Original subtitles

D'you know what?

Every fuckin' story about Belfast starts like this.

But not this one and don't be acting the fuckin' balloon,

that's not the start.

This is the start.

With my best mate, Naoise, when he was a wee baby,

and his ma, Dolores, out in ma nature...

This wasn't his ma's idea at all.

Naoise's da, Arlo,

well, he wanted his firstborn baptised here

at this secret Mass Rock.

It was a tribute to the Irish Catholics who,

just a few generations ago,

gave the middle finger to British rule by sneaking here

to practise their own religion and speak their own language.

Except the peelers went and thought

they'd uncovered themselves an IRA training camp.

So on the day wee baby Naoise was supposed to be taken

by the light of Christ,

instead he got the full beams of an RUC chopper.

Fuck off!!!

I mean, what fucking chance did the wee boy have?

Me and Naoise, we got our first taste for drugs

at Ireland's most infamous criminal finishing school.

Stop! Stop there!

Next Sunday, that congregation doubled.

That's drugs for you - they bring you closer to God.

For Naoise and me, they were our fucking calling.

And as Mass Rocks proved,

nothing gets between us Taigs and our religion.

You run! Go!

Didn't matter what community in the north of Ireland you came from,

we could always find common ground

in a love for throwin' shit at the Peelers.

And as for Naoise, he was off learning

that public transport doesn't mix well...

with ketamine.

As for myself, tonight I learnt what it's like

getting bitten by a dog wiped on MDMA.

It feels... fucking mental.

Okay.

Repeat after me.

'The man walked to market with his sow.'

'The man walked to market with his sow.'

'The girl cut turf in the rain.'

'The girl cut turf in the rain.'

How do you cut turf?

With misery and despair, I'd say.

Not used to seeing you up here.

I'm covering.

Everything okay?

I think you need new Irish textbooks.

They are the new textbooks.

I'm not sure shovelling shite

is going to inspire these kids to learn Irish.

Turn it up.

Northern Ireland's government has in the last hour collapsed

over failure to agree on an Irish Language Act

which would give the minority language equal legal status to English.

Many republicans see the language as an expression

of their political identity.

They say it's a matter of civil rights.

The Irish language is my heart and soul.

If it was the colour of my skin and you could easily identify me

as being of a different colour, and the DUP were saying,

'We can't give equal rights to this guy',

I think the issue would be clearer.

Friends, what a momentous day.

So we'll be ramping up our campaign,

and counting on your support in the coming months.

We're only asking for the same language rights as the Scots

and the Welsh.

A country without a language is only half a nation.

Hello.

Yes, it is.

What, now?

That was the police.

The peelers? What do they want?

An Irish translator.

I can't go, I was drinking.

It's translating, not driving a HGV.

But I'd still have to drive there.

Then why did you say...?

No!

No.

There's an Irish speaker in need.

Bullshit! If they speak Irish they speak English.

It's not the fucking Potato Famine.

Don't joke about the Famine.

Too soon?

With everything that happened today,

someone is probably taking a principled stand

for their language rights.

We need to...

We must support them.

Nothing but a hood.

H double O D.

Lowlife scum.

Waste of fucking space.

Do I look like I want to read fucking subtitles?

If you could read,

you wouldn't be a fucking peeler now, would you?

Why don't you just speak the Queen's English?

This was a fair question, though rudely asked.

For me to respond to this sectarian prick in Irish,

I'd have to say something along the lines of...

An chloch is íochtaraí san fharraige go raibh sé ar bharr do cheann.

Which means:

'May the lowest stone in the sea be on top of your head'.

You do get there a lot quicker with...

Again.

- Hear. - Listen.

- Do. - Get.

- See. - Eat.

Give.

Again.

Stop that, they'll catch a cold!

I'm making Irish-speakers of them!

Irish-speakers... Prison Irish, more like!

I'm proud to have learnt my irregular verbs on a wall covered in shite!

- Aye, your own shite! - Aye.

And you know what that shite smelt like?

Freedom.

Not when I've been in the toilet after you it doesn't.

What'll the next class be, Grade 1 tunnelling?

Yoga actually, Ma.

Leave them be to get on with their real homework.

Aye. Curriculum of the coloniser.

Catch yourself on!

Pity your ma, Naoise. Born with Irish in her mouth, she was.

Now disowns her own mother tongue...

Only one thing here getting disowned.

Quit your slabbering!

I'll show you some slabbering...

Get away to fuck!

Get you home or your mammy will think we've kidnapped you.

A wee operation for youse.

I want you to sit down tonight

and watch an American Western on the telly.

But here's the thing:

I want you to watch it from the Indian's point of view, okay?

And remember:

Every word of Irish spoken...

is a bullet fired for Irish freedom.

And then Naoise's da was gone.

Like, gone gone.

Turns out since leaving jail,

Arlo had been having a full-blown affair with blowing up anything British.

He blew this up.

And this.

And...

Well, alright, that one didn't go off.

Anyway, three years after going on the run,

Arlo fell to his death from a fishing boat.

Or, if you believe the peelers, he didn't.

With his dead body never found,

Arlo couldn't be proved dead,

and with his alive body never found,

Arlo couldn't be proved alive.

The dead Arlo had his funeral.

And the alive Arlo remained on the run.

And to this day, just having met the man

was enough to have some lump spitting in your beak about it.

I mean, Arlo was right about one thing:

Cowboys... were proper cunts.

Move!

This is Mr ó Dochartaigh.

He is an Irish interpreter.

- I'm not... - Do you speak Irish?

Aye.

That'll do.

Tell her.

I'm not talking to anyone who works for the fucking peelers.

I don't work for them.

Look which side of the table you're on.

It's where the chair is.

Aye.

And why do you think that's where the chair was?

What's he saying?

Just discussing the furniture.

So, eh, what are we doing here?

Resisting arrest, public nuisance,

and unless he can somehow prove

he can't speak the language of his home country,

then we can throw in obstructing the police

in the execution of their duty.

Am I supposed to translate that?

I think he understood just fine.

So why you doing this, with the Irish?

I hate the peelers.

So nothing to do with today's news?

What news?

Listen, I want out of here just as much as you.

I doubt that.

Well?

Well.

How are you feeling?

Aye.

- Did you take...? - I need a new prescription.

Why haven't you? It's two minutes...

You get it for me tomorrow, okay, hen?

You need to get out...

Just this time.

You have to get out. Outside.

Quit lecturing me under my own roof!

You're never out from under your own roof!

That's the problem.

Will I make you something?

Aye, roast lamb with all the trimmings.

Fuck up!

What's this mean?

Er... 'I got up this morning,

well, at the end of the day.

Before I leave the bed, a spliff and a cup of tea.

Now I have a big night ahead of me because of yesterday,

I spent all my DLA on MDMA.'

Tell her it flows a lot better in Irish.

- Poetry? - Scribbles.

And I really need you to stop turning...

I want you to look for any reference to an Arlo...

ó Cairealláin.

Time for you to decide

what side of the table you're on.

What's he saying?

Er... She's asking you to prove a negative.

What?

By asking you to prove you can't speak English,

she's placing the burden of proof onto you, not her.

That's what I just said, right?

Aye... Er... He says he doesn't have to prove

that Irish is his only language because

absence of evidence is not evidence of absence.

It's just a basic principle of modern justice.

- He said that? - Mm. Yeah.

And he says that, furthermore,

and notwithstanding the aforementioned,

he sees no reason to prove that he cannot speak English

because he's here asserting his right to speak Irish.

Hmm!

Here, have you got anything for...

resisting arrest?

Sit down!

So...

are you going tomorrow?

Where?

Aye.

Will I say hello for you?

No, fuck.

Aye.

'Night.

'Night, love.

Go to bed.

I'm saving myself for the big sleep.

What d'you call a Provo that's become a yoga instructor?

Bobby Sandals.

You bring a stolen car here? Here?

It's not...

So you bought this, did you?

You're putting the whole operation at risk...

What operation?

Every day I am not captured

is a psychological victory against the occupiers,

that's the operation.

Speak Irish to me.

What's this?

Drugs?

It's a rollie. Speak Irish to me.

'Think I don't have eyes in Belfast? I hear things.

You taught me Irish.

- I know where you'll end up. - Fucking speak it!

You'll end up face down in an alley.

You don't speak Irish.

You might know the words

but you don't understand the language.

It is the light that guides us towards our freedom.

Those who see it, stand up for it.

You don't stand for fuck all.

Mam is getting worse.

She was asking about you.

No, she wasn't.

No. She wasn't.

I need you to do something for me.

What?

Arrange a memorial service.

For who?

For me. It's ten years next month since, y'know...

These peelers won't let me rest in peace.

I need something to remind our community I'm dead,

make it harder for these RUC bastards

to keep behaving like I'm alive.

I thought maybe you'd be doing something anyway, but...

Aye.

I'd love to organise a memorial

for the week I thought my da was dead.

What did you expect me to do?

That's a long fucking list.

Happy Birthday.

If you got pulled over and they found that...

Use your head, lad.

They called our generation the Ceasefire Babies

as if our only defining feature was

we were not the shit that came before us.

Maybe they were right.

Maybe we were only ever gonna be the moment after the moment

just as fucked up and miserable as the last

only with less chance of gettin' blown up to escape it all.

But we still found ways to escape it all.

You've heard of intergenerational trauma, right?

- Right? - Our history...

- Our history has become... - Our biology.

It's like the trauma our ancestors suffered

has inserted itself...

has actually inserted itself...

into our genetic code.

Post-traumatic stress disorder.

- Psychological... - Reverberations.

Reverberations.

A.D.H.D.

O.D.D.

- The Troubles? - The Troubles?

I've got fucking troubles.

I just pray that this medicine

grants me some relief.

D'you not think I'd be better off going straight in with 500mg?

Is there... something else?

I've got a bit of a problem...

down south...

with my mickey.

Okay.

It's political.

Your problem?

My mickey. See...

I've no problem pulling birds. Like, I can do that no bother, anytime.

This isn't the first bap you've buttered.

Just can't get the wee man to stand to attention...

Go on.

Without a King Billy loving Prod.

And there's this weird wee Tourettes thing right before I...

Our day will come!

Until the other week I met this wee ride, Georgia.

Say it again!

Again!

Don't you dare cum!

I wanna blow you like a Brighton hotel.

Have you thought about...

seeing a priest?

Oi!

What you have here is a community who live their lives

through the medium of Irish, through the schooling,

through the youth clubs, through their arts projects,

through the GAA clubs.

And for them, there's been a very, very strong...

Top man!

What the fuck...!

What are you doing here?

What am I doing in my own car?

Fuck!

Here!

Oh bollocks!

What was all that about?

Fuck all!

Cross-community running club.

Here, your lyrics...

They're great.

I've never read anything like them in Irish.

What I'm saying is would you be into making music?

People barely listen to Irish hip-hop,

let alone Irish hip-hop in Irish.

How d'you know when there's no hip-hop in Irish?

No cunt who listens to hip-hop speaks Irish.

Give them a reason to.

Why?

Why?

Because Irish, it's like the last dodo.

Stuck behind glass in some zoo.

'Look, but don't touch.'

Someone needs to smash that glass

and set the dodo free so it can live.

What the fuck is a dodo?

Look, he says he's got a studio.

- Well... - And some beats.

Sort of...

And he's a music teacher.

Oh, excuse me.

Wouldn't want to delay your meeting with Dr. Dre!

I'm offering you a free spin of the wheel.

And if half of what's in those lyrics is true,

you need this more than I do.

Are we making music or fitting exhausts?

Well...

It's not Abbey Road...

Abbey what?

Aye, I like that.

Give us a go.

- Fucking give us a go! - Stop!

What are you doing?

Relax. I'm just tweaking the EQ.

Now I just need something to take the edge off.

We've got something for that.

♪ Don't I feel bad for this ever? ♪

Something like that?

Well...

What's up?

Lads. What are you doing here?

Wha...?

Listen, it's not a good time.

You said meet here to fucking go work on the tracks.

Did I?

I think that's what you said.

Like I said, it's not a good time.

- Tomorrow? - I don't know.

Fucking weekend, then?

I can't, I...

I've paving slabs to lay.

Paving slabs!

What happened to smashing up the Irish language dodo?

No, smashing the glass to set the dodo free...

Whatever.

I'll be in touch!

What the fuck...?

- Who was that? - Who?

The two smicks you were fist bumping.

Oh, them?

Just ex-pupils.

- You coming to the meeting? - Meeting?

Are you fucking kidding me? The meeting.

The Language Act Protest Committee.

I know.

I'd love to. I'd LOVE to...

but...

What? You've a puddle of piss to mop up?

Aye, there's that.

They want me to lead the campaign.

Of course they do. You're brilliant.

I just don't know if it's me.

Listen.

No one is anyone until they are.

Are you still fucking high?

Aye, a little bit.

Don't you touch me, you filthy Taig!

You've interned my dick!

Now for the hard interrogation...

That's right - confess, confess...

Never!

Spill your secrets inside me, you Fenian cunt!

Northern Ireland!

- North of Ireland! - Northern Ireland!

North of Ireland!

Northern Ireland!

The North of Ireland!

Oh!

Celtic... are... fucking... shite!

You leave Celtic out of this!

Wait till I get onto the Pope.

Right. I suppose I may go here

before your fucking Black and Tan da walks through the door.

I live with my aunt.

Well, go on then.

I'm going.

This can never work.

Suits me.

Maybe.

Or maybe you're scared.

Scared of you?

Of not me.

Of being with someone who might just ditch you for you -

not just what foot you dig with.

Bollocks.

Okay then, tell me something about you.

Something you've never told anyone else.

I'm a rapper.

Stop spoofing.

I'm a rapper - Irish hip-hop.

What the fuck is that?

Hip-hop - in Irish.

- Why Irish? - Why not?

When's your next gig?

Soon.

Let us listen to something then.

Maybe next time.

What makes you think there'll be a next time?

Here, what's your rap group called?

Kneecap?

What's Belfast famous for?

Bombings...

George Best... baps...

Kneecappings.

By that logic,

we might as well call ourselves The Titanics.

Well, Kneecap's our name...

because I've already booked us a gig under it.

A gig?!

We haven't even got a finished track!

That's not my fault!

Blame him.

Why are two fellas digging up our garden?

What are you doing?

'Morning!

Where are these fucking paving slabs, then?

We'll do the garden, you finish the track.

Deal?

- No, no, I'll do it. - Sit down.

I'll do it. Let me do it.

It's not fucking Dancehall!

- What? - Come in on the chorus.

No, fuck that. I'm the lead.

Straight in, right?

So it's one, two, three...

Ready?

When I said I'd booked us a gig what I meant was,

my Uncle Peadar said we could play in his bar

if I sorted some old folk smoke for his gout.

JJ only agreed to DJ

if he could set up his decks in the store cupboard,

just in case he was spotted by any pupils.

His paranoia was not helped

by his new love affair with the 'schniff'.

Young man, we caught you damaging public property.

And you are coming to the station so we can talk properly.

You know, in West Belfast,

the only thing worse than getting arrested and charged

is getting arrested and not charged.

This yours?

Game over!

Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well...

Look who it is here, look, Bone Thugs and No Harmony!

I hear you got scooped.

- What they charge you with? - Fuck all.

They just gave me a hiding.

Or maybe you're just a dirty ten pound tout.

Sorry. Who would I be touting on exactly?

Us.

Who the fuck are 'Us'?

Us is us. We are us.

The Radical Republicans Against Drugs.

That's right.

How the fuck do you pronounce that?

- R-RAD. - R-RAD. R-RAD

Aye, that's right. R-RAD.

What, like you've all got a fucking s-s-stutter?

Fuck up you, tout.

What have you ever done to tout about?

We've done plenty, actually.

We're an active fucking unit.

Not like the Republican Volunteers Against Drugs.

Or New Republicans Against Drugs.

- Or the New Republicans Against Drugs. - Or them.

All they ever did was fucking slabber.

Don't think I don't know what youse two are up to.

Runnin' around the woods sellin' gear like a couple of druggie...

fuckin'... eh... wombles. Huh?

Your da will be turning in his grave.

Peelers say he ain't dead - it was in the papers.

Word is he ain't dead.

NEVER MIND THE WORDS!

BRITS DON'T GET TO DECIDE

WHEN IRISH PATRIOTS ARE DEAD!

WE'LL DECIDE WHEN WE'RE DEAD!

God rest his soul.

Right, tell me who's supplying you.

The truth was, the biggest drug supplier in West Belfast

was called The Postman.

That wasn't some cool underworld nickname.

That was his job.

52 fuckin' years.

Some people say the Worldwide Web

is the greatest invention of the 21st century.

Those people have never been on the Dark Web.

We bought MDMA from Holland, Ketamine from India,

and Mephedrone from Vietnam.

They arrived disguised as bath salts, flower seeds,

DVDs, kids toys...

Here, spaceman! I'm talking to you!

When you gonna get my ball?

When you gonna give me a go on your fucking hurl?

Go ahead then.

I'll just skip through the bit where we get our bollocks knocked in.

Lads...

- Where the fuck have you been? - At work.

Our music is...

We know!

Oh, fuck's sake!

Have you seen the crowd?

I can't go out on that stage.

Someone will see me.

I'm pretty sure that's the fucking point!

Fuck's sake!

- Fuck! - Here, here.

Here, take that.

I look like a fucking Próvaí!

Aye, DJ fucking Próvaí!

DJ Próvaí!

- I can't... - C'mon!

DJ Próvaí!

DJ fucking Próvaí!

You said that was coke, right?

That's not coke.

Ketamine... that's fucking Ket!

- Did you know? - Wrong pocket!

Great fucking drug dealer you are!

- Fuck! - We'll be fucking sweet.

It's not like we never had a line of ket before, is it?

It'll be 20 minutes before it kicks in properly.

And by then we'll be halfway done. No need to panic.

What are youse flippin' staring at?

No need to panic!

No need to panic!

No, no, no... No need to panic.

So Móglaí, what are we gonna do tonight?

Same thing we do every night.

- Try to take... - Drugs.

How many times I gotta tell you?

He's either dead or dead to me. Same difference!

Can I come in?

Got a warrant?

You look like shit.

Always did think you'd make a good Avon lady.

You've no shoes on the rack.

Why have you no shoes on the rack?

What does that got to do with anything?

Not much. Only I've been in this game long enough to know

you can still be a victim of men like Arlo

without a crime to match it to.

Consider this as the knock at the door before the knock at the door.

Maybe it's their door you should be knocking on.

Oh, so you want the police's help now?

Just an observation.

Well, whilst we're making observations,

him and his wee pals' music,

it's drawing attention from all the wrong places,

and I count myself among those places.

Bloody kids, eh?

And when it all falls down, and it will...

I'm going to be knocking at your door

with one choice to dig him out of the rubble.

I won't enjoy it, but don't doubt for a second I'll do it.

Remind me, how d'you take your tea again?

In a cup or straight in the face?

Arlo's was a strange sort of memorial service,

given a third of the people thought he was dead...

He was taken too soon.

A third of them thought he was alive...

It's as if he's never gone.

And the other third were undercover peelers.

You don't know me but I'm an old, old friend of Arlo.

Can I buy you a drink?

We, the Radical Republicans Against Drugs,

have gathered here today to honour the memory of Arlo Ó Cairealláin.

When I was a wee boy, the actions of Arlo ó Cairealláin

against the imperialist state

were a lesson to me to follow my dreams,

especially because my dreams were about killing the Brits.

He was like a da to me, so he was.

In recent months, we have seen a rise

in anti-social behaviour and drugs.

Now we will not tolerate these parasites

SUCKING THE LIFE out of this community

with their hedonistic and toxic lifestyle.

Let us be clear now, okay?

Anybody found to be involved in the illegal trade of drugs

or encouraging their use through their actions,

are to be considered legitimate targets.

And it's what Arlo Ó Cairealláin would have wanted.

Where's the...?

You were meant to give me that in the car on the way up.

Hear.

Listen.

- Get. - Eat.

What?

Nothing.

What?

Nothing! Just that thing you do with your mouth.

What thing?

- It's a twitch. - A twitch?

I don't do that!

Not any more.

But you used to.

Back when you used to be...

happy.

Fuck! The cops.

Is everything okay, officer?

Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle for a breathalyser, sir?

- He isn't driving. - Isn't he?

It's okay.

Really?

She doesn't know, does she?

Know what?

What about your school?

Do the students call you Mr DJ Próvaí, or...?

Harder!

At the station, is that where it started?

I feel like I discovered The Beatles.

If The Beatles were shit.

What is it, some sort of early onset midlife crisis?

Some men buy a Porsche, you join a Republican rap group?

Why are you doing this?

Pass.

You have a life, a career, a future...

Remember, I can take it all away from you like that!

Message from on high:

what those hoods have to say

this city doesn't need to be hearing, d'you understand?

C'mon.

Thanks for your time, drive carefully.

There's a lot of lowlife scum around.

♪ A dog with a job, what the fuck is that? ♪

♪ When our poor Micky's just sitting in the flat? ♪

Turns out a leafleting campaign

about how your band gives out free drugs

really drives ticket sales.

No more pay-to-play-with-hash, people were paying us cash.

- What the fuck was that? - What the fuck was that?

Brits Out?!

I've said far worse things than that to you!

That's different!

I'm sorry, hold on, you're giving me more stick for telling youse

to leave than what youse got for coming here in the first fucking place!

You don't tell me to leave, I was fucking born here!

I don't mean you, Georgia.

'Brits Out' as in British state, MI5...

Then why didn't you say that then?

Because it's the chorus of a fucking song,

not the 1916 Proclamation!

The wha'?

Don't give me that look because I don't know some Taig shite!

Who the fuck are you calling a Taig?

You! Or do you want me to get up on stage and say it to the whole world?

You seemed just fucking fine in that wee crowd.

Oh, aye! Well, what do you care?

Oh, I don't fucking care.

I never wanna see you again.

I never wanna see you again.

What's happenin', Georgia?

Fuck up.

We have bigger issues to tackle in our society...

than fawning over a language spoken by less people in Northern Ireland...

than Polish.

But you say that as if it's something to be proud of.

That the native language of this island

has been driven to near-extinction.

Type the name Kneecap into the internet.

So-called Irish language rappers promoting drug use,

anti-social behaviour and violence.

One even wears a balaclava

and calls himself DJ Próvaí.

This is the true face of the Irish language.

You kept my chair.

I wouldn't read too much into that.

Thanks for going to my memorial.

Well, if you can't be bothered to go...

I'm only saying, it doesn't look very convincing

if my own wife doesn't even show.

Widow.

Widow.

Still denying your native tongue?

I deny the ears that are hearing it.

Oh, aye, that lovely Detective Ellis dropped it round.

Why?

Why do you think?

I'll take care of it.

You'll do nothing of the sort.

Doing nothing has allowed our son to be dealing drugs.

That's unacceptable.

This operation will not fail...

'Operation?'

There is no operation!

Jesus, you're like one of those Japanese soldiers,

still stumbling around some jungle 50 years after the war has ended.

I sacrificed my life for the cause.

You sacrificed?

You left us in a prison cell

so you wouldn't have to go to one.

That lad is becoming something despite you.

And if you've turned up here with a mind to get in his way,

I'll show you a woman going to war.

Aye.

So long as you don't have to leave this house to do it.

Aye, so...

turns out me and Georgia did want to see each other again.

Auntie!

How can that be your fuckin' auntie?

I know, she's a peeler.

I know she's a fuckin' peeler.

She's gonna shoot me dead in your fuckin' hallway!

No, she won't.

Unless I tell her you broke in and...

That's not even fuckin' funny!

Right.

Take it off.

- He's using you. - Maybe I'm using him.

He's trying to get at me.

Don't flatter yourself. He didn't even know.

And you believe that?

- Who is he to you? - Nobody.

Then what's the problem?

The same one there's always been here.

You mix green and orange you get brown.

- Nobody likes brown. - Some people like brown.

I LIKE BROWN!

Will you take some more soup?

No. I found it a bit tasteless.

A Belfast band has been criticised

for chanting anti-British slogans at a city centre bar

where Prince William had spoken 24 hours previously.'

The band involved are called Kneecap.

The incident is making headlines,

and they've been condemned by the DUP.

Isn't that the Kneecappers?

Don't think so.

It's them.

It is them...

It's definitely them.

C'mon.

Lads.

How are you?

Can we talk to you?

About your music?

This is a big joke to you, isn't it?

Well, I'm not laughing.

Lads, you have to stop.

It's not helping.

Helping what?

You know well.

The legislation - the Irish Language Act.

It's a politically sensitive time.

We have to consider

who are the best ambassadors for the language.

The only reason why the Irish language still fucking exists

is because people refused to not speak it.

No one's telling you not to speak it.

Once upon a time, a man told us

that the Irish language was like the last dodo,

stuck behind glass in some museum.

And to help it to survive,

we had to break the glass and set the dodo free.

That sounds like a terrible analogy.

There are 80,000 native Irish speakers in Ireland.

Only 6,000 of them live in the north of Ireland.

Three of us have become rappers.

I don't know if we've become popular by talent

or if it was just our turn.

It's a weird thing suddenly being seen

when you come from a place that never even wanted you to fucking exist.

I guess sometimes, change happens on the down low.

Too little to notice until one day, you can't not notice

and by then everything's changed.

Including you.

And sometimes change hits like a filthy bass line.

A boulder being pushed over a cliff.

You can't control what it's gonna hit on the way down,

but you can be sure as fuck, it's gonna wreck something.

Hello.

Hi, guys.

My name's Lorna, I'm a radio plugger.

That gig was deadly.

I'm meeting one of my contacts at RTÉ tomorrow.

I'd love to take them a copy of your music.

Maybe get you a Track of the Week.

So whaddya think?

Could you get me something by then?

You mixed up that coke and ket again, didn't you?

So I'm just gonna leave this here...

and I'm gonna go.

Fuck...

Radio?

Imagine how rich we'll be...

How much do they pay?

Must be at least 10k a play.

The woeful pay-per-play rates of streaming platforms

mean that artists need millions of plays to make any profit,

so without radio money,

musicians' only revenue stream would be perpetual tours,

forcing multiple artists out of the industry every year

due to the associated mental and physical strain.

We'd better get to the studio.

And off to the studio we went...

or at least, what was left of it.

Those R.RAD bastards!

Our music is backed up on the cloud though, right?

We have to do something.

Do we fuck.

- Not you! - Not me?

It was my fucking garage.

I'm with Naoise.

Aye, go start a war with a paramilitary group.

The British Empire couldn't win that one

but I'm sure you'll do fucking fine! Fuck's sake!

If you two have a death wish, go ahead,

but don't drag me down with you!

Drag you down?

We've been dragging you along.

This is just a little hobby for you.

It's all we've got!

And they've destroyed everything!

Have they?

Because the only one who can do that is you,

if you do something fucking stupid.

Now we need a mastered track for tomorrow

starting from scratch with no fucking equipment.

That's not going to fucking happen.

Fucking yes!

Look at this, boys!

The Roland 808.

What '80s shite is that?

1980 to 1983 to be precise.

Complete commercial flop,

but it got into the hands of enough people who mattered

to change the face of hip-hop music forever.

This is what we're meant to record the tracks on.

It's fucking fate.

Snare here and snare there.

Yeah.

To kick.

Two kicks I think.

Bom.

Ba-bom, bom.

We'll bring one in here too.

That works. That works.

Right then, go ahead. He'll do the chorus.

No, no.

Live your fantasy?

♪ Do you want this for extra zeros when you're paid? ♪

Yes.?

♪ Throwing tantrums in my mansion, am I embarrassed? ♪

Nah!

Fuck off.

I'm done, boys.

Oh, happy days!

I'm out.

I can't do this anymore.

It feels like I'm fucking skiing

and both skis are getting further apart.

I feel like I'm gonna tear my bollocks open!

I never wanted to ski!

I just wanted to be a musician, you know?

What do we do with this?

You'll work it out.

Oh shit!

C'mon, let's go, let's go to fuck.

Special delivery.

You sell drugs.

You sell them for the Radical Republicans Against Drugs.

A bit off-brand, is it not?

No, it's not actually and here's why. Listen.

The Radical Republicans Against Drugs are Radical Republicans

before they are Against Drugs.

It's right there in the name.

We're certainly not Radical Republicans Against Making Money

because being radical, as your da was...

it costs a pretty penny.

The price of Semtex has gone through the roof, I'll tell ya, mostly.

Some fuckers are making a killing.

Maybe you shouldn't go about blowing up garages, then.

What are you talking about, blowing up garages?

We haven't blown up any garages, have we?

- No. - What the fuck you talking about?

Look at me, right?

No more music.

Your hear me?

HEY! Youse are drug dealers.

That's all you'll be.

No more music. Alright?

Breaking onto school property

outside school hours.

Contested or admitted?

Admitted.

Snorting a white substance on stage.

Admitted.

Indecently exposing your buttocks

to reveal the words 'Brits' and 'Out'.

Admitted.

ADMITTED!!

ADMITTED!!!

Admitted.

Membership of the music group,

Kneecap.

I...

I know.

You know?

My suspicions were aroused when the lads started digging up our garden

but it was your lovely arse all over the news that sealed it.

I do have a lovely arse.

Why didn't you say something?

That twitch with your mouth...

You do it when you're happy.

I wanted to keep seeing it.

I quit.

Work?

No, fuck!

I was sacked from that.

Don't say I'm breaking up with you

for being in a band you're not even fucking in.

You're breaking up with me?

You found what you were looking for.

That's great.

But I also need to do my thing.

You know?

They're different directions.

They don't work together.

What part of unemployed musician doesn't work for you?

No one is anyone until they are...

You are.

And with talks to get Stormont

back up and running still at a deadlock,

today's 'The Red Day' Irish language rights march,

will further amp up the pressure on politicians

to find a resolution to the long-running dispute.

And now, it's time for Track of the Week.

And I'm so excited to play you this song for the very first time

on the airwaves...

- Irish Language Act... - Now!

What the fuck's this shit?

- Irish Language Act... - Now!

That was that radio plugger.

'Concerns were raised around some sex and drug references'.

Oh fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

There are some things in life you just don't cross;

motorways, picket lines, and West Belfast ma's.

Stick the kettle on.

I need your help.

News of RTÉ2's decision was soon flying down The Falls

quicker than a joyrider in a Mitsubishi Evo.

And with each telling, the snub got more and more heinous.

And they were promised to be Track of the Week.

But when they heard they were from West Belfast,

they wouldn't play it on the air.

Fuck the fuck off!

This Dublin music executive tore the record contract up

and called them all 'bin bombers'!

Hunger strikes. Dirty Protests.

When it comes to a good ould campaign,

us Fenians do it better than anyone.

- Is that RTÉ? - I'm making an official complaint.

- Discrimination... - censorship...

Don't make me come down there.

West Belfast protested our persecution by purchasing our tickets.

Thanks to Naoise's ma, we'd sold out quicker

than Michael Fucking Collins, but we'll not go there.

There aren't many things that unite the Irish media,

peelers and dissident Republicans,

but trying to stop our music had gone and done it.

Sure, fuck it,

at least we had DJ Prôvaí back behind the decks

where he belongs.

No better publicity than getting banned from something, eh, lads?

It's gonna be bunged out there tonight, so it is.

Anyway, you're late - so chop-chop.

And good luck.

You speak Irish?

No, but I'm learning.

Because of youse.

Kneecap! Kneecap! Kneecap!

How'd you get the clap??

Fucking animals.?

♪ Knock back a few bombs, And if there's nothing left? ♪

♪ Knock back a few bombs, And if there's nothing left? ♪

Get a bump off Mo Chara?

♪ Steal 20 from yer da, Sure what's the harm? ♪

Listen, youse cunts.

The Irish language and hip-hop go hand in hand.

I don't give a fuck what anyone says.

It gave a voice to the black people of America.

And now, it's giving a voice...

to fucking Irish speakers!

But Móglaí,

they say we're politicising the language.

It was them who politicised it

when they fucking banned it.

But it's obvious they failed

when you see all the Fenian cunts here tonight!

We're getting whacked out of it.

Speaking in our own tongue!

Giving shit to the peelers,

the politicians, the dissies,

or any other cunt!

Kneecap! Kneecap! Kneecap!

You sell drugs.

You sell them for the Radical Republicans Against Drugs.

Radical Republicans Against Drugs are Radical Republicans

- before they're Against Drugs... - Is that me?

- Is that me? - That is fuckin' you.

We're not Radical Republicans Against Money

because being radical costs a pretty penny.

And one other thing, right? No more music.

You're drug dealers. That's all you'll be.

You go, lads.

I've got this.

In this moment JJ showed he had truly come to embrace

his inner lowlife scumbag

by doing something impulsive, violent...

and utterly fuckin' pointless!

Wait, wait.

Who's there?

If my son's blood is to be spilt,

then it should be his own blood pulling the trigger.

Leave. Georgia. Alone.

That's not gonna happen.

Speak English.

Speak Irish.

You think a garage is the only thing I can burn down?

♪ Don't you wanna fall in love again? ♪

Our day...

will come...

And it was at this moment I realised something about Georgia.

I fuckin' love her!

Oh, fuck...

Leave him, Ma'am. He's had enough.

Give it to him.

Da?

Who the fuck brings one gun to a kneecapping?

What if it jams?

What if the person holding the gun decides to fucking shoot you instead?

Like that!

Amateur hour. Take your hoods off.

That one there's an MI5 tout.

He's in the pay of the Special Branch.

You can't be a serious dissie with judgement like this.

Now, last of youse to the end of the alley gets one behind the ear.

I said you'd end up down an alley, didn't I?

What did I also tell you?

Every word of Irish spoken...

is a bullet fired for Irish freedom.

What you're doing,

you're that bullet, son.

You better go.

Every word spoken is a bullet...

I reckon everyone's fired enough bullets by now

without the need to be shooting metaphorical ones.

Maybe not firing the bullet should be the bullet.

Ah, fuck it, I dunno...

I mean, we didn't set out to be bullets, or guns,

but when do bullets ever set out to be bullets?

They just are.

Waiting, hoping to be unleashed into the world,

to find their velocity.

We'd found our velocity.

Stories are built from language.

Nations are built from stories.

This is our story.

The Irish for 'The End' is 'An Deireadh'.

Ah, fuck it - encore!