All language subtitles for T.C.2021.S01E02.The.Writer.1080p.iP.WEB-DL.AAC2.0.H.264-SQUEAKY

No, thank you.

All right?

My nerves are frayed.

Are you Mr Redford?

I'm deaf, I'm mute, my synapses
are firing out of control,

I can't think
a single clear thought.

I'm trying so hard to concentrate,
but every five minutes,

someone crashes into my space.

If I don't accomplish
something today,

I shall not be responsible
for my actions.

Are you Mr Redford?

Mr Redford does not exist
without his work.

Why can't anyone understand that?

There, a signed first edition.

You have what you came for.

Now, I beg you, leave me alone.

I beg you!

There's a spelling mistake on this.

What? Impossible! You lie.

Yeah. I just wanted you
to keep the door open.

You are a... Na-na-na!

Has someone died here? Yes.

Then you're going to want
to invite me in.

Ah, so you're the cleaner.

No. I am the crime scene cleaner.

Big difference. Huge.

My work starts where
others pass in horror.

A tired cliche, that I'm sure
you've used a thousand times.

I hate your beard.

What? Yeah, that's not
a tired cliche, is it?

Now, would you like
to invite me in?

Now is not a good time.

Right.

OK, well, you'll have to sign this
to say you don't need my services.

And if you've got blood and
human remains in there,

you might want to
clean them up quickly,

or you're going to have some
unwanted housemates. Bye.

Wait! what unwanted housemates?

Bacteria.

Oh, bacteria.

The rats. Rats? Yes, rats!

A real vermin house party. Enjoy.

All right, y-you may come in.

No. No, you're all right.
You've signed this now.

I...think I'll go and
have a lovely beer.

Please! I-I don't want
a vermin house party.

I have a deadline.

Oh, dear.

£20. I'll give you £20 for beer.

I don't even like beer.

I do like beer. Go on.

Come on, then.

I shall be working in here.

Please do not enter at
any point, for any reason.

There. As you can see,
the blood is extensive.

I've covered it with brown paper
because it's a little visceral.

It's a little...?
It is triggering.

Everyone's getting triggered
these days, aren't they?

Lot of triggering going on.

No?

Not a lot of him left. Her.

Oh. What, er...?

Some kind of explosion,
sending shrapnel everywhere.

That wood-burner is connected
to the heating system.

They think a malfunction
caused a gas backdraught,

simultaneously slicing and
incinerating the victim.

Essentially, she burnt to death
because she was too old to escape.

Horrific.

Can't even imagine.

You're a cleaner,
you're not paid to imagine.

Hey, we can imagine!

Go on, then.

A moon.

OK, well,
now the heating isn't working,

and I'm writing a novel set
during a Provencal summer.

I'm freezing. I'm in hell.

Right. Were you here
when it happened?

Thankfully no,
I was at a reading.

The idea that my friend's
shit poetry saved my life...

Well, the irony is not lost.

And now, if you'll excuse me,
I must return to Provence.

I've got a question.

Yes?

Who was it? Who was what?

Who was that?

Oh. My grandmother.

Oh!

OK, well, I'll...

Good.

And, you know...

I'm sorry. What for?

For your loss.

Why are you sorry?
Did you kill her?

I was just being polite, mate.

It's another worn-out cliche.

You're not sorry.
You didn't know my grandmother.

Why would you be sorry
that she's dead?

It's a bastardisation
of the language.

You're right.
I couldn't care less she's dead.

There! Now, doesn't
that feel fresher?

The clean air of honesty!

I'm glad she's dead!

Why would you be glad?
I got carried away, it's...

You are indifferent.

You didn't know my grandmother.

You are indifferent to
her life and death.

That is proper.

Sorry.

About saying I'm glad,
not about her death.

About which you are...?

Indifferent?

Dick. I can hear you.

Sorry.

But not about your dead nan.

I must have quiet.

I've got to move the paper.

Well, move it silently.

It's paper. It scrunches.

It's sort of known
for its scrunchiness.

It's going to take ages
to clear the area like that.

I'll scrunch it all at once.
I'll speed scrunch.

I can't work next to scrunching,

regardless of the scrunch rate.

Well, I don't like tippy-tappy.

Tippy-tappy doesn't
affect your work!

Scrunching affects mine.

The fact that I'm using words
like "tippy-tappy"

and "scrunch rate" proves it.

You've reduced my vocabulary
to yours!

Please, I beg you,
I must have quiet.

Fine.

But I know words you don't know.

I very much doubt it,
with the greatest of respect.

Crackletranton. What?

Yeah, you don't know
that word, do you?

You've clearly made it up.

Perhaps I did make it up -
but you didn't know it, did you?

Yeah, yeah, I'm here.

What's it like?
It's a crackletranton.

OK, you want to dance?
Let's dance!

My synapses are on fire.

I am on the verge of writer's block.

I don't suppose there's an
equivalent in the world of cleaning,

so let me try and put it to you
in such a way as you understand.

If I don't finish
this chapter today,

I will kill myself.

Does that make you understand?

I will snuff out my life force,

then you'll have a death

that you can legitimately
tell people you're sorry about,

because you caused it!

All you have to do is clean,

and all I ask of you,
within that most basic of tasks,

is that you clean quietly!

Do you understand?!

Yes.

Yes, I fully understand.

This? Aw... I've got cleaner's block.

You son of a bitch!

Yeah. It's a very serious condition.

I could be here for months,

if I don't decide
to use the vacuum cleaner

to hoover away my life force.

It's money, is it? That's what
talks to you people, isn't it?

Hard cash.

20 not enough to guzzle away?

£50...if I don't hear a peep.

150, and I'll be like
a mouse that hovers.

Yeah, a hover mouse.

You can't use that,
I'm writing a children's book.

£100, cash.

The only noise you will hear
from now on is the tippy-tappy

of your porky little fingers.

Le Responsable
by Jacques Dutronc

Oh, f...!

Oh, hello, little fella.

You look lost.

Ruff!

Argh!

I've been trying, mate!

You're bleeding.

Yes, it's a shaving cut.

You shave your forehead?

Yes, I'm sorry,
I've got a hairy forehead.

I'm sorry about my frostiness.

It's not you.

I'm burned out, on empty.

I've been trying to describe
someone climbing some stairs

for nearly four days.

Four days? How big's the house?

No, I've spent four days
trying to find the right word.

"Floating" is too ethereal,

"hurrying" is too urgent.

"He mastered the stairs"
is too masculine,

"trudging" too subservient.

"His feet swallowed the stairs"
is sexualised.

I liked "he staired up"
for a while,

then I realised
it's a nonsensical pun.

The other characters are waiting
for him at the top of the stairs,

but I can't continue the story
until I have the right word.

It's a wolf in my mind,
do you understand?

A wolf that consumes my mind.

Stumble?

Graham Greene!

Stumble, yeah?

Ah, another part
of the jigsaw of madness.

I should get you
a beer to celebrate.

No, no, I can't drink
during the week.

I've got a condition.

It means once I start, I can't stop.

Medical condition?

Yeah, it's called, er...

..being an absolute legend.

Oh.

So, you are a crime scene cleaner?

I am. And what does that involve?

It's mainly delivering
patio furniture.

A joke.

Yeah. Very good. Enjoyable.

And what is this
little cleaning agent?

It's sodium hydroxide.
It's for dissolving flesh.

Eh!

Two jokes, two sentences.

Maybe I should become a writer.

Don't. It's mental torture.

Can I tell you something?

I actually won a little
writing award at school once.

Go on.

We had to come up with an
advertising slogan for a product,

and I got given cigarettes.

Shows you how long ago
it was, and...

Oh...it doesn't matter.

It was stupid.

Please, I'm interested.

It was just...

"Fancy a fag?

"Have a drag."

Just simple.

You can use it, if you want.

No, I won't be using it.

No? I was thinking
he could use it when he gets

to the top of the stairs.

Everyone could say, "Oh, you
look stressed. Fancy a fag?"

"I'll have a drag."

It's shit.

It's the mindless utterance
of a cleaner-to-be.

I'm a crime scene cleaner.

Yes, yes.
"Pass in horror," etc, etc.

Look, can I ask you something?
A serious question.

Quickly, please.

Why aren't you upset
about your gran?

What makes you think I'm not upset?

Well, normally,
people are affected by a loss.

They show it in some way.

What about your nan?

She was an extraordinary woman,
and her loss, a fire in my soul.

Tell your face.
Tell my face what?

Normally, people...cry?

I can't afford to cry.

Look, I could break down now,
in front of you, rivers of tears,

and fall into your arms -
and then, what?

Well, then you'd feel better.
I'm a great cuddle.

Look, I've got lovely,
big mum tits. Come on.

Oh, God! Come on.

But then, all the emotion
would be used up, wasted.

My grandmother would be buried,

and I'd sit down to try
and describe the pain,

and there'd be nothing left.

You can't use everything that you
go through in life for a book!

Sometimes,
you've just got to...be.

I think my grandmother
deserves more than

a spontaneous howl of anguish.

She deserves a novella, at least.

So, I shall push it down.

I either cry, or I write.

Hm.

Well, doesn't sound
very healthy to me.

It isn't, but I've been published
in 28 countries, whereas you,

when you "fancy a fag, have a drag".

Well, if I have to push everything
down to become a writer,

I'll stick to cleaning up blood.

One must be consumed
by what one does.

Dylan Thomas makes an interesting
point about it, actually.

Oh, right, well, there's no
need to find it. I believe you.

No, it's an interesting
passage. I'll...

Yeah, I don't want to see it.

It's relevant to our discussion.
But I'm not interested.

Leave it!

I hate this book. I despise it.

Have you read it?

Yes, of course I've read it.

He's the worst writer
to come out of...

Wales? Yes, Wales!

"Oh, I've got a doll
with a big, tall hat

"and a house full of spoons."

Wales! Get over yourselves!

He's one of the 20th century's
greatest writers.

I hate his writing.

His writing makes my balls
go up inside myself.

You don't like his style?

What don't you like about it?

Well, it's so...

...pecky, isn't it?

Pecky? Yes, pecky. Isn't it?

"Oh, I'm Dylan Thomas. Oh, look
at my words. Peck, peck, peck."

So, pecky in terms of the sharp...

Sharp... ..disjointed nature of
the prose. ..nature of the prose.

So, you feel that by jumping
from image to juxtaposed image,

we never really emotionally engage.

Exactly. The guy's a prick. Oh.

Aah!

You holding your emotions in again?

The pain I just felt will
flow across the next page.

Well, as long as
it doesn't peck across it, eh?

No, not like that prick
Dylan Thomas.

We make a pretty good team,
eh, you and me?

Meh.

Pip-yup!

Terence Redford? Yes.

We come with news. I'm very busy.

We know you must be consumed
with your next masterpiece,

but we bring news
of an important award.

An award? For one of my...?

Slow The Seconds To Midnight
has been nominated

in the Best Novel category.

My sources have led me
to believe that you are in

a very favourable position.

Goodness!

And what is the award, may I ask?

A very important one. Which one?

I am not at liberty to say.

I see.

Would you wait there?

Come here,
you manky little stray.

Oi!

No!

Dickhead!

Ah!

Oh! Is that a first edition?

It is indeed.

Would it be impertinent
to ask for a signature?

Not at all.

Ooh! Are you entertaining?

Yes, yes. And what are
your names, please?

I am Mrs Gathernoid,
and this is Miss Chant.

Barbara Chant!

"To the small woman
and the big woman.

"Your lies are a disease
that will eat you."

You are not from
an award committee,

you are desperate groupies,

and if you waste another second
of my time, I will destroy you!

Now, get back on the train to...

Gloucester. Of course, Gloucester!

A rock which, when lifted,
is teeming with roaches.

That was your fault.

How dare they!

How dare they use my
longing for recognition

to their own foul ends!

They know I crave the Booker,

they know the Sunday Times
are blind to me.

Every week, they come,

the zombie army
of lonely housewives.

Well, damn you, wretched sows.

You've just made the female
protagonist get lost at sea,

never to return.

Hairy nose, as well?

Well, you didn't push
your feelings down very well

with them, did you?

Because they took advantage
of a writer's greatest fear.

It's about leaving a mark,

leaving evidence that you existed.

Well, the books do that, don't they?

An award will bring
more people to my books.

I'll cast a longer shadow.

Don't you understand?

No, not really.

Mind you, I suppose
if I do my job properly,

then I don't leave a trace
behind me.

It's like I never existed.

And that doesn't bother you?

No. What do I care what people
think when I'm gone?

I'll be dead.

But you could live on
in people's minds.

Well, that's like someone
buying a pint for me

just before I have a heart attack.

I don't get to enjoy the pint.

And if there is a Heaven,

I'll be looking down,
watching someone drink my pint,

and I won't like that,
I'll be jealous,

because I love a pint.

If you had one hour left to live,
what would you do?

Look, we do this stuff down
at the pub all the time,

and I'm not particularly
proud of my answer,

but I tell the truth -

I would enjoy going round
the ladies' changing room,

and I would enjoy watching them
try their bras on.

What?

No, that's not "hour to live",

that's "invisible for the day",
isn't it?

No, come on,
you've got one hour left.

I don't know.

I suppose I'd write to my ex.

What does it matter
what your ex thinks?

You'll be dead.

Not while I'm writing
that letter, I won't be,

and there's a few things
I'll enjoy getting off my chest.

"Oh, didn't like the way
I used to load the dishwasher?

"Well, your sister's racist."

Jesus!

You writing about me?

What do you care?

Well, I don't know
what you're saying!

You're happy to disappear
once you've died,

so don't worry about it.

"I observed the gargantuan
pot-bellied man

"going about his business."

And that's me, is it?

Well... Well, it's not going to be
a best-seller, is it, mate?

The most mundane of activities
can be made interesting

in the right context.

Mundane? Yes.

Tedious, inconsequential, dull.

Let me tell you
some interesting stories.

No, you just carry on.
Act like I'm not here.

I will capture the truth.

How many books did you
sell last time?

Just shy of 100,000.

I'll get some interesting things.

There's some good stuff here,
straight away.

Straight away. Ooh...
Now, this is daptrozone.

That's for separating
blood and plasma.

You could...

And this, the bad bin.

It's for severed body parts.

Come on, mate, it's a finger bin!

Not my genre.

I've got good stories.

Last year, I got called out to
a job, I had to take away a man -

a chimp had had his legs away.

I thought you weren't bothered
about being remembered.

Well, I'm not, but I'm not having
those arseholes down the pub

read a book with a boring
character and know it's me.

What's that?

That's my lunch.

May I? Yeah.

What is it?

It's a sausage sarnie.

Well, half of one.

And then, this?

Brown sauce.

No salad?

Who puts salad on a
sausage sandwich?

What, you're writing
about my sandwich?

Mm-hm.

So, I've spent all day
listening to your madness,

and cleaning up your grandmother,

and you're writing about
my sandwich?

It's the perfect metaphor.

It is both dead and alive
simultaneously.

But have you put
it's Wicky's sandwich?

No, it is a sausage sandwich
lost in time.

It's MY sandwich!

You don't care if
anyone remembers you.

You don't seek meaning.

It is the universe's sandwich.

Oh, yeah?

It's my sandwich.

Please!

The fog will have gone in about
two hours, and so will I.

Well, thank you.

You're not welcome.

I don't want you to accuse me
of using cliches, do I?

Well, goodbye.

My publisher awaits. Terence?

I haven't read anything
by Dylan Thomas.

I wouldn't bother.

He's very pecky.

I know you must think me strange,

but I want you to know,

one cannot always
control one's grief.

Recently, I cried for a week.

Why?

It sounds silly, but...

..my cat ran away.

I grieve for my cat,
but for my grandmother...

You'll find a way.

"My grandmother was

"the most beautiful woman
in the world.

"She stood in the small,
wood-panelled kitchen

"of her farmhouse, cooking
sausages for my sandwich.

"'What is a sausage, Gran?'
I asked.

"She smiled and ruffled my hair.

"'Just eat, my love. Just eat.'"