulties.

Well, I'm going to make it a legal requirement that you attend couples therapy.

As well as finding yourself some gainful employment,

your freedom rests in your ability to pull yourself together

over the next six weeks.

Your probation officer will report to me,

mess him around and it's prison for you.

Do we understand each other?

Yes.

Stage fright?

You mean you're dyslexic?

No biggie. Just ask.

So?

I'll help you if you help me.

I'm going to try.

Good.

I'm going to try.

It's worth taking it seriously cos life only pities the young.

It isn't so kind to middle-aged fuck-offs.

So what's your relationship with drugs like?

Stronger than my marriage.

How often do you do it?

I get the odd wank at Christmas.

I meant drugs.

Oh.

We're still in love.

You think it's a joke?

A box-sicking exercise?

You're 45 years old, you haven't got time to spend the next five years inside.

You think your wife will wait for you?

I wouldn't bet on it.

You've got six weeks to turn your life around.

Now, do you want to know how probation works?

You lucky cunt, I thought you'd be at five.

Sweet.

I was planning on having a trade with your missus.

Fuck off.

Hey, you wind up getting band overs beyond me, what a touch.

I'll get them then. Dino?

Lager.

Rog? Lager, Vin?

Jackie boy?

No, I'll just have a pear juice or something.

No, you won't, you'll have a fucking lager, you weirdo.

What's he say, then, your PO?

Gotta go therapy.

What for?

Brush up on me driving skills.

Have a go on that.

Fucking get on with it, then.

Kiss it.

You know you loved each other once.

There was a time when she laughed at everything you said,

no matter how fucking stupid,

and you wore her legs round your face like a scarf.

But that was years ago,

and eventually even those who love you the most

get tired of you acting like a backwards cunt.

Well, thank God you didn't go to prison.

Mum said she would have run off with another man if you went to jail,

one with money and a sense of humour.

You're right, I will.

Don't liven yourself up.

Right, Dino, what's happening, babe? What are you having?

It's fucking light outside, Vin. I'll have a tea.

Come on, babe, drop me out. We're on it.

Oh, yeah? Shouldn't you be at home with Lucy and the kids?

Nah, she's taking the kids out to Centre Park to go for the weekend.

Anyway, fuck that.

We're celebrating.

Celebrating what?

He's been given six weeks to sort his fucking life out.

Oi, Dino, come here.

You scared me.

I know, babe. Me and all.

Fuck prison.

Tell me you're done with it.

Of course I am.

Let's go and have a roast with the old man.

Nah.

I said tell me you're done with it.

All of it.

The sniffing, the football.

All right.

We'll start by emptying your pockets.

What, you're off Bill?

Don't you trust me?

Take a wild guess.

All right.

Yeah?

You know I won't nag you, Jack.

But I won't suffer you either.

I'm done.

If I had cocaine on me, it wouldn't be in me fucking pocket.

What'd the judge say?

Just got to keep me nose clean.

Was he having a fucking laugh or what, you?

No, but seriously though, kid.

You got to sort yourself out, you know that, don't you?

I mean, look at you.

When you married my daughter, you took a vow to take care of her.

But look at you now.

Living in one of my gaffs rent free.

And my little Danny don't know her husband's coming home in the next couple of weeks.

If she leaves you, Jack,

then so does my charity.

And how long

am I supposed to keep paying for your son's education, eh?

Well, I want my idea to send JJ out of private school.

He's my blood, Jack.

Forgive me for caring.

Trying to give him a leg up, a little start in life.

I know.

I appreciate it.

But,

any chance you can get me on one of your scaffolding teams?

Because I've got to prove I'm working.

That's a young man's game, that.

Got no room for messes.

You've got to be fit.

I just need a job, I'll do anything.

Yeah?

We'll start by carving this fucking burner.

I've got stuffing to make.

Success didn't bring my father-in-law.

He's always been a cunt.

Look, Grandad, I've got a hard-on.

Babe, we can't say that at the table.

Okay?

I need a word.

Now.

See?

Private school's doing him the world of good.

Listen.

I might have a bit of gra for you.

My Kenny boy's coming home.

Need someone to look after him.

Me look after Kenny boy?

He's been in health, though.

I've got a lot on me plate, man.

He's your wife's brother, Jack.

Half-brother.

What fucking difference does it make, eh?

You said you wanted a job, didn't you?

Look, I know you're struggling, yeah?

I just want to help.

Here's a bit of Reddy's.

Take this to begin on with.

Do something nice.

Take him to the fair or something.

The fair?

He's twenty-fucking-five, right?

We'll look like a pair of bacons.

Come on.

When's he home, anyway?

Kenny boy was brought up on a healthy diet of pornography,

YouTube violence and parental neglect,

a mentally unstable Roy Jacker with a vicious bald haircut

and a constant semi.

He's of the generation that thinks choking a bird

while smashing her back door's in is Morse code

for saying I love you.

And robbing your dad's house is just a way of

accessing your inheritance, early.

Pills, fight, wank, repeat.

Pills, fight, wank, repeat.

Not quite the health farmer I had in mind.

He was thinking ice baths and reiki.

This gaff's method is for a Z and repeats of

escape to the country.

Still, as long as he's had his vaults,

he'll be raring to go.

Kenny boy.

How are you, mate?

Sweet, mate.

I never thought I'd get out.

Gaff's full of fraggles.

Gotta love the NHS, though.

Some fucking junior doctor's charged me up like a Tesla.

What's the prognosis?

BPD, GAD, OCD, PTSD, sad and DPDD.

Apart from that, I'm fine.

Only joking.

Just bipolar.

Come here, Jack.

I missed you.

What are you doing?

Can't be healthy.

Sweet, mate.

They're organic.

Just saying.

Slow down.

You're going mad.

Don't worry.

I'm already mad.

I'm only joking.

I feel ream.

I do need to make a pit stop, though.

I can't.

I've got to go therapy with Danny.

Therapy with my sister?

Fucking hell.

Everyone knows your marriage is already fucked, mate.

Just accept it.

And pull over.

It's a fucking cold order, Kenny boy.

Sweet, mate.

I'll only be a minute.

You dropped off the bag, leaving the two young gazelles to serve up.

At the same time, leaving them vulnerable to leopard attack.

What the fuck are you talking about?

Crank.

Numbed out on clozapine and azanapine,

Kenny boy was about as in touch with his feelings as the Tories,

so he reverted to getting his kicks from the...

I'm loving angels instead.

The good thing about robbing drug dealers, if you're game enough,

is they can't go crying to the police.

The bad thing about robbing drug dealers is they'll do anything,

and I mean fucking anything, to save face.

Don't say I didn't warn you, Kenny boy.

Fuck.

I'd be happy for you to take the session for yourself, Danny.

Nah, I don't want to sit here moaning about that prick for an hour.

Why not?

You know what spins my nut?

He had so much fucking potential.

What about you?

It's OK.

You don't need to tell me anything if you're not ready.

I want him to go to art college.

He said I could draw about as well as Stephen Hawking, cheeky cunt.

Have you ever thought about trying again?

Art college, I mean.

I wonder how that might feel, to do something for yourself.

Just something to consider.

Have probation suggested couples' workshops?

I'd imagine he'd rather give his cocaine to the homeless.

Well, they can be really transformative.

And remember, if he doesn't attend, the court will hear about it.

He's a wanker, but he's trying.

Oh, Komodo Dragon, my favourite.

Yeah, I'd like your pair of cunts.

LAUGHTER

Elpharm did him a lot of good, didn't he?

He's fucking doolally, Rog.

I've got to make sure he stays out of trouble.

Funny place to bring him, Jack.

Everyone's washed their hands of him, poor kid.

Just won't keep me eyeing him.

Aren't you supposed to be going to therapy?

I'm sweet, mate.

I've not had a booze or a sniff in a week.

Right, are you bush?

What the fuck are you staring at?

I'm watching your back, you little mug.

You look like a bacon lurking outside a primary school.

LAUGHTER

Quiet down, you.

Right, I'm going carzy.

Come out of the way.

Comfortable.

Oh, it's late.

I'm not sure that's a good idea, Ken.

Oh, fucking, he's a fucking boring cunt, isn't he?

Fucking, he's a Jules anyway.

I know, I know.

I shouldn't be here, but at least my mates have got my back.

How are you getting on with the missus?

She's doing my fucking sweet, mate.

I told her, take the kids to the centre park for the weekend,

while I'm going tramming.

She goes, tramming?

Sounds like a fucking highly flammable fabric.

LAUGHTER

She said I couldn't give a fuck, though.

I'm Ats, and when I say Ats, I mean...

Ats, Ats!

She goes, what about the kids' bedtime story?

I go, it'll be a good morning story if I'm lucky,

I'm going to get fucking spangled.

You all right, Jack?

You look like you got the horrors.

Naughty bit of orange juice, this Ken.

Cunt.

Tranmere, the only place in the UK

that still looks like an Eastern Bloc country from the 80s.

The poorer cousins of Liverpool, if you can imagine such a place.

Population of around 200,000.

Most of them on smack or mobility scooters.

But still, they've got a good firm, as Vinnie is about to find out.

You can pretend that we don't exist.

Put us in England's bin of undesirables,

but like a fatal car crash,

you can't help but watch us from the safety of your own vehicles.

Get on that.

Vinnie!

Come on, then!

That's the one I want!

Come on, then!

Come on!

Come on!

Come on!

Come on!

Come on!

Come on!

Come on!

Welcome to London, Martins.

Please ensure you keep the premises clean at all times.

And most importantly, enjoy your stay.

Enjoy your stay?

This gas barely fit for homeless smackards.

Jack, sniff that dickie,

and there's no telling where you'll land.

Don't worry, I know what I'm doing.

Do you really?

Open this can of worms and you may never come back.

Listen, love, I'm sweet.

Are you?

Mid-forties with a belly hanging over your jeans,

a tiny cock and six weeks to sort your life out.

Yeah?

At least I'm not the one stuck in a fucking toilet.

Aren't you?

Yeah, all right.

Things aren't going too well for me at the moment.

Me neither.

I used to have something about me.

I used to work in the lift at Hilton Park Lane.

I'm just a stain on society.

No one wants my type around anymore.

My optics are all wrong.

And no one will care if I'm gone.

Fuck it, you're probably right.

I mean, look at the state of you, you two-ball cunt.

Do you think he's okay?

He looks dead.

Chance would be a fine thing.

Do you know him?

Christ!

Sorry, is there anything that I can do?

Kill him and marry me.

It was a joke, mate.

Sort of.

Oi! Oi!

Dinlo!

All right?

What's the time, babe?

Oh, morning, darling.

It's just coming up to you're an absolute cunt o'clock.

Fuck.

Fuck's sake.

Probation got me a job interview today.

I ain't gonna tell you to change, Jack, cos I can't bear the disappointment.

But I can tell you, you won't be coming home to a warm bed for much longer.

Wish me luck.

The sooner Harvey Weinstein tried to fuck me...

I'm gonna make her proud.

No more dicky, no more booze, no more fighting.

It's all behind me.

I know I can become a productive member of society.

You just watch me go.

What can I get you?

So, what you been up to before this, matey?

Bit of dicky, couple of peanuts, dab a case, some Valium, wash down with lager.

But no brown.

So, why Ledge magazine, Jess?

Jack.

Sorry, matey, I had a massive night.

I just need a job, I don't care what I do.

Wanna feign interest in worthy causes,

overshare your life on Instagram and vilify people from privileged backgrounds?

I'm only joking.

No, I've got the perfect technique for you.

Like this brogue,

each of you sees and feels the world

in a unique way.

Your own interpretation.

And that's what I'm looking for.

And just a reminder about our show coming up,

where we invite friends and family to critique our work

about the idea of judgement that fills you all with dread.

Well, better get used to it.

Now,

I want you to pick a theme.

Movement

or love.

Interpret it however you wish.

And remember, the toughest thing in art,

much like in life,

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