Kneecap

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.

Reverberations.

A.D.H.D. O.D.D.

-The Troubles? -The Troubles?

I've got fucking troubles.

I just pray that this medicine