A gangster family epic set in 1900s England, centering on a gang who sew razor blades in the peaks of their caps, and their fierce boss Tommy Shelby.
— That was a punch. What's he got, horseshoes in those gloves, or what?
— Nope. Just his dad's strength and his mother's temper.
— Are you coming back?
— Nothing to come back to.
— She gave me sixpence and she sends me to the shop for margarine, eggs and bread. And I came back...
— With a top hat and a coconut?
— That was all our money we had for the whole fucking week and my mum beat me with a fucking frying pan.
— Why the hell did you buy a top hat and a coconut?
— Cos I thought she deserved it. I thought we all did. And I could never understand why people like us only had bread and fucking lard... And I wanted to be different. That's what I wanted.
— And you are.
— That's why I've broken that down here — a list of costs pertaining to the assassination of a dear friend, all right? Now, a normal dispatch, well, it's, you know, 500 pounds cost. But you're going to have to add another 100 to that because Tommy Shelby, like me, is from an oppressed people, and I need you to put another tonne on top of that because his brother is a fucking animal and he will come after me. And then you will need to put another 100 on top of that because, well, you are a fucking wop, mate, hmmm? And you. And then we've got to deal with the ugly business, which I've been incredibly clear of before. I will need another 500 pounds, because, like I stated, Tommy Shelby is a very, very good friend of mine. Total... is down there in black and white, all right? Crack on.
— It's OK. Mr Solomons, I'm going to be very fucking clear with you. I don't need you to kill anybody. I have people that I trust. So, you're going to take my boys and you're going to bring them to the ring as seconds.
— Well, in order to qualify as my seconds they would first have to qualify as being Jewish. Yeah? And in order to do that, they would have to replace their natural Italian fucking arrogance with a Jewish air of absolute certainty. See, my good friend Thomas Shelby, he will know the difference.
— These days, back in the old country, a lot of the, er, you know, the Jewish people, they, er...they are having to pass themselves off as Italian.
— Right, well, you will have to add another tonne on to your bill for being a cunt, man. All right?
— You will bring my man to Birmingham?
— You will circumcise them. You will have to circumcise them because the Peakys will check.
If it wasn't for me, you'd be smoke blowing out of a mortuary chimney.
He is of mixed religion, therefore he is godless. He was adopted by Satan himself before he was returned out of fear of his awkwardness.
— How's Arthur?
— For Christmas, get him a sewing kit... so he can sew his fucking balls back on.
— That smell. I'll miss it.
— What, the shit house?
— Nah. I don't know what it is. Birmingham, I suppose. Small Heath. That smell.
— The smell brings it back.
— Where's John, do you think, Tom?
— Fuck knows.
— He's gone, though, like a hole behind your head.
— I thought you thought there was a heaven.
— No. More like hell for our John.
— Nah, neither one. He's just not here any more. It's like with Grace. Arthur... they're just gone. Just fucking gone.