Tell us your plan. Not bad. -
Not bad, eh? - Not bad? It's fucking awful, that stuff. The fucking brown stuff
is horrible, it's for the workers. Yeah. The white stuff,
now that is for the bosses. You're gypsies, right? So what, do you live in
a fucking tent or a caravan? Mr Sabini uses policemen all the time. That's why he's winning
the war in London and you are losing it. A war ain't over until it's over, mate. I came here to discuss business
with you, Mr Solomons. Well, rum's for fun and fucking, innit? So, whisky, now that
That is for business. Name? -
."Buddy Halls" - Buddy Halls. Right. Profession? -
Baker. - Good lad. Fill it out and fuck off. You were in the war? I once carried out my own
personal form of stigmata on an Italian. I pushed his face up against the trench and shoved a six-inch nail
up his fucking nose and I hammered it home
with a duck board It was fucking biblical, mate. So don't come in here and sit there
in my chair and tell me that I'm losing my war to a fucking wop. Very simple,
you want to sell me something. What? - We join forces.
-Fuck off. No! Categorical. Fucking ridiculous. Did you know they were going
to do it before they did it? Because that's someone
who's in charge, isn't it? The one who knows before it happens. I know what I know, you know. If you don't know,
then you don't fucking know, do you? Intelligence Intelligence is a very valuable thing,
innit, my friend? And usually it comes
far too fucking late. - Name?
-Billy Kitchen. Billy Kitchen. Occupation? -
Head baker. - Fill it out. Um, Tommy Shelby, mate. Never give power to the big man,
what did I tell you? Never give power to the big man. He'll wake up. Granted, he won't have any teeth left,
but he will be a wiser man for it. And the last thing he will remember
is your funny little joke. Won't he? Right! And also write down
that all our bookies can go back to Epsom. - He didn't say that.
-Who's asking you? There are fucking rules here. Yeah, there are fucking rules
for a fucking reason. Quite simply, they have to be obeyed.
All right? the Peaky Blinders is out of control. Yeah, they're out
of fucking control, mate. They come down the canal,
they spread like the fucking clap. Rule number one. The distinction between bread and rum,
yeah, is not discussed. - You know what we called it?
-What did ya call him? Tommy Shelby. Rule number two. Anything, right,
that your superior officer says to you or any of your other fucking
superior officers say to you, yeah? Not discussed! Alfie, it's Tommy fucking Shelby... You're behaving like a fucking child. This is a man's world. Take your apron off, and sit in the corner like a little boy. Fuck off. Now. Rule number three, four, five, six,
seven, eight, nine, I don't care. For the rest of your fucking
miserable measly lives, yeah? Because I, like you, am also a complete fucking sodomite. Jewish women. You do not go anywhere near them because Jewish women for you
are off the fucking menu. Nice little place
you've got here, Thomas. What is it? A foreclosure of the gambling debt
from some poor, young lord who you pumped full of opium
in one of your casinos, or is that just tittle tattle? .Arthur, shalom -
."Alfie" - Shalom Word in London is that you can be found wandering
the streets of Birmingham, stark naked, throwing away money. You talk to dead people. I hear that you have allowed Jesus
to come into your life. Eh... Oh, you heard then. - Yeah. That is beautiful.
That is wonderful. That is lovely, isn't it? That is lovely. But I was wondering,
how does that work for you on a day-to-day considering
your line of work, mate? You're fucking about with the Russians,
ain't you, you silly boy? Listen, all I am saying is that,
every man, he craves certainty. He craves the certainty, even if
that certainty of yours, right... Well, I mean... It's fucking fanciful mate, innit? What have you got for me? Well, seeing as you were prepared
to pay such an exorbitant amount for this information, I decided
to give you value for money. I'm Old Testament. Fucking hell. Look at that. Now, that... That scares me more... Yeah. Congratulations, Tommy. You now have the finished article
right here, don't you? See, that man, right? He will murder
and maim for you with God on his side. Then comes your curious
fucking gyppo question. I won't ask but, erm... Here is a list of the men
who would buy a Fabergé because of their wife's obsession. May I just start, right, by saying
that I may choose to stay here and just starve to death
and choke on sapphires and never go back
to the fucking world again. Ah, yes. Thank you, Mr Shelby.
It's lovely doing business with you. the jew smells of rum Yeah, well, there is a good reason
for that, you know, little man. Because my shop, all right,
is just above a rum house. - So...
- You speak Russian? I do, yeah. I do. 'Cause of me mum. Yeah, my mother. You people, all right? You hunted my mum with dogs through the snow. Yeah. But today, right,
is for forgiveness, innit? For selection. You left a name off the list, Alfie. - Did I?
- Yeah. This is a nice little bit
you got there, innit? Oh, but that was a gift
from Tsar Nicholas. I ain't asking you though, am I?
I ain't asking you. All right. I come here to do business,
offer my professional services. If you keep interrupting me,
I won't be able to focus. Listen, sweetie, you can't take a man... You gave information
in exchange for a share. Tommy... Tommy there were
things in that treasury, right, hat God himself, He spoke to me, and He said, "Alfie, you are
meant to have these things." I'm guessing, right, that all the bad
ideas around here, they're you. Right, they are you, aren't they, hmm? Did you fucking know? -
Yeah, I knew, you know. - But damned as I am, it made
no fucking difference to me, mate. Somebody comes into my shop
with some paste like this... Usually, what I make them do, right... Is fucking swallow it.
Eh? What game are you playing? I do not want him to spare me
because of some fucking peace pact. I want him to acknowledge
that he who fights by the sword, he fucking dies by it, Tommy. So what, they took
your boy did they, eh? They have got your boy? What fucking "line" am I
supposed to have crossed? How many fathers, right,
how many sons, yeah, have you cut, killed, murdered
fucking butchered, innocent and guilty? You are going straight to
fucking hell, ain't ya? Just like me! You fucking stand there,
you, judging me, stand there and talk to me about
crossing some fucking line. If you pull that trigger, right, you pull that trigger
for a fucking honourable reason. Like an honourable man,
not like some fucking civilian that does not understand
the wicked way of our world, mate.
