 It's been a ledge that I used to get kilos of puffin' joe every month. I mean, that's a big ass that's coming in. No, it's your mob, mate. Your mob. Your mob. Hold up! Hold up! Your mob! Don't about asses. Don't cut me short. Don't cut me... Don't cut me short. The kilos only come from your mob. Because even the nurses, the doctors and the admin, yeah, they only bring in the answers and a few pills and a few bits and pieces, but they're big lumps. They come from your mob, mate. Come on, be honest. No, no. Be honest. Be honest. Right, I... No, no, please. Be honest. No, of course I... They're all fucking at it. I am honest. It's become really prevalent. Right, I left... Like, percentage of prisoners snitching and being sneaks. On each other? Yeah. A lot more than it used to be. He's fucking like this! Fucking! And then as you're bending your arm, you're like, Ah, you fucking slag! Break it! Break it! Left arm, you mug! Break it! I don't fucking care! You've got a phone in your pocket that you know you've taken from my mate's ass. You know you've took it... You know you've took it from my... You know you've took it from my mate's ass! You fucking know you took it from my mate's ass! So you feel the best thing to do is make a phone call to somebody who knows I don't fucking know while you're walking into the police station to hand yourself in for two murders. Well, four murders now. Oh, four, yeah, yeah. Why would you go into the police station with the phone that connects me to you? Only a small percentage of these cunts that dig them out. Do you know what I mean? Like, even the nunces, the sickest nunces get treated like fucking roe. Like, you're quick enough to kill fucking powerful inmates that fucking drive you mad for years. They've killed about four of my pals in prison. Do you know what I mean? I'm not saying he has a possibility, but the fucking system have killed them and they put behind fucking bullshit and say, No, he hung himself or he killed him. He cut his wrist. No, they don't, mate. They don't, the fucking screws do it. The screws do it. My pal would never have killed himself. The bit I'm now remembering, and it would make my fucking blood boil. No, like that. Oi, cunt! Open my door. He must have been a fucking peasant. I'm not letting him get away with this. I regret not having a proper life. I regret not having nice Christmases, not being there for my kids. You know, all them things you regret, all that sort of stuff.