Snatch Monologues

Unscrupulous boxing promoters, violent bookmakers, a Russian gangster, incompetent amateur robbers and supposedly Jewish jewelers fight to track down a priceless stolen diamond.

My name is Turkish. Funny name for an Englishman, I know. My parents to be were on the same plane when it crashed. That's how they met. They named me after the name of the plane. Not many people are named after a plane crash. That's Tommy. He tells people he was named after a gun, but I know he was really named after a famous 19th century ballet dancer.

It turned out that the sweet-talking, tattoo-sporting pikey was a gypsy bare-knuckle boxing champion. Which makes him harder than a coffin nail. Right now, that's the last thing on Tommy's mind. If Gorgeous doesn't wake up in the next few minutes, Tommy knows he'll be buried with him. Why would the gypsies go through the trouble of explaining why a man died in their campsite when they can bury the pair of them and just move camp? It's not like they got social security numbers, is it? Tommy - the tit - is praying. And if he isn't, he fucking should be.

Have you ever crossed the road, and looked the wrong way? A car's nearly on you? So what do you do? Something very silly. You freeze. Your life doesn't flash before you, 'cause you're too fuckin' scared to think - you just freeze and pull a stupid face. But the pikey didn't. Why? Because he had plans of running the car over.

Tommy persuaded me to keep the dog. I eventually agreed, as long as he took it to a vet. I couldn't stand that squeaking any more. The vet found half an undigested shoe, a squeaky toy, and an 84-carat diamond lodged in its stomach. It's quite amazing what can happen in a week. Still didn't shut it up though. So what do you do? You go to see the man that knows about these sort of things.

Don't think I haven't thunk about that one, Tommy. It's his mum's funeral tonight. God bless her. You know those gypsies like a drink at a wake. I'm not worried about whether Mickey knocks the other man out. I'm worried about whether Mickey makes it to the fourth fucking round.

No Tommy, I'm not saying you can't shoot. I know you can't shoot. I'm saying that six-pound piece of shit stuck in your trousers would do more damage if you fed it to him.

Boris the Blade, or Boris "the Bullet Dodger." As bent as the Soviet sickle, and as hard as the hammer that crosses it. Apparently, it's just impossible to kill the bastard.

I don't want to go in there. He's a dangerous bastard. Taken too many disco biscuits in the heat of Russian disputations. He's got as many of these nuts as he has those nuts.

My God, Tommy, you certainly got those minerals. Well, come on, then before "zee" Germans get here.

He loves that dog. Always playing silly games.