The Sweeney (2013)

Facking hell, it’s the rozzers. C’mon bruv I can hear the sirens coming. Apples and pears. Lawks a lordy. Etcetera, et-bloody-cetera.

Based on the popular 70s TV show of yesteryear, everyone’s favourite cockney Nick Love brings The Sweeney bang up to date. And by up to date, we mean mid to late 90s, when Loaded was a well-thumbed periodical and you were as hard the man you punched. This is the kind of film Tony and Gary would watch in Men Behaving Badly as a parody of the bullshit lad culture that permeated all those years ago.

If Danny Dyer and Vinnie Jones had a baby and then raised it in Wormwood Scrubs, it would grow up to write this script on the back of a fag packet. Probably whilst ‘shagging a bird’ or quoting lines from The Football Factory. Starting off with a conversation about how fit someone’s bride-to-be is, this utter dribble of a movie plods from one cop cliché to another without a hint of irony; barely bothering to pick itself up from the drunken-blue-balled-on-all-fours-crawl-from-the-pub pace its put itself on.

Ray Winston growls in his pants, Plan B doesn’t sing, Steven Mackintosh’s DCI is the baddy because Winstone is poking his wife and he doesn’t like corrupt cops. Or something. In fact, who cares. It’s all so tiresome. We actually miss the aforementioned Dyer, that’s how much he would have improved this film.

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