‘Ello I’m Danny Dyer. And this is Bwitain’s Nastiest Corpowations.

I’m ‘ere in Gweat Bwitain outside the offices of Squidcorp. Now, to the outside world Squidcorp are a respectable technology corporation specialising in prosthetic limbs, genetic research and military tech. In just a few short years they’ve grown from being the best technology company in England to being the biggest corporation in the world, employing millions of staff all handpicked from local areas around their many global offices. The key to their success is the loyalty of their staff. But is this loyalty based on good working conditions or something pwoper naughty? It’s time for me, Danny Dyer, to go undercover. To do this, I’m going to pose as a new employee and get inside at Squidcorp.

Wight, it’s my first day. I’ve got my whistle on and I’m looking the facking dog’s bollocks. Oi oi. I’ll be working as a lab assistant and this right treacle is showing me the ropes. She says we’re working on reverse engineering a flamethrower that was picked up in Germany yesterday. Typical Germans using flamethrowers. If I was out there I’d be too busy nutting everyone cos I’m pwoper hard. Bam! Fuckin’ ‘ave it, Fritzy. Oi oi!

I decided to have a look around when I was meant to be ‘aving a right pwoper piss. Behind the main research lab was some sort of giant freezer. I looked inside and saw some bloke, right. All frozen up. Big bastard too. Pwoper naughty boat as well. Squidcorp have got dozens of these freezers. I don’t know why they are freezing blokes but if they defrost them all at the same time it’s going to kick off pwoper. They’ll be able to turn up mob-handed like when we went to Spurs and they facking cacked it. Oi oi. Pwopa.

The lab tech asked me why my piss took over an hour so I facking nutted the wankah. Work on the flamethrower was finished and we got called into a big room. Some geeza calling himself the CEO started talking about Poland. I said: “what, you need a facking loft conversion done cheap?” but he started talking about some sort of mission; now I didn’t understand what this caahnt was going on about, but I could tell you this much, it was going to be a wight pwoper tear-up. So we fucked off over there on a jolly. Oi oi! Whilst me and the treacle dished out the weapons, I noticed four of these big, frozen nutters had been defrosted and were stomping about like they owned the manor. Now, I’ve met some of the hardest blokes in Bwitain but these blokes were pwopa tasty, all of them with right nasty boats. I went up to one of them to get the scoop:

“Alright, mate? Yeah yeah it’s looking pwopa naughty, yeah?”, I asked.

“I’m sorry, what?”, he replied. This wanker must have been mutton.

“What are you up to?”

“We’re getting ready to roll out into the city centre and acquire our target”

Before I could ask him what ‘acquire’ meant, they were shipped out. The first fella was carrying a mini-gun; the second had a sniper rifle; the third had a gauss gun – pwopa rocket-launcher like out of Commando; the fourth bloke just had a pistol and some fucking gizmo – some sort of iPod or summink.

“‘Ere, you got the new Ministry of Sound compilation on that? Pwopa choons. Oi oi! White Reeboks. Naughty!”

Once they got in the city things got pwopa naughty. The sniper started picking off all the security guards in the area whilst the bloke with iPod kept showing off his playlists to the local population. They seemed proper interested though, following him about like some sort of sheep; before long half the town was in tow. Pwopa little firm. Oi oi! It’s abaht to kick off. Naughty!  Suddenly a load of blokes turn up. They look just like our lot but there’s fucking loads of them.

Pwopa tear up! It’s kicking off like Millwall playing Leeds. Pwopa naughty. Top boys everywhere. Some tosser pulls out an uzi and starts spraying lead all over the shop, a few bullets hit our blokes but they carry on. Proper top boys. The iPod fans are all dead though.

Then our bloke with the rocket-launcher starts shooting rockets everywhere. I remember a dream about giant ants, but anyway… our boys are taking care of business, but they are getting tired and the other firm still have plenty of top boys looking for a ruck. All of a sudden I notice the bint next to me is about to press some buttons. Adrenaline? What’s that then. I dunno but she presses it and suddenly our boys are like ‘Enry Cooper. A minute later there’s our lads standing there and the other lot are either dead, on fire or they’ve had their fucking legs chopped off. They turned up acting Charlie Big Potatoes and now they’re eating through straws. Pwopa naughty. They carry on up the road. Not sure why but they don’t seem very interested in putting in any shop windows with bins. Not a pwopa firm after all. Soft as shit.

They come to a building. Tarty next to me says it’s some sort of headquarters and that they are there to go in and get some fucking doctor out. Apparently, he’s the Head of Research for some Polish firm and we need him to join our team to help with body modifications. I was like ‘eh?’ but then she said it was like Joe Cole going to Liverpool and that made a bit more sense. Our boys kick the door in like they’re the Old Bill or something. More enemy agents come pouring out and iPod bloke ends up on the floor covered in claret. The others grab the doctor and bring him back to us. The CEO’s proper fucked off with losing one of the boys, but we’ve won and I take the opportunity to make ‘wanker’ signs out the window as we lift off. Oi oi!

I go home, watch a bit of Glee, have a few lagers and get a bit of kip. I get woken up in the middle of the night though. Some bloke’s in my fucking house. I go to nut him but he shows me his iPod. Persuadatron? Never heard of th…. OBEY. Bloke suggests we go back to the office. Sounds like a good idea. As does his next idea, that I get in the freezer. Fucking hell, it’s a bit fucking parky in here. He gives me an injection and I’m properly cream crackered.

Next morning I wake up feeling pwopa naughty. Stronger. Faster. Lab bint says I’ve got enhanced speed and strength thanks to ‘advanced prosthetic modifications.’

“Oi oi. I’ve got something ‘ere that doesn’t need modifying”, I tell her, but she laughs and holds up her little finger at me. Cheeky facking slaaaaag! I’d nut her but I’m taken outside and put in a chopper. CEO tells us that we’re off to Russia for a right pwopa tear up. We’ve got to kill or recruit every agent in Moscow. Hearts and minds he calls it. Fists and foreheads I call it. Oi oi! Naughty!

We set down in Moscow. I’ve got a shotgun. Pwopa naughty. We’re walking down the street like top boys. Round the corner we run into some Russians. They ask us if we’d go and play pool with them. Fuck off, Boris, we’ve got a job to do. I’m about to go fucking mental with the shotgun but one of the lads is recruiting them. CEO’s in my ear giving it all this and that. Sniper, go onto that bridge. Mini-gun, get round the corner. Flamethrower and Shotgun, proceed ahead. He says if it kicks off, we’re to come back to the bridge. We carry on. It’s pwopa moody and it’s like Moscow’s spoiling for a fight.

Don’t blame them… it’s a fucking shithole. It’s like going to see us play at Charlton. Flamethrower bloke’s not talking to me much, but keeps recruiting people. Before long we’ve got so many people following us that we start getting security guards and eventually the Old Bill to join up. Any fucking Russian agent who turns up now is going to need a fucking ambulance. Oi oi! Eventually a load of Borises show up and start giving it the big ‘I am.’ They must have known we coming as there’s loads of them, all tooled-up. Flamethrower bloke manages to get some of them to switch sides while me and the civilians start blasting. They keep coming and I’m like ‘oi oi! I’m from fahking Lahndan and I’ve got a shootah you slaaaags!’

There’s claret everywhere and the CEO’s telling us to fall back with the incinerators or something; I think he’s only had a couple of combat drops as he’s losing it. Whatever, I start heading back to the bridge. As we get close, our sniper starts picking off targets and the big fucker on the mini-gun comes round the corner and starts mowing people down. I start to realise I’m fahking knackered, my legs feel like they are made of iron. I go to give them a quick rub to get the blood flowing and it turns out they are made of iron. Fahks sake! And they’ve taken my Reebok Classics. Slaaags!

The lab slag comes on the radio. “Prepare for adrenaline increase”, she tells us. Next thing you know, it’s like I’ve been necking cans of Red Bull. I’m buzzing and I’m nutting these Ruskie slags and doing them in the knees with the shotgun. Oi oi! Naughty! ‘Ere, Dimitri! NUT! Nose is all over his face. Slag! Naughty! Knees up Mother Brahhhn! We’ve done it. We came to their manor and took the piss. Right fahking tear up! As we’re leaving we scoop up weapons as a big TV screen says that Moscow is now being run by Squidcorp. Who’s the daddy? Apparently we’re putting up the tax to 45%.

Back at base, they tell us that next week we’re going over to America to take care of some business. They’ve revolted over there or something and the suits upstairs want us to reclaim our territory. Typical uppity yanks. Fahking soccer? You what? Oi oi! Naughty. The lab crumpet says they’ve done some research and I’ll be getting some new mince pies that’ll let me see better at night. Naughty! I ask if she fancies a drink later but she says no.

I think she’s a lesbian.

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