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.
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.
Northern Ireland's government
has in the last hour collapsed
over failure to agree on an Irish Language Act
giving 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 said,
'We can't give equal rights to this guy',
I think the issue would be clearer.'
Hello.
Yes, it is.
What... Now?
Nothing but a hood.
H double O D.
Lowlife scum.
Waste of fucking space.
Do I look like I want to read fucking subtitles?
Why don't you just speak the Queen's English?
You...
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...
Which means:
'May the lowest stone in the sea be on top of your head'.
You do get there a lot quicker with...
Stop that, they'll catch a cold!
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.
Catch yourself on!
Pity your ma, Naoise. Born with Irish in her mouth.
Now disowns her own mother tongue...
Get you home, 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:
Watch it from the Indian's point of view, ok?
And remember:
And then Naoise's da was gone.
Like, gone gone.
Turns out since leaving jail
Arlo was having an affair with blowing up anything British.
He blew this up.
And this.
And...
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 over it.
I mean, Arlo was right about one thing:
Cowboys... were proper cunts.
Move!
This is Mr O Dochartaigh.
He is an Irish interpreter.
I'm not...
- D'you speak Irish? - Aye.
That'll do.
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.
What's this mean?
'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've a big night ahead of me because of yesterday,
I spent all my DLA on MDMA.'
I want you to look for any reference to an Arlo...
O Caireallain.
What's he saying?
Aye... eh... he says he doesn't have to prove
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? - Yeah.
And he says that, furthermore,
and notwithstanding the aforementioned,
he sees no reason to prove that he cannot speak English
because he is here asserting his right to speak Irish.
Hmm!
Sit down!
What d'you call a Provo
that's become a yoga instructor?
Bobby Sandals.
You bring a stolen car here? Here?
So you bought this, did you?
You're putting the whole operation at risk...
Every day I am not captured
is a psychological victory against the occupiers,
that's the operation.
What's this, drugs?
'Think I don't have eyes in Belfast? I hear things.
I know where you'll end up.
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.
No, she wasn't.
I need you to do something for me.
Arrange a memorial service.
For me. It's 10 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...
What did you expect me to do?
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 going straight in with 500mg?
Is there... something else?
I've got a bit of a problem...
down south...
with my mickey.
Ok.
- It's political. - Your problem?
My mickey.
See, I've no problem pulling birds.
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 before I...
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!
This is a community
who live their lives through Irish
through the schooling, youth clubs, arts projects,
through the GAA clubs.
And for them, there's been a very, very strong...'
Top man!
What the fuck...!
- Fuck! - Here!
Oh bollocks!
Something like that?
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!
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 ditch you for you -
not just what foot you dig with.
Bollocks.
Ok 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?
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.
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 10 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. We're Rrad.
What, like you've all got a fucking s-s-stutter?
Fuck up you, tout.
What have you ever done to tout about?
Plenty, actually. We're an active fucking unit.
Not like the Republican Volunteers Against Drugs.
Or 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 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 word.
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 the bit
where we get our bollocks knocked in.
Here.
Here. Here. Here.
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!
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 here 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,
are gathered to honour the memory of Arlo O Caireallain.
When I was a wee boy, the actions of Arlo O Caireallain
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 O Caireallain would have wanted.
Where's the...?
You were meant to give me that in the car on the way up.
Is everything okay, officer?
Mind stepping out of the car for a breathalyser, sir?
- He isn't driving. - Isn't he?
Really?
She doesn't know, does she?
Know what?
What about your school?
Do the students call you Mr DJ Provai, or...?
Harder!
At the station, is that when 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.
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! - Sorry!
Hold on. You're giving me more stick for telling youse to leave
than what I just got for coming here in the first 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 'cos I don't know some Taig shite!
Who the fuck are you calling a Taig?
You! Or should I get up on stage and say it to the whole world?
You seemed just fucking fine in that wee crowd.
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 Provai.
This is the true face of the Irish language.
I wouldn't read too much into that.
Well, if you can't be bothered to go...
Widow.
Oh aye, that lovely Detective Ellis dropped it 'round.
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,
stumbling around some jungle 50 years after the war 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.
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.
You believe that?
- Who is he to you? - Nobody.
Then what's the problem?
The same one that'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.'
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.
Hi, guys.
My name's Lorna, I'm a radio plugger.
That gig was deadly.
I'm meeting one of my contacts at RTE 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...
And off to the studio we went...
or at least, what was left of it.
Those R. RAD bastards!
Fucking yes.
Bom -
Ba-bom bom -
When we're smoking
Fuck off.
Oh happy days!
Oh shit!
Fuck. Let's go, Let's go. 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.
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.
Some fuckers are making a killing.
Maybe you shouldn't go about blowing up garages, then.
Blowing up garages?
We haven't blown up any garages, have we?
- No. - What the fuck you on 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?
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.
Now, it's time for Track of the Week.
So excited to play you this song for the first time
on the airwaves...
What the fuck's this shit?
'Concerns were raised around some sex and drug references'.
Oh 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.
News of RTE2's decision was soon flying down The Falls
quicker than a joyrider in a Mitsubishi Evo.
With each telling, the snub got more and more heinous...
and they were promised to be Track of the Week.
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 RTE?
- ... 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 Provai back behind the decks
where he belongs.
No better publicity than getting banned, eh, lads?
It's gonna be bunged out there tonight, so it is.
Anyway, you're late - so chop chop.
Because of youse.
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? - What the fuck?
- 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.'
It was 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.
Speak English.
You think a garage is the only thing I can burn down?
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 shooter 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.
Last man to the end of the alley gets one behind the ear.
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.
The Irish for 'The End' is 'An Deireadh'.
Ah, fuck it - encore.