Original subtitles

Good evening, everybody.

"Play up, play up, and play the game."

Kipling said that if you can meet triumph and disaster

and treat them just the same,

then you will be a man.

These days of course, you would have to say "Person,"

Which doesn't even scan.

But nobody bothers about that sort of thing anymore, of course.

Nonetheless, Kipling's message is needed more today than it ever was.

Because sport, as we shall see,

is like a half-sucked sweet,

not what it used to be.

Sorry, sorry.

I love football.

There's so many aspects to the modern game-

The beer, the crisps,

the dirty songs,

just savoring the pre-match atmosphere.

Do you mind? I think we could do without your pre-match atmosphere.

Oh, I love a good burp, me.

A really good chewy one.

Big solid beer-flavored belch.

A really huge tongue-twanging mouthful of gas and dinner.

Nothing like it. Especially at the footie.

Gladiators is my sport.

I love it. Such thighs.

Colossal thighs.

They could crack nuts with those thighs.

In wolf's case, his own.

Oh, yes. I'm going to go in for it one day,

when I've pumped enough iron to fill my leotard.

I've already got my name- "Love Muscle".

Yes, football is boring compared to gladiators.

- Football is not boring. - No.

It's the reason god made Saturday afternoons.

Football is just a socially sanitized homo-erotic ritual.

"Socially sat..."

What nonsense, constable Habib.

Is there no trendy leftist theorem

which you will not uncritically embrace?

Some American feminists think sport was invented

so that men could avoid confronting their sexuality.

Some American feminists think that phoning a woman

while she's having an afternoon nap constitutes assault.

Homo-erotic ritual? Coconuts and custard.

On what evidence is such an appalling generalization based?

I think it's obvious.

For instance, Gary plays football every Sunday.

Now, what do you do after the game, Gary?

Let me think.

- We all get in the bath together, - Right.

Oh, and I suppose you are suggesting that

men bathing together by definition is is a sexual act.

What a sad world it has become. Sometimes I despair, I really do.

I think we should let him finish, sir.

Well, we have a bit of a splash, you know,

and a bit of a sing-song, you know?

"The hairs on her dickey di do," "Tits out for the lads"...

All the classics.

And then after that there's a towel fight-

You beat each other with wet towels?

You've got to have a flick, haven't you?

Then we all get in the pub, pour a load of beer over each other's heads,

and sing more songs about lovely saucy birds.

And are any lovely saucy birds actually present at this point?

Get out of it. It's a lad's thing, innit?

Anyway, when we are well sorted

we'll probably take our trousers off, hang them over a lamp-post,

and if it's a really good night, fall over in a puddle of vom' on the way home.

There you go. Blokes singing about women,

but actually wallowing in their own naked excess.

It's transparent suppressed homo-eroticism.

As long as it gets you pissed.

Constable Habib,

do you think that the gay sexual community

would thank you for categorizing their particular sexual preference

as the act of a disgusting, puerile, drunken oaf like Boyle?

- Steady on. - Your mistake, constable Habib,

is to seek a sexual explanation for the simple truth

that men understand football but they rarely understand women.

Oh, that's very true, sir.

Even the dutch game is a picture of simplicity and clarity compared

to the mind of a woman.

I could demonstrate the mechanics of the offside trap,

but I couldn't tell you why

all the women I have ever loved have said to me,

"I've got a fat bottom."

And then I say, "Yes, I like it."

They throw their dinner at me.

Lying about a girl's bottom is part of a man's duties.

It makes up for never putting the toilet seat down

and not replacing the loo roll when it's empty.

Well, explain this then.

What is it about the inability of women to get out of the house?

- What? - You heard.

Why can't women ever get out of the house?

I say, "Tina, we are leaving at 7:30."

That is 7:30, not a quarter to 8:00, not next year,

not in another lifetime when we've come back as a couple of insects

which only live for a day- which she'd spend in the bathroom,

putting mascara on her antennae

and trying to stick 300 contact lenses into her multiple eyes.

Lipstick in her-spiracles,

and blonding her follicles.

- Yes, the kick-off is- - I shout, "Come on, Tina!"

She says, "I've got to put my face on, haven't I?"

I say, "Right. I'm waiting in the car. She says, "Wait in the car."

I say, "I will wait in the car." she says, "Right, go wait in the car."

I say, "I'm going out to the car."

She says, "You go to the car." it grinds you down.

Oh, what a very splendid thing this is,

the local community coming together in celebration of sport.

It's what being British is all about.

What? Being wet and bored?

Well, yes, being wet and bored is part of it, certainly.

But there's so much more.

I mean, look at this stadium.

It reeks of history.

It reeks of weed.

Under these ancient terraces,

Gasforth town F.C. have seen it all.

From not quite disaster, to complete disaster.

From bottom of the league, to not even in the league.

- It's a dump. - And therein lies its glory.

We don't need some vast superbowl with a great big electronic sign

that says "Fwaaaah! Go-ooo!"

We're quite happy to gather together in small groups

on a wet Saturday and be a bit sad.

That's the spirit that made Brittain what it is today.

- Knackered. - And proud of it.

Do you think they know they're supposed to get the round leather thing

into the big square netty thing?

Amateurs all, Goody, remember that.

Weekend sporting heroes-

Butchers, bakers, builders.

I wouldn't want to live in a house that lot had built.

- They're just not very good, are they? - Exactly, Habib.

Not being good at things is what the British are good at.

We excel in failure.

A good thing too, because failure is character building.

Some of our finest moments have been defeats.

Mons, Dunkirk,

"Lulu" coming second at eurovision with "Boom bang a bang."

The french vote was our undoing, of course.

They've never got over Agincourt.

What a waste of time.

I've never seen such a useless

bunch of old women in all my life.

They've got no aggression, no killer instinct.

Oh, I don't know.

The one with the limp's not bad.

I'm not talking about the players,

I'm talking about the fans.

I am an Inspector of criminal investigations.

When I police a football match

I expect a decent enemy.

Where are the skinheads,

the shadowy street-fighting generals?

You only get premiere-league hooligans with premiere-league sides, sir.

Don't be so defeatist, constable Boyle,

this could be the season when Gasforth F.C. rises like a phoenix.

More like a turkey.

We're already through the first round of the F.A. Cup.

Only because their lot all got food poisoning from our burger van.

Nice game that. It's a long time

since I've seen 11 men vomiting in tight formation.

- Nonetheless, if we win today- - Ooh, ooh, sir, sir, look!

Goal!

An F.A. Cup second round victory for Gasforth.

- Lucky shot. - They all count.

Where was their goalie?

Look, sir. There he is coming out of the bogs.

Mmm, we really must get the health and safety people

to have a look at that burger van.

Uggghhh! I can't stand it!

Those pathetic little-little builders

working outside the bank.

Every time a woman goes in or out of that door

they're there, hanging off their scaffolding

like sexually inadequate bats.

- Who's that then? - Men!

Tiny brained, sexually frustrated,

emotionally retarded,

inadequate, puerile, juvenile, drooling,

leering, sneering, pointless bloody men.

Could be half the blokes I know.

They've always been bad.

But this stupid F.A. Cup thing's made them even worse.

What you've got to do is not sink to their level.

Just turn around, give them a smile,

maybe a bit of a wiggle, and say,

"Oi, bum head, do up your flies, your brain's hanging out."

Tell them get stuffed.

Oh, yeah, sure.

They're 30 feet up and I'm standing on the pavement going,

"Get stuffed."

They'd love it!

Oohhh! You're beautiful when you're angry, darling.

Well, I would have thought it were flattering.

Of course it is, Boyle.

There's nothing builds up a girl's self-esteem

like having a human gorilla

with a brain the size of a peanut

inviting you peel its banana!

Ah, sergeant,

since you still have 18 seconds to go before you're back on duty...

darling, I must say you're looking lovely today.

Very lovely indeed.

Do up your flies, bum head, you're brain's hanging out.

Mmm. Hmmm, well.

I must get on, must get on.

Constable Habib,

hold all but the most urgent calls.

- There haven't been any calls. - When there are, hold them.

Inspector Grim, you're on duty.

You can't strut about like Roy of the rovers.

I have gone undercover.

That should fool them.

Listen, Fowler, this is the sharp end, mate,

not jolly cricket bats,

lovely boating weather, don't you know?

Oxford and Cambridge- row, row, row,

and hoist your little cox above your head.

This is football, and football is not a game.

Well, obviously it is a game.

But it is also not a game.

I mean, even though it is a game,

there's no point treating it like a game,

because it is not a game. Although clearly it is a game.

All right, Boyle, with me. Let's go, go, go.

I think we should contact the x-files, sir.

Inspector Grim's body has been inhabited by a being from the planet Berk.

Respect for rank, Habib.

It's just as well he's out of the way, actually,

I have an appointment with the mayoress.

And he does rather lower the tone.

- They mayoress is coming here? - Yes, that's right.

Dame Christabel Wickham.

"Chrissy Wicky," yes.

- Who you were at school with? - I had that honor, yes.

- And you've fancied ever since? - Yes, that's the one-no!

Now don't be absurd.

I'll know anyway, because your nose always twitches

when you fancy someone.

- Patricia, you're not jealous, surely? - Of course not.

Why would I be, when my boyfriend dribbles

at the thought of another woman?

But that's ridiculous, Patricia. How could you feel threatened by her?

- It's insane. - Are you sure, Raymond?

Well, of course.

Chrissy Wickham is brilliant, beautiful, accomplished.

I could never get a girl like that.

She's completely out of my league.

Thank you, Raymond, you've said enough.

I hope I've set your mind at rest.

A wonderful woman like that is scarcely a threat to any girlfriend of mine.

Good morning. Good morning. Sit, sit, sit.

As you all know, there's been

A quite extraordinary development in the world of sport.

Gasforth are going to play a premier-league side in the F.A. Cup.

And what's more, it's a home game. Chelsea are coming to us.

Now what are our chief concerns?

Let's... Kick off, as it were-

With the prospects for crowd trouble.

Now sadly, the game of football is not what it was.

Gone are the days when decent lads in enormous shorts

thrilled peaceful crowds of chirpy cloth-capped costermongers.

What sort of example do these permed and preening louts of today set?

These gazzers and bazzers

and slashers and hackers and rozzers and tozzers?

Footballers used to have nice names.

Like Dixie Dean,

Tiddler Tompkins,

Nobbie Nut and Ginger Curlies.

Raymond, the world's finest example of womanhood is at the front desk.

Gloria Hunniford?

The mayoress, brilliant, beautiful-think she might have had a little chin tuck.

The mayoress? Here already?

- How do I look? - Sad and pathetic.

Good. Good.

Mayoress Wickham, welcome to our humble and unworthy station.

Hello, Raymond.

Your worship, this is indeed an unhoped for honor.

Don't be so formal.

I can remember you following me up the stairs in big school

trying to see my knickers.

I'm-I'm astonished and most touched

that you recall our former acquaintance, ma'am.

I could hardly forget old feely Fowler, could I?

All right, where's your office?

I want to get straight down to it.

Tea, sergeant!

Photo surveillance of last week's game, sir.

Blimey! Have you seen this? It's worse than I thought.

Fascist insignia, millitaristic uniforms, badges of rank...

We are clearly dealing with a highly organized, well-disciplined pack.

Yes, sir. It's a scout pack.

One or two visious looking brownies in there as well.

Right. Down to business.

Oh, dear sir. I'm afraid you've exposed them.

Oh, thanks Boyle. I did tell Tina to fix this zip.

Boyle.

Are you chewing a brick...

or looking at me eating hospital food?

'Cause either way I'll be going home in an ambulance.

No! That's wrong isn't?

Sir, sir. It's the Met.

The Met? The Metropolitan Police?

No sir, the Metropolitan Water and Sewage Authority.

Of course the Metropolitan Police. They want you.

It's those parking fines. I told Tina to pay 'em.

Well, she can take the rap.

No, sir. They want to meet with you, to discuss the game.

They want to liaise.

The Met want to liaise with me.

Well, it's not a big deal, is it?

Bit of liaising, so what? I do it all the time.

You ask him to hold, will you? I'm just going to put on my tie.

Oh, please take a seat, your ma'amship.

Oh, come on, Raymond.

It's Chrissy in private.

Oh, that is most kind your-your Chrissyship.

This fixture against Chelsea,

it's quite simply the biggest thing that's ever happened to Gasforth.

And it could not have come at better time.

You are aware of our "Relocate in Gasforth" media campaign?

Oh, I am indeed, yes. I've seen the posters,

"Gasforth, it's not as bad as you think."

We are going all out to persuade big companies to set-up in our area.

Gasforth already makes Taiwanese micro-computers,

Japanese virtual reality software, at British cloths specs.

But we can do better.

Britain is poised to become the sweatshop of Europe.

And Gasforth cannot afford to be left behind.

Well, no, indeed.

We need profile.

This F.A. Cup match is key.

It will bring television, the press, and thousands of people into the town.

Win or lose, Gasforth is on the map.

Your tea, ma'am.

Put it on the desk and leave us.

I didn't make you one, feely.

Thought you were hot and steaming enough already.

Some biscuits, sergeant?

If you offer her a custard cream

perhaps she'll let you look at her knickers.

This will be Gasforth's big day.

If anyone even looks as if they might cause trouble, lock 'em up.

If you pull it off, Raymond,

if my big day goes without a hitch,

I'm going to do something for you

that I know you've always wanted.

Your worship. Can you mean...?

I'm going to write to the honors commission

and recommend you for an M.B.E.

An m-

An m-m-m-m, an m-m-m-m,

an m-an m-

An m-m-m-m-Blimey.

Raymond.

- Raymond! - Huh? Patricia!

- Where am I? - Raymond!

Biscuits!

Gladiators ready!

Enter...

Love Muscle.

Ooh, Maggie. Maggie, Maggie

maggie, come here. Come here.

Okay, now, who am I? Who am I? Okay?

Quack, quack, quack, quack, quack, quack.

Quack, quack, quack, wack, wack, wack.

J. Nasty with a sore throat?

Donald Duck.

Oh, I do love this riot gear.

Really Patricia, what a horrid suspicious mind you have.

There are any number of perfectly innocent reasons

why a man might put his head up the mayoress' skirt.

She promised to recommend me for an M.B.E.

Oh, well I hope she doesn't try and get you knighted.

I should probably find you copulating together

on the steps of the town hall!

Really, Patricia, these insinuations are unworthy of you.

My relationship with the mayoress is entirely respectable.

Even when you've got your face in her underwear?

Particularly when I've got my face in her underwear.

Particularly.

I think I've said all I need to say on the subject.

Can we kindly move on to another topic?

All right. Right.

I'm going to the bank at lunchtime.

Can I get you anything from the shops?

Ooh, hmmm.

Some chocolates, some flowers for the mayoress?

Some blistick, so your lips don't get

chapped when you're next kissing her bottom?

Our job on match day will be to police the Gasforth crowd.

The metropolitan police will, of course, be in charge of the Chelsea supporters,

and a nasty bunch of ill-mannered yobbos they are bound to be.

I anticipate quite appalling behavior.

I think you're being prejudiced, sir. Most supporters are genuine fans.

I wasn't talking about the supporters, Habib,

I was talking about the Metropolitan police.

The idea of Gasforth being awash with London officers fills me with dread.

Swaggering about the place,

calling each other "My son"...

and saying that things have gone a bit pear-shaped.

We of the Gasforth constabulary will be as smart as a bowl of cornflakes.

I shall not have any of that London police behavior around here.

Right, you lot. Shut it!

Strewth, Fowler, my son,

it all looks a bit pear-shaped round here or what?

The guvnor's talking.

Saturday's game, very dodgy.

Very naughty. Could go a little bit pear-shaped.

If there's a ruck, things might get, well, iffy.

These faces are a little bit hard. Know what I mean?

A little bit-ufff! Have some of that, my son.

Bosh, salty, ta-ta.

Got me? So be clever.

Good. Now shut it!

Inspector Grim, in recognition of our multilingual society,

the modern force boasts officers trained in any number of languages.

But not, I fear, complete idiot.

Funny, tres droll. You're a comedian, my son, that I do not think.

I've been liaising with some geezers at the met,

pooling our intelligence.

Goodness, between you, you must have made an imbecile.

Shut it, you slag!

- Boyle, my son. - Guvnor.

Let's go, go, go, before things get pear-shaped.

Sorted.

And, you lot, shut it!

C.I.D., not so much out of the blue as out of their minds.

Now, to business, and to Gasforth's big day.

Now, as you can see, her majesty has seen to it

that we are fully equipped for the worst-case scenario of riot control.

So, if you could put your helmets on, everybody...

I thought you'd never ask.

Hey, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, shall I?

Quack, quack, quack, shall I do it?

- No. No. - No, not now.

Now the ideal is not to employ force, but intimidation.

We wish to subdue the hooligan before he becomes violent.

We can achieve this by setting up a rhythmic beating on our shields,

such as to strike terror into the hearts of the enemy,

as once did the Zulus- an adversary the British army truly appreciated.

I'm not surprised. The Zulus had rhythmic beating,

the British had field artillery.

I bet they appreciated it.

All right, Habib. Just because something is morally inexcusable

does not stop it being a cherished part of the national fabric.

Look at the walnut whip.

Now, the rhythm I had in mind,

was ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-tah.

Ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-tah.

All right, try it.

And ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-ta, ra-ta-tah.

Goody, Goody. Can't you keep a simple rhythm?

No, sir, I'm hopeless.

I need a metronome to brush my teeth.

Sir, sir. I think it will help

if we put some words to the rhythm, sir.

How about, um...

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake-

- Good idea. Goody, will that help? - I think so, sir.

Right, okay. After me.

And, Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Good, excellent. All right, form up. Form up.

Now, prepare to intimidate the enemy with rhythmic beating.

And, Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

- Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man. - Turn!

Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man. Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake, baker's man.

Halt! Excellent. Well done, everybody.

That should scare the socks off them.

After we've subdued them with Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake,

we can give them a chorus of baa baa blacksheep.

That will really make them fill their trousers.

You think we ought to toughen up our chant?

Either that or hire ourselves out for children's parties.

How about, bugger off, bugger off, stupid prat?

- Bugger off, bugger off, stupid prat? - No!

I will not have my officers employing gutter language rhythmically in public.

- Sorry. - What about go away, go away, naughty men?

If the Zulu's had called Michael Caine a naughty man

he would have laughed so hard he would have irrigated the veldt.

Maybe we should change the rhythm a bit, sir.

If you don't move along boom-boom,

I'm gonna stick this baton, boom boom,

where the sun don't shine, boom boom.

I've got one. I've got one. I've got one.

What's the difference between you lot,

and a bucket of sick?

The bucket.

No, we should be tougher.

Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough.

Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough.

How about: Up yours - dog breath.

Up yours - dog breath.

- Up yours - dog breath. - Up yours - dog breath.

- You want me to get them off? - Yeah!

Right!

You're all under arrest.

It's all going pear-shaped, Boyle.

Where are the naughty faces?

The iffy, dodgy, nancy poncies?

How can I face my muckers at scotters,

when I've yet to bang even one slag in the slammer?

Could I have done more?

Could I have gone deeper undercover?

No way, sir.

You have taken your bobble hat off all week.

And wool makes my forehead itch.

All right, lads. Tomorrow,

those Chelsea scum are dust.

But we stick with the plan, all right?

Sorted, my son.

Yes, madam.

No, seargeant, you were absolutely right to arrest them.

I will not stand for sexual intimidation of that sort.

- It's abusive and threatening behaviour. - Yes, it's flippin' well is.

Just imagine if it'd been the mayoress going to the bank instead of just you.

I'm sorry, madam, there are no grounds for police action.

Goodbye.

What was that, Habib?

Just a cantankerous complainer from Colchester Crescent.

Complains about something every day.

Yesterday, it was the pelican crossing beeping.

I think she wanted me to arrest the little green man.

Tonight it's a party. Some lads celebrating Gasforth winning the F.A. Cup already.

Great grumbling grommets, Habib. A party?

Supposing the mayoress heard the row?

Or an important trade delegation from southeast asia?

Bring those naughty carousers in.

But, sir, it's only 7:00 in the evening.

It's 2:00 in the morning in Kuala Lumpur.

Bring them in. Bring them in and lock them up.

Lock them all up! Lock everyone up!

I forgot my truncheon.

Gasforth offers cheap labor, long hours,

no unions, no minimum wage, no job security,

and a maximum 5-minute lunch break.

That's a very attractive package for any foreign investor.

Also, included as an incentive is free child labour.

Centrally funded via the youth training scheme.

Yes, yes. But when does the football begin?

Uh, the kick-off is at 3:00, sir.

That is the tradition in our country.

I know when a bloody football match starts, constable plod.

But it's 3:20 now.

Your worship, I'm afraid we're going to have to forfeit the game.

What?

None of our players have turned up.

It's incomprehensible.

They were all fine yesterday.

Bazzer, Gazzer, and Bazzer

were at work on the building site

next to the bank, as usual.

Bazzer, Bazzer, Gazzer, and Simon the captain

were having a strategy meeting at the pizza hole

and Gazzer, Gazzer, and Gazzer were having a bit of a party

and a sing-song round at Bazzer's house

in Colchester Crescent. I simply cannot imagine what has happening to them.

- Now listen- - No football? I'm going.

No, no, please. Please, wait.

We'll have a dual carriageway

that runs all the way to the Sainsbury superstore.

When I find out who's responsible for the team not turning up-

Raymond, I want you to-

Raymond!

Raymond!