All language subtitles for The.Misfortunates.English-WWW.MY-SUBS.CO

Any similarities between certain
characters in this book and real people

is due entirely to insight
into human nature." Gunther Strobbe

I was an author, even if
that sounds ridiculous for an author.

I was the author of
an unnoticed collection of poems

published in the year blankety-blank
by a crummy publisher.

As a result, I wasn't, in fact,
an author at all.

From the publishers to which I'd sent
the manuscript of my latest masterpiece,

all I received
were standard letters of rejection.

What did they know?

I had to write and I'd keep on writing
until I became an author.

My day would come.

It had to come.

THE MISFORTUNATES

I lived in a strange place.

For God's sake, Dad!

Sorry, son.

A godforsaken hole where, once a year,
real men shaved their legs,

dressed as women and then
partied for three days and three nights.

There you are.

Write those lines nicely, son.

I was forced to forego
the annual purification ritual

until I was able to
call myself a real man.

Or rather, was able to
call myself a real Strobbe.

You're not taking our telly away?
- I don't have to take it away

if you pay me what you owe, on the spot.
Can you do that?

Beefcake couldn't.
And none of his brothers could help him.

My dad Celle couldn't,
nor Uncle Petrol nor Uncle Koen.

Unfortunately!

I was thirteen and was irrevocably
destined to become like them.

I, too, as a young member of the Strobbe
tribe, would defend my name with honour.

It's not even my telly,
it's our mother's.

That's as may be, but you're domiciled
here so this is where we have to come.

D'you see? That's the law.
- Take a look at my mother for a moment.

Because all four brothers
had messed up their lives,

they'd moved back in with their mother.

A woman who was one in a million and
whose heart was bigger than her pension.

Hi, ma.

A Pieta with four big, goofy sons.

Each evening she fell asleep in front of
her TV, watching some soap or other.

Would you take her only pleasure away?

Dad, my bike is buggered.
- Sir, I regret to have to say this

but in order to become a bailiff
you have to be an enormous bastard!

Or you'd never be able to do your job!

The bailiff's visit was thanks to
Beefcake's gambling.

He'd rather naively thought that slot
machines had been designed by altruists.

Calling Beefcake a born loser may be
going too far. On the other hand…

He'd never win a single bet,
contest or game. Never ever.

Fuck, pal!

Uncle Koen was lucky when it came to
gambling but was unlucky in love.

His sad expression and innate melancholy
made women want to mother him.

And because he'd got
most of his conquests pregnant,

he spent a fortune
on maintenance payments.

For him too there was no pleasanter
place of refuge than the parental home.

Hey, Ma, what are you up to?
- I can't give him a dirty telly.

Fuckin' hell! This prick's
ransacking our home and you…

Houses with five bedrooms were
reserved for children of a greater god.

And so I shared a room
with Uncle Petrol.

With only eight years between us,
he could have been my brother.

Here's your ketchup,
you deep-fried bag of grease!

Nothing pleased me more than when that
gentle gangster called me 'kid brother'.

There.

Here. Take that.

Take that one too.
What? It's still a good chair.

Lowie is a bit of a hothead, sir.

Take whatever you like.
The less we've got, the better.

It's true, isn't it, Beefcake?
Hey, bailiff,

possessions possess you.
And not the other way round.

You can have that advice for free.

For my father,
possessions just meant extra dusting.

Now none of us have got anything any
more. No wife and no other furniture!

His entire postman's salary was
blown every week in the local bars.

Give us another drop, Agnes.

This was his way of protecting us
from the temptations of capitalism.

What's up with you?
- My bike's buggered.

Use your feet. Run.
- To school? Are you mad? It's 5 km.

A real man runs. I've done
a lot of running in my life.

I've won competitions.
I even won a gas cooker for your mum.

Your mum was really pleased.

Fuck.

For God's sake, pal.
- Fuck.

Look at the two of us in this photo.
Don't we look happy?

Why can't you two get back together?

It's not that simple.
- You could give it a go.

Yeah.

Yeah.

That's a good one.

Gunther, go and get me some loo roll.
- I've gotta go.

Hey, the loo roll's all gone.

Ma, go and get me some loo roll.

Ma!

Oh, Strobbe!

If you don't learn to be on time, you'll
end up picking up shit behind a train.

Five pages by tomorrow.

What about, sir?
- What about, sir?

About true colours,
in four different shades!

And now, out!

Well, Strobbe, been thrown out again?

This is Franky De… Dewulf?
A new pupil. D'you have a place for him?

I've heard… that your father
has quite a few problems.

That he likes a drink.
- People say a lot of things.

Isn't it true, then?
- No.

Growing up in those conditions and
that environment isn't healthy.

Wouldn't you be better off
boarding during the week?

So you can do your homework.
And you can go home at the weekend.

Don't you think that'd be better?
- No.

Right, you can go.

Bye.
- Bye.

Oops…

The TV was gone.

Everyone agreed
this was Beefcake's fault.

So he'd been instructed to
come up with a solution.

Hi.
- Hi.

Welcome.
- Petrol, Gunther, Celle, Koen.

The Strobbes.
- My name's Siawash.

Sia-what?
- Siawash.

Like "car wash"?
- This is my wife, Mehri.

Oh, thank you.
- Hello. You… know… Roy Orbison?

Uh, no. Is he from Belgium?
- Roy Orbison. An American singer.

From Texas. He's Texan.
- A singer from America.

Uh, Only the Lonely. His biggest hit.
- Don't you know it?

Roy Orbison… tonight… for the
first time… singing again.

Can we watch it on your telly, pal?

We can? That's brilliant.
Hello, little lady.

No, don't trouble yourself,
we'll drink out of the bottle.

That's typically Belgian,
drinking out of the bottle.

This is typical too. Watch.

Right then, bon appétit.

To Iraq.
- Iran. We're from Iran.

That too.
- To Belgium.

To Roy Orbison.

My dad had compared the Strobbes'
timelines to that of our Texan idol.

He saw nothing but parallels between Roy
Orbison's life and that of the Strobbes.

The singer's high points coincided
with our family's pinnacles

and we also plumbed life's depths
at the same time.

So Roy's comeback had to mean
a turning point for us too.

His resurrection was our resurrection.

Fantastic!

Fantastic!

Oh, we're gonna have a dance.

Are we gonna have a dance? Eh? Shall we
have a dance? Shall we have a dance?

We could feel it.
Roy's return had upended history.

We had no choice but to prepare for
a period of intense happiness.

No, no. Gunther, no.
No, son, no.

The shopping!
- Give here. No.

Oh, gherkins!
- The shopping!

That's for a new bike.

I'm off to see your Mum.

Nice-looking chicks, eh?

Real life starts
the first time you fuck, kid.

You know, play hide the sausage.
Have a good fuck.

Have you already fucked a chick?

You can tell me.
Have you already made a chick yodel?

Did you see my Mum?
- Yes.

Did you talk to her?
- No. It was a bad idea, son.

That really was a bad idea, that was.
The filthy whore.

Come here.

We won't let this get to us.
We won't be pushed around.

By that slut.

13 YEARS &
11 MONTHS PREVIOUSLY

Keep still a minute. Don't move.

And thus, with a quickie
against the wall of the Las Vegas,

my father unwittingly brought
his life as a bachelor to an abrupt end.

42 weeks later,
he was in the Las Vegas

when the telephone rang and
my father heard that he had a son.

The miracle has taken place
The miracle has taken place

It started when I let your dick use my
pussy as a parking space. All together!

Then he came and fetched me from the
hospital and went back to the Las Vegas

to proudly show me off
to all his friends.

Cheers, son.

27 years after I was born, I made
the same stupid mistake as my father.

You should have taken the pill. All
that rubbish about it being bad for you.

And now it's too late.

How long have you known?

How far gone are you? There's a limit on
when you can get rid of it.

So it's that simple for you?
- Yes. It is…

We're not going to start this again.
We've already been through it.

I don't want to get rid of it.

I don't want kids. I really don't.

You don't have the right
to force it on me.

But you don't have the right to deny me.

If you don't get rid of it,
I'm off. D'you hear me?

I refuse to get rid of it.
- OK.

Gunther, I love you.

See what I get to eat
since your mother left?

I've always cooked you nice meals.

Writing lines again, son?
- Yes, sort of.

But actually, I'm taking the piss out of
the teachers, they never read it.

Don't they read it?
- No.

Write this. Granny's got hairy tits.
- Very funny.

I'm going to bed.

He has written it down, too!

Good one.

Dad, I'd like to board during the week.

Board?
- May I?

What's this crap about boarding?
What's that all about?

I bust my balls for you. I do my best,
but it's never good enough.

It's never good enough.
First your mother and now you.

You're a little traitor,
that's what you are.

And that filthy whore.
I always knew she was a filthy whore.

And you are the son of a filthy whore.
That's what you are.

I'm starting to wonder
whether you are actually mine.

Eh? Are you mine?
Take your trousers off.

What?
- Do it.

Why?
- Stand up and take your trousers off.

Gunther, take…
Stand up!

Hey!
- Take your trousers off.

You do know how to take them off,
don't you? Bloody hell.

Come on. There.
Yours is the same.

Look. Yours is identical to mine.
You're my son. You're my son.

You've even got a birthmark
in the same place.

It's a fine specimen.
You've got a nice one.

I don't suppose
you've done much with it yet.

Or have you?
- No.

Gunther, you're going to get
a great deal of pleasure from it.

Life still has to start for you.
- I don't feel very well.

Feeling a bit better now?
- Yes. It was the wine.

A bit pissed, eh? That's OK.
That's part of growing up.

The bigger I got,
the smaller everything seemed.

I got fed up with Franky.

But he, or rather his father,
beat me to it.

Dad says I'm not allowed to
play with you any more.

How come?
- Your father is crazy

and your whole family is scum.
- And my mother abandoned me, Franky.

Didn't your dad tell you that too?
- Don't blame me.

It's my dad. Honestly. He says you'll
teach me to smoke, drink, steal…

I'm not blaming you. But I don't know
if you know much about us.

If your dad thinks
he knows the Strobbes so well,

he must know that
the Strobbes all pull together.

What?
- No one lays a finger on a Strobbe.

We're a bit old-fashioned as far as
that is concerned. D'you understand?

Family honour and stuff.

You'll understand when Uncle Petrol
punches you in the gob!

And your father will be dealt with too.

No one calls my father crazy.

The cops were at the door.

But they…
- Franky's father made a complaint.

Threatening his family! Are you mad?
- They say that you're crazy…

You're going… to keep your mouth shut.
- Listen.

But they say…
- I told you to keep your mouth shut.

But they…
- Listen. Listen.

But they…
- Let him speak.

I'm talking to my son!
- And I'm talking to mine!

Go on, say it.
- They say you're crazy.

And that our whole family is scum
and that you're an alkie.

Marcel.
- Bloody hell!

Marcel! Lowie, Pieter!
- Let go of me.

You…
- Marcel. No!

Pieter. Pieter, Lowie, come here!
Come here, quick!

Come here. Stay here.

Come on. Come here.
Come here. Come on.

The bloody little sod…
- Everything's OK.

Hey, kid brother. Come on.

The cops said if you carry on like that
they'll put you in an institution.

The idea freaks your dad out.

You mustn't do that.
- He mustn't hit me.

He won't hit you again.
Say I said so.

I'm not going back.
- A Strobbe doesn't run away.

Are you a Strobbe or not? Eh?

Oh, Gunther. A small portion
with ketchup, as usual?

No, a small portion
with gravy and mayonnaise.

It's for my dad.
- Oh, right.

Omer, the manager of the Liars Pub, was
good at attracting a crowd to his place.

After his legendary naked cycling race,
he came up with the idea

of trying to break the world record for
drinking beer. He sought candidates.

I'm not crazy, Omer. Drinking as
a sport, that's going a bit too far.

Another beer.

My father was a social drinker,
not a competitive one.

Petrol had had his fill of
top-level sport.

After his naked-cycling defeat, Beefcake
would've liked to get the better of Koen

but was excluded as a candidate
because he was blacklisted by Omer.

So Koen would defend
the Strobbes' honour.

You'll never do it.
You'll bring shame on the Strobbes.

If only to piss Beefcake off.

Fuckin' hell! I should've taken part.

There.
That'll make you nice and thirsty.

Leave that alone.
- Go on, just one.

You've got to work up a thirst.
- Go on, just one. Don't be stupid.

Line your stomach, work up a thirst
and then have a good shit.

We're writing history today,
ladies and gentlemen.

We are going to beat the world record.
No more and no less.

And earn a place in
the Guinness Book of Records.

We're going to win.

Five, four, three, two, one. Go!

Take it easy!
Start calmly and finish calmly.

And while my Uncle Koen
valiantly had a shot at glory,

I wondered whether my life was
actually about to start soon.

Hey, Soi, they've got to go in.

They've got to go in, not come out.

Alexi Noyens, Wieken, Winnetou, Soi,
Little Lucien, Oscar Crap,

Arlette's Rudy, Zof, they were
all there. But none of them had any idea

that a Strobbe would
wipe the floor with them.

As a result of my life being about to
begin, I missed Uncle Koen's victory.

Like my dad who, that day,
away from curious eyes,

had probably drunk more litres of beer
than most of the participants.

Bloody hell, Celle!

When it was over, he hightailed
out of there, to go for a drink.

You're in the paper, pal! Look.

Piss off, Beefcake, let him see.

Driving on the wrong side of the road,
Koen'd crashed head-on into a stolen car

and taken out
a gang of criminals on the run.

You should hang it on the wall.
- Leave it out.

Mr Strobbe?
I'm going to take your temperature.

My temperature?

Life went on, of course. That's what
makes it difficult sometimes.

Gunther?

Come here a minute.

It was obvious,
poems wouldn't pay for nurseries.

Doing unwanted work

to pay for the existence of
an unwanted child,

there was a certain logic to it,
when you thought about it.

I've already told you numerous times
I can't help you. So fuck off!

Good morning. Minibar.
Soft drinks, coffee. Anyone?

I won't be coming back. No? Sure?

The train continues to
wend its way through my life.

But you can forgive a train for
a lot of things. Because it's a train.

Unlike a car,
it travels past the world's rear.

The listed houses near the station
turn out to be little more than slums.

But you only see the decay
from the railway track.

No vehicle gives you a more honest
impression of a country than a train.

Look at our gardens,
our pigeon lofts, our sheds.

See our underwear drying on the line.

Look at our garden gnomes,
our celery, our leeks,

our verandas and our brick barbecues.

See how the cows gradually
make way for brick monsters,

which those with
the bank's approval but no taste

have plumped down
in the Flemish countryside.

Take the train and see how,
frozen to the spot,

marble and granite stand next to
the track, bored and covered in dust,

providing our loved ones
with a final resting place.

The legendary boozer supreme,
Maurice Strobbe, left,

after drinking himself to death at 49,
in addition to a wife and four sons,

an exceptionally beautiful daughter,
my Auntie Rosie.

A month after my grandfather's death,
she had moved to far-off Antwerp

and didn't want anything more
to do with Reetveerdegem.

Is that there the toilet?
- Yes.

Just a plank of wood with a hole in it?
- Yes. Let me have a shit.

I'm gonna kill him.
I'm gonna ram his balls down his throat!

That's her father you're on about.
I don't want him talked about like that.

And you're my sister.
I will always stand up for you.

I don't want to know.
- No one lays a finger on a Strobbe!

I'm not a Strobbe any more.

What?
- I'm not a Strobbe any more.

Oh, right?

So what are you doing here then?

I asked what you're doing here.
- Stop it, Lowie.

What are you doing here?
- Stop that.

Well?
- Stop.

What are you going to do?

Come on!
- So what have you come here for?

Come to pay an old boyfriend a visit?

Drop it, OK?
It's my business.

Right. Fine.

So you're no longer a Strobbe?
I'll remember that.

Up here.

Pass me the ketchup, kid brother.

Right on his arse!

If you need me, I'm next door.

Good night.
- Good night.

Good night.

Good night.
- Good night.

Sylvie stayed at our place
for three weeks.

While I wrote lines,
she read books that improved her mind.

She must have been disgusted
by the way we lived.

But she didn't say anything.
She watched us in silence.

Get up, Dad. Ugh! Fuck!

This is Gunther Strobbe speaking.
My dad can't come to work today.

He's sick. Yes.

Yes, the doctor…
What did you say?

Yes, the doctor said
he's got gastric flu. Thank you.

Here.
- Yeah, yeah.

He's doing it again. Shut up!
- Come, come, come.

They shit on everything.

Bloody hell!
- Shut up, damn you!

Birdbrain!

That one won't shit
on your washing again, Ma.

Silly idiot!

You're not gonna do it?
- I am.

Go on, do it.
- No, no.

Go on, throw it in there.

So tell me who it was. It's that simple.
- I'm not a snitch.

You've got a week to think about it.
Understand?

Go on. You can go.

Are you coming, Christie?

It's Sylvie.
- Sylvie.

To my huge surprise, Sylvie accepted my
father's invitation to go to the bar.

Yes?
- Of course.

Which bar are you going to?
- Which bar? We'll see.

Will André be there?
- Eh?

Will André be there?

How should I know? I'm not clairvoyant!
- OK, fine.

Of course André would be in the bar.
He was always in the bar.

And everyone, except Sylvie,
knew he was her biological father.

Hey, André!
- Look who's here! Hi, guys.

He wouldn't make it to Christmas.

So it was high time he met his daughter,
my father thought.

Have a look how I have to shit.
- Keep your clothes on.

I'll never have to use a toilet again.
Everything drips into…

See?
- That's disgusting!

I'll flush it. Here. Wait.

Ugh, André, you're standing at the bar,
having a shit.

You've no idea how much I save
on loo roll every month!

Nice one!

Having a shit in the park isn't easy,
you can't find any loo paper!

Christ, guys, I see you've brought
a pretty chick with you.

But if the police find out her age,
you'll be in deep shit.

She's family, André.
- Oh.

André.
André, this is our little Sylvie.

Your Rosie's daughter?
- Yes.

Bloody hell, what a beautiful kid!

You're as beautiful as your ma.

How is your mum?
- Fine.

She's fine.

Sylvie, I'm going to buy you a drink.
A drink! Here.

A diet lemonade.
- A diet lemonade.

You're not gonna be all precious? Here,
a diesel. That's what we drink here.

Hey, a lemonade.
- Can't you stand up for yourself?

Get back behind your bar, quick!
- Leave her alone.

Look. Look. See?

That shut you up, eh?

I even asked the park keeper

But he said,
"You must really be joking!"

Try it on someone else, son
I didn't think that very fair, you see

It was already running out of my bum
So I went behind a big tree.

Having a shit in the park isn't easy

Filthy faggot
and your gob… stinks… of beer

One more time, it's a great song.

Stop it, you'll hit the slot machine.
- Move.

Hey, Beefcake, you winning?
- Yes, I'm winning.

Stop that, Petrol. Give me that.
- We're at home here, aren't we?

You're not allowed to do anything here.
- Stop it.

If I may…

Thanks, Sylvie, now I can die in peace.

What do you look like?

Come on… take that coat off.

What a stink!

Where have you been?

The miracle has taken place
The miracle has taken place

My pussy is wet
And of rain there is no trace

Upstairs! Upstairs!

What's wrong with the pussy song?
- Did you teach her?

No. André taught her.

Did you see André?

Was André there?
- Rosie. Rosie, we're sorry.

We're sorry about everything!

Sorry, Rosie.

We're sorry, Rosie.

What've you been up to here?
- Help me.

Help me, help me. What have you…
- Open the boot.

Have you been here for three weeks?
- Where else?

How would I know?
- I was here.

Put your case in, you silly cow.

Petrol.

What?
- Come here.

What's the matter?
- He's punching her in the kisser.

So? She said she didn't need me any
more. She can sort it out herself.

Calm down.
- Yeah, calm down.

You've had it now! Calm down.
- Hey!

Did you hear me?
I've had enough of your dramatics!

It's always the same.

It occurred to me again,
beautiful things got destroyed

or left our village.

Stupid bitch! I do what I like, got it?

No one's gonna tell me otherwise.
And don't get catty!

Very funny, miaow, miaow.
Go poke fun at someone else!

You can all kiss my arse!
All of you! Bunch of dickheads!

Mr Strobbe.

Take a seat.

What can I do for you?

It was me.
I made the toilets overflow.

Then I have no choice but to expel you.

OK.

You can go.

Gunther, it can't carry on like this.

What are we to do with you?

I'm going to send someone round.

Go on.

There are two people I hate. Two women.

One gave birth to me,
the other was carrying my offspring.

You could say there was
a connection between them,

but that's probably just an impression.

One's mind is confused
when one is about to stop being a son

and become a father.

I'm looking for Marcel Strobbe.
- Marcel?

Have you come to see Celle?
- Yes.

Celle, get up. You've got a visitor.

It may take a while.
He's only just gone to bed.

I've got time. I'll wait.
- Take a seat.

Would you like a drink?
- No, thanks.

No? A coffee? Kid, go…
- No, it's fine, thanks.

So you've come to see our Celle?
- Yes.

Celle, come downstairs. There's a chick
waiting for you down here.

What did you say?
- There's a chick to see you.

What's her name?
- What's her name?

What's your name?
- Nele Fockedey.

Nele Fock… Fuck-a-day?
- Yes.

Fuck-a-day.
- A fuck a day keeps the doctor away.

Fancy being called that!
Celle, her name's Nele Fuck-a-day.

Dickhead! Let me sleep.
- No, seriously, Celle.

What does she look like?
- Not bad. Blonde, around 60 kg

and a nice pair of tits!
- And white knickers!

Bloody hell!

Fuckin' hell! Two crates of beer!

Beefcake?
- Yes?

It's not that woman from last night?
- How should I know?

Ask her.
- Are you that woman from last night?

Uh, hold on…
- She's not saying anything, Celle.

Don't tell me she's pregnant.
- No, hold on, I think…

Come on, come downstairs. I'm not having
anything more to do with it.

Shit. Gunther!

Gunther!

Come here, son.

Gunther!

A cigarette.

What's going on?

What's going on?
I don't know this woman.

Are you bullshitting me?
- Mr Strobbe, I'm Nele Fockedey

from the Department for
Child Protection.

I've come to see the conditions
in which your son is being brought up.

Mr Strobbe,
this situation is unacceptable.

Why isn't the boy
living with his mother?

Ask him yourself, madam.

Wouldn't you rather live with your mum?

Tell me about your mum.
- My mother is a whore, madam.

That's it, have another drink.
Marcel! Marcel…

If they take him away, I'll kill myself.
- Pull yourself together. Stop drinking.

Stop drinking?
- Yes.

Stop drinking…
- Gonna hit your mother, are you?

Go on!

Bloody hell, Celle. Bloody hell.
- Someone snitched on us.

It was you! You called that woman.

What?
- Don't be stupid, Celle.

You called that woman!
- I didn't.

You did.
- I didn't.

Shut your mouth.
- No, I won't.

Shut it.
- No.

Shut it.
- No, I won't.

Shut your mouth.

Fuckin' hell!

Let go of me. Let go of me.

Stay there.

Fuckin' hell! Fuckin' hell!

Fuckin' hell! Traitor!

Traitor.

You're betraying your own family.

You're betraying your own family.

You're betraying your own blood.

You're betraying your own blood.
- Let go.

It was me. I called that woman.
It was me who called that woman.

I called that woman. Marcel.

I called that woman.
I called that woman.

I'm going to put that in too.

Once he'd calmed down,
he was overcome by shame.

Shame and realisation.

He opened the phone book
and phoned a rehab clinic.

Then he put my name down
for boarding school.

"It's better this way, son," he mumbled.
"Until I'm better."

He'd said my father was crazy and
called my uncles scum from the gutter.

Years later, I bumped into Franky.

… not damaged.
Everything's in very good condition.

How much is this?
- Four euros.

For a beer-drinking smurf?
- Not many were made, sir.

Not many were made? Look. Made in
Taiwan. On the bottom of his shoes.

Probably made by kids, too.
- Hey, aren't you…

Oh, Franky.

Did your dad say you could talk to me?
- Long time no see!

What a coincidence! I thought of you
last week. At Reetveerdegem cemetery.

I walked past your father's grave
and wondered how you were.

So, what are you up to now?
- All sorts, whatever pays the rent.

Still got your train collection?
- Yes. But it's much bigger now.

Is it?
- More sophisticated.

Everything's computer controlled.
You should come and see.

There I sat, with Franky and a beer,
catching up.

Talking about years gone by
that we can't go back to and improve.

D'you ever come to Reetveerdegem?

D'you ever come to Reetveerdegem?

Every five years or so, I go back to
Reetveerdegem for no reason.

It suddenly appears,
this need to go and see my uncles.

After that, I visit my father's grave.

Seeing as I'm there.

It no longer makes
any difference to him.

But I'm there.
And he is too, one way or another.

Strobbe! Eyes to the front.

You weren't paying attention, eh?
- No, I wasn't paying attention.

Four pages, by tomorrow.
- What about, sir?

Write an absurd story about Darius.
- OK.

Strobbe. Read this out to the class.

Boys. Quiet. We're going to
listen to Gunther's story.

Darius, the son of
Xerxes, the king of Persia,

took a can of Sprite out of the vending
machine in his dad's palace and…

Hey! What on earth is going on?

It was quiet at home.

Dad was trying to kick his addiction,
Koen had moved in with his new love,

Petrol was in prison
for something minor

and Beefcake had ended up in hospital
after a cycling race.

Come here. Thanks for coming.
- You're welcome.

What have you been up to?
- I went over the mountains too fast.

Yeah.
- I've done things, Ma,

things that Koen can only dream of.
But I went over the mountains too fast.

Yeah.
- I'd lined up four Trappist beers.

I added two whiskies…

He hadn't done much cycling,
except possibly metaphorically.

Beefcake still couldn't
get over Koen's victory.

So he'd designed his own alcoholic race.
His Tour de France.

A sort of board game on a map of France,
with kilometres converted into drink.

Because Beefcake wanted to be
the most accomplished boozer,

his race would be spread over
a number of days, like the Tour,

and wouldn't be limited to just lager.

Like in the case of the stages of
the Tour, three jerseys could be won.

Yellow for the winner, green for best
sprinter, the 'down the hatch' king,

and the polka dot jersey
could be earned in the mountains,

where you got ahead by
drinking stronger drinks.

Here.

I need a piss.

A woman of your size
and such a tiny bladder.

The toilet's too narrow! I can't get in.

Yellow.
- Wait till tomorrow.

Bye, guys.
- See you tomorrow.

If Beefcake hadn't done
something stupid, he could've won.

We can only guess what was going
through his mind when, on day 12,

he cycled up the Mont Ventoux
like a stud on heat.

Beefcake. Beefcake's hit the deck.

Beefcake's hit the deck.

Zulma.

Gunther. Light out.

This surprised you, eh son?

How are you?
- Fine. And you?

Fine. Shall I take that?
- If you like.

What have you got in there?
- My books.

Comic books, I suppose?

Hey, look who's fuckin' here!

How's things?
- Fine.

You're looking good.
- Thanks.

Hello, kid.
- Hi.

Hi, ugly.
- How's things?

I'm off, guys.
- Bye, Beefcake

Bye.
- See you…

See you in a month or two.
- Watch out, they'll keep you in.

Haha, very funny.
Really funny. Really.

Hello.
- Hello.

Can we take a look round?
- Go ahead.

There.

Choose a pair of trainers.
Whichever you like.

Even the most expensive.
- What for?

To run in, of course.
- I don't go running.

I don't like running.
- What d'you mean?

A real man runs. We'll run together.

There's a race tomorrow.
I've put your name down.

You're bloody good at running!
You can run really fast.

I used to be good at it too.
I even won a gas cooker once.

Your mum was pleased.
- You've told me that loads of times.

Yes, that's true.

Are they comfortable?
- Sure.

They're not too tight at the front?
- No.

I've got to go back in Sunday evening,
at 5 o'clock.

If I'm completely sober,
I can come home for good. So…

I'm going to stay at boarding school.

D'you like it there?
- Yes.

All the shit I went through, son…

you're not gonna go through that.

I can see it in your eyes.
You've got…

I don't know.

You're different.

You're a Strobbe.

But you're different.

There was a slight chance
the baby would be born dead.

Or would turn out to be black.

In both cases I would find it hard
to hide my delight.

And push, push, push.
OK, keep going, keep going.

Keep going, keep going.
OK, rest now.

Could you spare a cigarette?

Life had been passed on, like a baton

in an eternal relay race,
the reason for which no one knows

but in which everyone clings to
their misfortunes.

Hey, you. Hi.

Everything will be fine.
Everything will be fine, Gunther.

We're going to make a good job of it.
This baby chose to be with us.

Babies choose their parents
and not the other way round.

This little man chose us.

So you think kids choose their parents?
- Yes.

What a load of crap!

You're always a bastard,
when you abandon a woman and her kid.

But that's because you weren't
enough of a bastard to leave her

before you had made her pregnant.

Dear Mr Strobbe,
Dear Gunther,

We read, with particular interest,
your first novel-to-be.

Our advisors were all positive.

So we would like to
invite you to Amsterdam

to discuss a number of things with you.

5 NOVELS LATER

Hey, kid.

Hey, come here.

Well, well.

Big guy.
- I'll go and get some beers.

Kid? A beer? You too?
- Hello, Ma.

Come on, sit down.
I wanted to ask you something, kid.

Someone phoned me.
A professor in folklore phoned me.

They've started
a drinking songs project.

They want to create a record of all
kinds of songs in dialect,

per region. Get it?

So my question is,
d'you still know any songs like that?

The pussy song.
- The pussy song.

The pussy song. Yes, that's it.

The pussy song.
Are you going to start?

What?
- Singing. I'll write it down.

What about Granny?
- She can sing too.

She's got dementia.
- Eh?

She's got dementia.
- So? Maybe she can help us.

Come on, if we start singing
maybe she'll join in.

Go on.
- I'm not going to start singing here.

You going to let us down then?
- If you want to look at it like that…

Well, I do look at it like that.

Come on, kid.
A professor in folklore phoned me!

They're creating a record of the songs,
to be part of the cultural heritage…

… thing. Well?

You're the cultured one, aren't you?

You're always on stage.

If we want to know how you're doing,
kid, we have to read the newspaper.

Our little author…

Your family needs you now.
What's the first verse?

No more crap.

The miracle has taken place
The miracle has taken place

That's it. That's it.

My pussy is wet
And of rain there is no trace

My pussy is wet
And of rain there is no trace

Great, kid. Second verse.
- I only know the first verse.

Come on, come on.

The miracle has taken place
The miracle has taken place

And then? Come on.
The miracle has taken place

Come on, Ma.
The miracle has taken place

My pussy is wet
And of rain there is no trace

No, I only know the first verse.
- We're not drunk enough.

You need to be drunk,
to sing drinking songs. Eh, kid?

Come on, let's go to a bar.
- Hold on, guys.

I'm going to take Granny back to her
room first. I'll see you in a minute.

The tit song, d'you still know that?

I do. The tit song.

One is not enough
And three are too many

If they're spread out a bit
Lookin' at 'em makes you cross-eyed

Tits!

Watch out, it'll end up on the floor.

This made you laugh last time,
d'you remember? My roll-up.

You said it was for fishermen.

She didn't say anything
towards the end.

Maybe she was fed up with always
being told she'd forgotten everything,

that she was always wrong, that
she could no longer tell her children

from her grandchildren or
even her great-grandchildren.

That's OK. It's clean.

Let me move that.

If she didn't feel like speaking,
then I spoke.

Even if she didn't take
anything more in.

I told her who I was,
what she had meant to me,

that I was Gunther,
the son of one of her sons, Celle.

That she was my grandmother,
but that she'd been a mother to me.

I thanked her for the year
she looked after me and my father.

We do keep-fit exercises
in the courtyard.

To start the morning refreshed.
- No way.

Yes, yes. Absolutely.

Oranges?
- Yes, oranges and everything.

Every morning.

Shall we go and play billiards?
- No.

Shall we go and play billiards?

Celle.
- No.

What d'you mean?
- No!

No, no. Celle, people think you're crazy

because you've spent three months
in that psychiatric clinic.

They say to us, "Your Celle's crazy."
- Let them say it.

Let them say it…
- Just show your kisser.

You're coming to play billiards.
- Come on, guys.

I've got to be back there
at 5 o'clock tomorrow. Sober.

I'm not going looking for trouble.
Want me to turn up there pissed?

No, no.
- Listen to me a minute, Celle.

They're letting you out in a few weeks.

The guy in charge gives you a pat on
the back, you've officially dried out.

Dried out, yes.
- You'll start working again.

No postman has got
as many bars on his round as you.

That's true.
- That used to be great.

But now you're going to have to
say no, pal. No, to all those beers,

to all those whiskies,
to all those ports.

No, no, madam, I don't drink any more.
I'm in a hurry.

How will you be able to cope if you
can't even come and play billiards?

Exactly.

You're right. I'm coming with you.
I'm not staying home here.

You're not going to do something stupid?
- Something stupid, Ma!

He's in good hands.
- I shall be sensible.

Just a game with my pals.

I'll be back before
you even realise I've gone.

What? What?
Don't forget that race tomorrow.

I'm coming to watch.

He should go to bed on time.
He's got to be in good shape.

Right, see you later.
I won't be long.

Hey, Beefcake. Where are we going?

Hey, wait for me.

Playing billiards
could last a long time.

I earn my money doing something I love.

I've met the woman of my dreams.

I had to go and have a kid
with someone else first.

But I met her in the end.

I'll never be a real dad to the kid.

I try to be… a good uncle to him.

Thanks for looking after me
and for standing up for me.

Thanks for saying
you phoned that Nele Fockedey.

That's it. Go on. It's loose.
Yes, you did it!

Right then, here we go.

Are you on there OK?
- Yes.

Be careful.
Hold on tight to the handlebar.

Not too fast. Sit up straight.

Are you OK?

OK, keep it straight.
In a straight line. Go!

Did you hurt your knee?

I'm going to let go. I'm going to let go.

Translated by Christine Le Piez
The Subtitling Company