Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

- Very nice. - Gaz, please, don't.
All right, kid?
What about Auntie Jean?
you're talking to t'wrong man.
No, there's not a lot about.
- You don't get much. - What day is it?
- He'll blow my cover. - Shut up!
- Feature. - Yeah.
Yeah.
Linda...
I might do. Yeah.
Oh, my God!
Why did you do it? It was my job!
Make a bit of a...
Just a minute. Mr. Horse. My colleagues on the panel...
You bloody ask him! It's not cos he does the Grand National.
Put that back. Put it back!
You could shoot yoursen.
Howdy, Boys! Lookin' Cool.
What do you mean, I can't see him? He's me son! I haven't been charged!
Where did you learn to be an ace sewer?
and state-of-the-art machinery to make the world's finest steel.
Gaz, hang on.
Dave and Lomps, up the wing.
Every time I hear a Liverpool fan stealing Raphinha Put down and piss off
Wheels go round and everything.
- You want some money? - Yeah!
What's going on? I had to buy 20 barrels! I've had no word from you!
Nathan!
It's amazing how tiring it is doing nowt, you know.
- Scrap. - Shut it, right?
Some of 'em. Yeah.
- As if you've ever given a toss. - Face it. He don't like staying at yours.
We had the real thing up here the other day.
Ta.
Other dads don't do that.
- That's all these'll fetch second-hand. - They're not second-hand.
- Got any of them mint chocolate jobs? - You're on a diet.
No!
So.
- What do you want? - All right, Mand?
Look at that, her mix is all to cock.
Frankie! Do you want my body?
You could show her, Dave.
Miss you ya bugger
You forget, Gerald, you're not our foreman now.
- Yeah, but... me willy. I mean to say... - Your willy?
No.
No. Couldn't do that to Dave.
You'll be all right once you're on stage.
Yeah, it's your HT leads, I reckon.
Jean, love!
You're always making me do stupid stuff like last night.
Little And Large prancing round Sheffield with their widgers out!
We'll stuff 'em, Nathe.
They're holding hands.
But... you know' it's like he's given up.
Gerald,
Good luck, eh?
Walter Stevenson. Stevenson, huh?
I've just been offered that job.
and girls.
I thought I'd give it a go.
She's out there now, ont' High Street, with a fucking MasterCard, spending!
Nathe!
I love you, you bugger.
Friday. Dress rehearsal tomorrow.
A Yorkshire version. Them buggers can, we bloody can.
£2.50 an hour. You can start now, if you like. Are you coming?
- Nice one. - Come on, then.
We just saved your fucking life, so don't tell us we're not your mates!
Times ten quid by a thousand, right? And you've got...
- So stuff yourself and get thin. - Oh, shut up, saggy tits!