All language subtitles for Great British Theatre s01e02 Fleabag.eng

(AUDIENCE CHEERS, APPLAUDS)

(AUDIENCE WHOOPS, CHEERS)

- WOMAN: He's ready to see you now.
- Thank you.

MAN: Thanks for coming in today.
Really appreciate you sending in your CV.

- No problem.
- It was funny.

- Oh? OK. That wasn't my intention but...
- Great.

Our current situation is unusual

in that we don't have many...
any women working here.

- Mainly due to the...
- The sexual harassment case.

- ..sexual harassment case, yes.
- Yes, yes.

- Are you all right?
- Yes sorry.

I just ran from the station. Sorry.
I'm a bit hot. I'm really excited...

- Water?
- No, no. I don't...

- Actually, water would be great....
- We're looking for someone

who can handle themselves
in a competitive environment.

It will mainly be filing,

but we have some pretty good
filers here, so... (HE CHUCKLES)

(FORCED LAUGH)

Yeah.

It also involves updating the website
and throwing up an occasional twit.

It says here that you've done something
similar at the café that you used to...

Ah, OK.

I'm sorry. That won't get you
very far here any more.

Oh no, sorry,
I thought I had a top on underneath.

Yeah. OK. But for the record...

Seriously.
In this case, genuine accident.

With our history here, I understand
why you might have thought...

No, I wasn't trying to...
Jesus, I was hot!

I take this kind of thing
very seriously now.

I'm not trying to shag you!
Look at yourself.

(SHE LAUGHS)

OK. Please leave.

What?

- But you don't understand. I need this...
- Please just leave.

- Perv!
- Slut!

Wow!

- Please leave.
- You please leave.

- It's my office.
- Yeah?

OK.

(FOOTSTEPS WALKING AWAY)

Wait!

Three nights ago,
I ordered myself a very slutty pizza.

I mean, the bitch was dripping!

That dirty little stuffed crust
wanted to be in me so bad

I just ate the little tart like she meant
nothing to me, and she loved it.

That pretty much nailed that,
and it was pretty late now

so I dragged myself upstairs
to get into my office, or my bed,

and tried to work
on the figures for the café.

I run a guinea-pig themed café,
but it's out of cash

and it's going to close
unless a cheque falls out of the sky

or a banker comes on my arse,
but neither are going to happen.

And I don't want to dignify
the banker man with a proper mention

so I'm not going to talk about him.

Or how I do sometimes wish
I could own up to not having morals

and let him come on my arse
for £10,000.

But apparently,
we're not supposed to do that.

So, OK, I won't.

Even though it would solve everything,
I won't.

Even though I could.

Lying in my office, the café numbers start
to jump out at me like little ninjas.

So, I rationalise it would be good
to switch off for a bit, improve my mind.

So I watched a pretty good movie,
actually, called 17 Again.

With Zac Efron, who is... He's fit!

I know. But seriously,
he's actually a really good actor.

The film could have been worse.
Honestly, check it out.

So when that finished,
I lay there, thinking

Café. Numbers.
Numbers. Zack. Numbers.

Googled Obama
to keep up with... you know.

OBAMA: I am so happy to be here.
Who, as it turns out, is also...

It is wonderful to see all those...
..attractive.

Lay there thinking.

Café, numbers, numbers, Obama,

numbers, Zack,
Obama, numbers, Zack.

Suddenly I was on YouPorn
having a horrible wank.

I found just the right sort of gangbang,

Now that really knocked me out,
so I put my computer away,

leaned over, kissed my boyfriend Harry
good night and went to sleep.

The next morning,
I wake to find a note from Harry

which reads, 'That was the last straw.'

Bit out of the blue, to be honest.

Didn't know he was counting straws,
but nice to know he was paying attention.

All of his stuff was gone.

And everything in the fridge.
I was a bit thrilled by his selfishness.

Suddenly fancied him again. But I was
relieved that one of us did something.

He used to say things to me like,
'You're not like other girls.

'You can keep up.'

Keep up?

I stood staring
at a hand-print on my wall

from when I had a threesome
on my period.

Harry and I break up every
12-18 months and when we do, well...

I wish I could tell you my threesome
story was awkward and sticky

and everyone went home
a little bit sad and empty,

but it was lovely.

Sorry.

I do admire how much Harry
commits to our breakups.

The fridge was a new detail,
but he does always go the extra mile.

A few times
he's even cleaned the whole flat.

Like it's a crime scene.

I've often considered
timing our breakups

when the flat needs
a bit of a going over.

I never know
what's going to set him off.

Keeps me on my toes.

I sit on the loo

and think about all the people
I can have sex with now.

I'm not obsessed with sex.

I just can't stop thinking about it.

The performance of it.

The awkwardness of it.

The drama of it.

The moment you realise
someone wants your body.

Not so much the feeling of it.

I reckon I've got about a week
before Harry gets back.

So, I'd better get on it.

Into the shower. Boom. Bedroom. Makeup.
Boom. Gonna really make an effort.

I take half an hour trying to look nice
and I end up looking amazing.

It's the best in ages.
One of those days. Boom!

Gorgeous, fresh faced, heels,
wearing a skirt, new top, little bit sexy,

on my way to save my café
and yes, I am strutting.

I can see a man coming
towards me from the bus stop.

He just cannot take his eyes off me.

And I'm walking like I've got
a paintbrush up my arse, thinking,

'Yeah, you check me out, 'cos it's never
going to happen, Chub-Chub.'

I opened the café with my friend, Boo.

She's dead now.
She accidentally killed herself.

It wasn't her intention,
but it wasn't a total accident.

She didn't think she'd actually die.

She just found out that
her boyfriend fucked someone else

and wanted to punish him
by ending up in hospital

and not letting him visit her for a bit.

She decided to walk
into a busy cycle lane

wanting to get tangled in a bike,
break a finger, maybe.

But it turns out, bikes go fast
and flip you into the road.

Three people died.
She was such a dick.

I never told her parents the truth.

I told her boyfriend.

He cried.

A lot.

(FOOTSTEPS)

Chub-Chub's getting closer.

Oversized jacket. Meaty face.
Looks me up and down.

It's like he's confused
about how attractive I am.

Like he can't quite believe it.

I worry for a second I'm going to make
a sex offender out of the poor guy.

Oh, he's going to say something.
Here we fucking go.

This better be good.

He's passing, he's passing.

He brings his hand to his mouth
and he coughs.

'Walk of shame!'

Too late for me to go home
and change.

I have flat shoes in my bag,
and anyway he was fat.

And he can't take that off at night.

Harry's a bit fat.

He lightly pats his belly
like he's a little bear,

proud of what he's achieved

hunted, gathered, eaten.

Pat.

Evidence. Pat, pat. It makes me laugh.

A pretty girl at a party once asked me

if I secretly liked
that Harry had a little paunch

because it made him
less attractive to other women.

Her boyfriend was the whale in the corner,
blocking the doors to the toilets!

I asked her if he made her
wash the bits he can't reach.

She slapped me. Actual slap.

Which means he did.

Boo's death hit the papers.

'Local café girl gets hit by bike
and a car and another bike.'

There was a buzz
around the café all of a sudden.

Notes, flowers, guinea pig memorabilia
were left in her memory.

Boo made sense of the guinea pig theme.

She was all small and cute and put
pictures of guinea pigs everywhere.

I pretend they're not there.

Which I suspect makes the whole
guinea pig café experience a bit creepy.

Boo was built a bit like a guinea-pig.

No waist or hips. Just straight down.

But she rocked it.

And she was beautiful.

Tricky, though.

Jealous. Sensitive.

But beautiful.

And my best friend.

Ten past 11 at the café.
Quiet. Eerily so.

Boo always used to play music,
read out horoscopes

and shrivel crisp packets
in the microwave.

It used to make the place stink,

but she'd turn the little packets
into key-rings

and give them to the people
who were especially polite.

One guy in the corner drinking tap water
and using the plug.

He should buy something,
but it's just nice to have someone around.

He's reading.

He's quite attractive, actually,
but he doesn't look at me.

Even when I purposely drop a cucumber
just so I have something to bend over for!

Even Joe hasn't turned up.
Joe is always here at 11.

Proper old geezer,
cockney from the toes up,

one of life's good people.

Huge teeth, white hair, ludicrous grin

and a joy that slaps you in the face
until you can't help but smile at it.

Even the fucking furniture loves Joe.

I swear the door swings open voluntarily
when he arrives,

if only to give the man an entrance.

Suddenly he'll just be there.

Crash!
(SHOP BELL RINGS)

It almost clatters off its hinges
with the force of him.

Nothing touches Joe.

He's invincible.

You can hear him bellowing
'Allo sweetpea!'

to the whole street
before he swaggers in.

Long white hair blowing behind him,

cut-off chequered trousers,
white T-shirt, braces.

Dripping wet from the rain.
All 'All right, magic?'

'What a beautiful morning! I can't get
over how glorious it is out there!'

'Lucky to live, eh? Lucky to live.'

I don't know what he does. I just know
he comes in at eleven. Usually.

I find myself watching the door.

I never really noticed he was such
a regular when Boo was here, but now...

But then it's OK, cos I see his silhouette
take up the window

and wait for the door to crash open.

But today it just flops to its side
with a whimper.

And Joe limply shuffles to the counter.

I'm not prepared for this.

All right, Joe?

(FLAT) 'Er, yeah, yeah, ducky.
Yeah, yeah. I'm all right.'

Tea, Joe?

'Er, yeah, darling, that'd be lovely.
Thank you.'

'I'll just... I'll just be out the back.'

I make his tea. Six sugars.

I take it outside,
place it on his little table.

He rolls a fag
and watches the cup steam.

'Now, ain't that a beautiful thing?'

I'm not sure what to...

I ask him for a rollie. I don't smoke.
Well, I do, but... Oh, shut up!

Can I have a rollie, Joe?

'Sugarplum, you can have anything
you want. May I have the honour?'

Yeah, thanks

He rolls it for me with his spindly,
inky fingers.

Takes four seconds. Proper pro.

I take it from him. Light it.

We smoke. I sit beside him.

Two of us on these
tiny little kids' chairs.

Sort of a gimmick thing,
but really they were cheaper.

He looks ridiculous.

'I love these chairs, y'know?'

What's wrong, Joe?

'Ah, my girl, my girl.'

'I love people. I love people.'

'But they get me down.'

Yeah. Yeah, people are shit.

He turns to me, I can see into
every deep line of his face.

'Oh no, darlin', no.
People are amazing!'

'But when will people realise,
that people are all we got?'

He smiles at me,
but I feel a bit ambushed.

So I pretend I have to wash
the cappuccino machine,

just go inside
and wipe the nozzle a bit.

Five o'clock. Northern line.

I'm trying to read an article
about how the word 'feminist'

has apparently become dirty.

I try to engage, but all it makes me think
of is a bunch of dirty little feminists.

I snort-laugh at myself

and then catch the eye
of an attractive looking man!

Oh!

Well, he is attractive
when holding his paper to about here.

It all gets a little rodenty
from the nose down,

but it's good enough
for some eye-fucking on the tube.

He smiles at me with his tiny mouth.

I smile back.

He looks down. I look down.

And then we both look up
at the same time.

Little giggle.

Other people in the carriage
start to notice, charmed by the moment.

It's revolting.

The tube pulls in to Tottenham Court Road
and we both stand up at the same time.

I could vomit!

He says to me, 'Um, well, this doesn't
happen very often, does it?'

I give a horribly giggly,
'No, no, it suppose it is quite rare.'

He says it might sound a bit crazy,
but he's got this crazy idea,

and the crazy idea is to take my number.

We give credit to the moment
and exchange numbers.

I leave the Tube
and suddenly have a Harry panic.

He just won't be there any more.

Madam Ovary is telling me
to run back to safe place.

You can make baby in safe place.

I've got to ride it out. The fridge
means nothing. He'll text me later.

Ride it out. I met a nice rodent on
the Tube. I have a lot to be thankful for.

WOMAN: Welcome to Women Speak.

The lecture will commence
in five minutes.

Please have your tickets ready.

I find my sister outside the lecture hall.

She's uptight and beautiful
and probably anorexic,

but clothes look awesome on her, so...

Mum died two years ago. She had a double
mastectomy, but never really recovered.

It was particularly hard
cos she had amazing boobs.

She used to tell me that I was lucky
cos mine will never get in the way.

When I asked her what she meant
she used to demonstrate

by pretend struggling
to open a fridge door.

'And then you can't.'

'Have to sort of go in the side.'

'Agh!'

Or pretending to not be able
to see what's on the floor.

'Fucking nightmare, darling.
Can't see a thing.'

'I've no idea what's there.'

'Is there something there?
You're very lucky.'

My sister's got whoppers.
But she got all of Mum's good bits.

Dad's way of coping
with two motherless daughters

was to buy us tickets
to feminist lectures,

start fucking our godmother
and eventually stop calling.

These lectures are every three months.

It's virtually the only time
I see my sister.

She looks tired.

We sit in the waiting room.

I realise I'm wearing the top
that she 'lost' years ago.

So... Yeah, this is going to be tense.

She really fucking loved this top.

Her eyes fix on it.

But, and I can see her brain ticking,
she decides to bank it for later.

Makes me nervous. Ammo.

She's reading her Kindle.

She's done her hair a bit fancy.

I wonder if she's going out
after the lecture

or if she's just got her period.

She always does something
a bit different around her period.

She gets really bad PMT.

Mum used to call it her
'monthly confidence crisis', but it's PMT.

The only way she can get through it
is to reinvent herself in some small way.

One particularly bad month,
she came into the kitchen,

on the brink of tears, in full Lycra.

Even Dad had to leave the room.

Looked like she'd climbed into a condom.

That was an emotionally complex
couple of days

that we are not allowed
to talk about any more.

She's sitting so still.

She's definitely having
a monthly confidence crisis.

I mean it's in plaits, both sides,
sort of tied to the top. It's unbearable.

I can't resist

Hair looks nice.
'Fuck off!'

Brilliant!

She asks me about work
and I get all spiky.

I tell her the café lease is up
in a couple of days

unless I can find at least five grand,
which is impossible.

So, I'm having to deal with letting go
of the only thing I have left of Boo,

the only thing that's stopping me from
becoming a corporate lady slave like her,

and I know that everyone thought
I was going to fuck it up

and now it looks like I've surpassed
everyone's expectations.

Which I didn't mean to say,
it just falls out,

and now I'm gonna get her smugness
all up in my face.

But she just looks at me. No reaction.
I know the rules.

so I ask her about her super
high-powered, perfect job-work-super-life.

She tells me she's finally been offered
the wet-dream of a job in Finland,

where they want to over-pay
and under-work her

and she doesn't have to wear
power suits any more.

Wow. Finland?

But she's turning it down,

because her husband says
she shouldn't go because of Jake.

Jake's her step-son. He's really weird.

Probably clinically,
but no-one really talks about that.

He freaks out
if she's gone for longer than a day.

And he's got this thing about trying
to get into the bath with her.

He's 15!

I tell her, he's not your son.

'That's not the point.'

'Don't make a face.'
I didn't make a face.

Go! This is about you.

I knew you'd say that.

I tell her she's making
a terrible mistake.

She shouldn't let other people
get in the way of what she really wants,

and Finland's what she really wants.

She tells me that her husband
'isn't other people'.

Her husband is her life.

So, I tell her that her husband
tried to touch me up at Christmas.

I don't know why I said it.
It's true, but he was drunk, so...

Martin's always drunk.

But it's odd, because she's so straight.
Maybe that's not odd.

But he's very good at being drunk,
in that he's fun drunk!

No one wants to admit
there's a problem

because then they don't get to have
crazy nights out

with fun drunk Martin any more.

Martin.

He's one of those men who is explosively
sexually inappropriate with everyone.

Who makes you feel bad if you take offence
because he was just being fun.

Honestly, you can tell him you're going
to pop to the loo and he'll say,

'Ay, ay, you pop to the loo,

'pull your little knickers down
and I'll come in and FUCK YOU!'

Claire always tries to sort of...

..half laugh like she gets the joke,
which isn't even a joke.

Welcome to Women Speak.
Sorry for the delay.

The lecture will begin shortly.

There is no food or drink
permitted in the auditorium.

She just stares at me.

Then her neck goes red.

I've only seen that happen once before.

Then she looks ahead of her.

I give her half my sandwich.
Which she eats.

Maybe she's not anorexic.
Maybe clothes just...

Bitch!

We sit and wait, eating the sandwich.

I can't read her.
I've never been able to read her.

She pulls out a card from Dad
and puts it on the seat between us.

It's probably still there.

Women's Speak is about to commence.
Please enter the auditorium.

The lecture hall is huge.

We go right to the front and sit down.
I still can't read her.

Suddenly she says...

'I'm going to go to fucking Finland.'

OK.

'I hate these suits.'

OK.

'How much do you need to save Boo's café?'

About five grand.

'OK. I'll transfer the money tomorrow.'

'But I don't want to come to these
any more.'

OK.

'And I want my top back'

OK.

- Thanks, Claire
- (FEEDBACK ON MIC)

Thank you. Gosh, look at you all!
Thank you so much for coming.

I am overwhelmed by how many
faces I see before me.

I hope I do your efforts justice
with what I have to say this evening.

But before I begin,
I want to ask you a question

the same question
that inspired me to give this lecture.

The same question that was posed
to women all around this country

with, frankly, shocking results.
(MOUTHS)

Now, I don't know about you,
but I need some reassurance.

(SPEAKER CHUCKLES)

So, I pose the same question
to the women in this room today.

Please raise your hands

if you would trade five years of your
life for the so-called 'perfect body'.

400 women stare at us horrified.

We are bad feminists.

After the lecture, Claire says
she's going home to talk to Martin.

I want to ask her to have a drink with me
before she goes, but...

I don't know how, so...

I just watch her plaits disappear
into the crowd outside the Tube.

(PHONE CHIMES)

Text from rodent.
'Still smiling!' Smiley face.

Oh, God!

I text back. 'You free now?'
He is.

We meet up and get very, very drunk.

I can't stop staring at his tiny mouth.

He's telling a story
like he doesn't want to let the words out.

(MUMBLING)

He tells me that his sister is deaf.

Which is his way of letting me know
that he's interesting and sensitive,

which is fine.

But then he is the only one in his family
who didn't learn sign language.

Apparently, because they grew up together,
she can lip-read him brilliantly.

Which makes me wonder
what she thinks he's saying all the time.

To me, it looks like... (MUMBLING)

He tells me his sister is so instinctive.

How she can read people brilliantly.

How she'd be able to read me.

He's having an excellent time.

Harry has terrible instincts.
Once...

I think this might be
the best thing he's ever done.

Once, he was in a restaurant.
He's quite shy really.

He was in a restaurant having had a
filthy night out with me the night before!

I mean, the man was hanging.

And he was having lunch with
these really important website bods,

when suddenly it hit him halfway
through the starter that...

(MIMICKS HARRY) Yeah.
Yeah, he was going to be sick.

Yeah, like, now.

So he excused himself and hurry-walked
to the loo, only to burst in

to discover that all the cubicles
were locked all the urinals were taken

and he couldn't bring himself
to spew in one of the sinks.

So, in a panic,
he kicked down one of the cubicle doors,

revealing a man having a shit.

And then boom, it just all came out.

He puked all over this guy!

His face, his chest, his balls,

his feet, the walls, drenched him!

But then, and this is the best bit,

in the frenzy of it all,
Harry rationalised.

'Oh, God! I just puked on this guy.
He's going to punch me.'

So, he smacked him in the face!

Isn't it beautiful?

It was particularly good
cos when he first told me and Boo

he didn't know it was a funny story.

It will never be heard like that again.

(MIMICKS HARRY) It was
such a serious story.

He was mortified.

Boo loved poo stories,

so she couldn't actually deal
with the glory of this one.

She just stared, open-mouthed,
paralysed with joy as he told it.

A few weeks ago,

when Harry thought I was sleeping,

he rolled over,
stroked my hair and whispered...

(WHISPERS) 'Where have you gone?'

(WHISPERS) 'Where have you gone?'

He thinks I'm neglecting him,
but when your heart is...

I wish he'd just fuck me.

All he wants to do is make love.

He's wasting me.

I was once fucking this guy
who would breathe with every thrust...

'You're so young!'

'You're so young!'

I masturbate about that all the time.

I masturbate a lot these days.

Especially when I'm bored

or angry

or upset.

Or happy

Last Tube.

Attempting to kiss Tube Rodent,

but it's like target practice
with a very small moving target.

I ask him if he wants
to come back to mine.

He says he's got work tomorrow.

I say I can go back to his.
He says it's an early start.

I tell him I'll get him a cab to work
in the morning. He says that's ridiculous.

I say, 'What the fuck is your problem?'

He says nothing,
he just wants to see me again, not rush.

I tell him he's a prick.
He say's he's not sure what's going on.

I tell him he's a pathetic excuse for
a man and I leave him at the barriers. Ha!

It's a bit weird then because we both
have to come down the same escalator.

I push my bum out a bit.

Give him some perspective.

I turn round when I get to the platform,
but he's gone.

At the end of the platform,

sat on the sort of bench thing,

is the drunkest girl I have ever seen.

Head rolled forward,
tit hanging out, bag sprawled.

Nicely dressed, normal looking girl
who clearly just had one hell of a night.

Last Tube rolls in, she doesn't move.
I nudge her awake.

She gets up only to stumble onto
the carriage, slump into another seat.

Head still rolling, other tit folded out
now, bag tangled in her feet.

I ask her where she needs to get off
and she says...

'Waterloo.'

Great, my stop. I help her off.

I ask her where she needs
to get to next, and she says...

'London Bridge.'

OK.

And then Kent.

The Tubes are finished, so we're finding
an Overground to London Bridge.

At one point, we're walking
and she just falls flat on her face.

Get her up. Keep going.
Try and keep her talking.

Her head's going all over the place.

After about 45 minutes...

45!

We're on an escalator.

There's a bit of a lull

and she turns to me and she says...

'Aw!'

'You're such a lovely man!'

Her train pulls in,
but I don't let go of her.

I ask her if she'd rather spend
the night with me, and she says...

(SLURRED) 'How dare you, naughty boy. No!'

So I push her on the carriage
and she's gone.

I leave the station and think,
what's one more?

I go to a bar. It's a business bar.
People are doing business.

I drink a lot
and pretend that I'm in business.

A bald, sweaty man
cups my vagina from behind at the bar.

But he buys me a drink, so...

He's nice, actually.

After a while, he disappears.

Then the business bar closes.

Closed for business.

Shutting up shop.

That's what Boo used to say
whenever she closed the café.

'Shutting up shop!'

Like she was drunk.
Which we often were.

We'd lock up, sink a bottle of wine.

She'd play the ukulele
and we'd make up filthy songs for hours.

♪ Another lunch break, another abortion ♪

♪ Another piece of cake
Another two, fuck it, 20 cigarettes ♪

♪ And we're happy,
we're so happy to be modern women ♪

Suddenly, I'm at a familiar doorstep.

I ring the bell and ring the bell and
hammer on the door and yell like a goat.

This should be a humiliating experience,

howling through a man's letterbox
in the middle of the night,

but I'm rolling with it.

A light goes on. I see his silhouette
as he trudges down the stairs.

He must recognise mine through the door,

because his body language
changes suddenly.

He slowly unhooks the latch,
opens the door.

He looks like shit.

I place my hand

right over his face.

And I push it a bit.

Strikes me as something
I never thought I'd do to a parent, but...

..it feels right at the time.

He stands in the doorway,
boxer shorts, T-shirt.

I can see the shape
of his little manboobs.

All right, Dad?

'Um... What's going on?'

Oh. No, no, I'm absolutely fine.

'OK?'

I just, er... I just...

Er...

'Yeah?'

Nothing.

I don't even, um... OK.

I just, er... Oh, sorry.

I'll just...

Ah, fuck it. I have a horrible feeling

that I'm a greedy, perverted,
selfish, apathetic, cynical,

depraved, mannish-looking,

morally bankrupt woman
who can't even call herself a feminist.

He just looks at me.

'Well, er...'

'You get all that from your mother.'

Good one.

I wonder if he'd find me attractive
if I wasn't his daughter.

If you saw me on the internet...

..would you click on me?

'I'm going to call you a cab, darling'

He lets me wait in his living room
as he calls me a cab.

I can hear my godmother trying
to be quiet at the top of the stairs.

When the cab comes, he gently puts
me into it. Gives me 20 quid.

I'm in a cab.

I can go anywhere.

So, I tell him to take me to...

...my flat.

Already thinking about
what I'm going to look up.

(WOMAN PANTING
AND GROANING SEXUALLY)

Back at the flat.
I turn on the TV and cry for a bit.

I start thinking
about this girl called Lily

I used to touch a bit when we were drunk.

Harry didn't know, but girls don't count.

I text her.
She lives quite close, I think.

Suddenly, I'm on PornHub,
wet as a beach towel,

but I can't get there
cos the girl's got spots on her arse.

Some of them just don't make the effort.

Nothing back from Lily.

I start thinking about this ginger guy
I met at a festival last summer.

It was about a month after Boo had died.

I'd taken a pill,
and flown off into the woods.

I was desperate to get away from Harry.

He'd started to relentlessly hug me,
telling me how much he loved me,

asking how much I loved him
and checking if I was OK.

There was a rave in the wood.

I was panicking
and touching my face a lot.

And suddenly he was there, ginger guy.

He told me that I could follow him
and he would take me back to my tent.

We were walking for ages.

He was holding me by my wrist.

It was very dark.
I couldn't work out where we were.

At one point, he even picked me up.

He was holding my legs really tightly.

Said that I was too weak to walk
and I had to trust him.

Eventually, we stopped.

I felt him lie me down
on my back in a tent.

And then he...

He...

He put a cover over me
and a bottle of water next to my arm

and he sat outside till I fell asleep.

Thought he could have at least tried
to touch me up a bit.

I never quite let that go.

I text him. Tell him I'm single and horny.

He says he's out
and can be here in 20 minutes.

Great. Quickly drink half a bottle of
wine, get in the shower, shave everything.

Decide I'm going
to up my game a little bit.

Pull out some Agent Provocateur
business, suspender belt, the whole bit.

Open the door to him. Hello.
We get to it immediately.

After some pretty standard bouncing,

I realise he's edging
towards my arsehole.

But I'm drunk, and I owe him a thank you
for being nice to me at the festival,

so...

I let him.

He's thrilled!

The next morning,

I wake to find him sitting on the bed,
fully dressed, gazing at me.

He tells me that last night
was incredible.

Which I think was an overstatement.

He goes on to say
it was particularly special

because he's never actually managed to...

..up the bum with anyone before.

To be fair, he does have a large penis,

and even though
it's always been a fantasy of his,

he'd never found anyone
he could do it with.

He touches my hair
and thanks me with a genuine earnest.

It's sort of moving.

Then he kisses me gently.

I kiss him back.

And then he leaves.

And I spend the rest of the day
wondering...

Do I have massive arsehole?

It's five to 11 at the café.
I'm still thinking about it.

I haven't heard from my sister.
No transfer yet.

I wonder if Martin's murdered her, and
is now stalking the city looking for me.

The door smashes open.
(SHOP BELL RINGS)

Joe. 'Allo, sweetpea!'

His legs are too long for his body.

'Look at this beauty!'

He holds up a ukulele that apparently
someone gave him in a pub last night.

Just gave him a ukulele.

He says he's written a song.
I don't want to hear it.

He holds up another ukulele

that apparently another person
gave him in another pub.

'Crazy how the world speaks
to you all at once, eh!'

He says he's going to sing his song to me.
Then he's going to teach it to me.

So we can both sing it to Hilary.

I tell him I'm too busy and sit out
the back till I hear him leave.

He tinkles a bit,
but... I don't hear him sing.

(UKULELE PLAYING
FAINTLY IN DISTANCE)

School kids used to come into the café.
Mainly because of Hilary.

Basically, I'm shit at presents
and for Boo's birthday two years ago

I panicked and bought her a guinea pig.

She called it Hilary
and now I'm stuck with it.

I don't feel anything about guinea pigs.
They're pointless.

But Boo took Hilary
very seriously as a gift

and soon everything
became guinea pig related.

I think she was just relieved to have
another animal associated with her.

When Boo was about five, she mentioned,
on a childish whim, that she liked owls.

For the rest of her life, she got owls.

Owl duvet covers, owl pens, books
about owls, trips to owl sanctuaries.

She fucking hated owls. Show her an owl
and she would lose her shit.

What she really liked, and I knew this,
was screwdrivers.

She was crazy about them.

We'd spend hours unscrewing things.

Screwing them back up.

She slept with screwdrivers
under her pillow till she was about ten.

Come to think of it,

a screwdriver would have been
a better present than a...

..guinea pig.

Midday. Still nothing from my sister.

Martin's going to hate me.
I picture his massive Scottish head.

Hope he hasn't beaten
the shit out of her or anything.

Nah, he'd never do anything
as sexy as that.

I'm joking!

I'm joking.

Jesus! OK.

Hilary is fat and ginger with frizzy bits,
like Annie the orphan.

If she was grown up,
and fat, and a guinea pig.

Which... Well, who knows
what became of her?

She's got this sort of punky bit of fur

that explodes off the crown
of her head and falls down over her eyes.

Makes her look pretty badass.
She has a very straight expression.

Boo always said
that if Hilary was in a band,

she'd be the guitarist
that takes the music really seriously.

She did take music seriously, actually.

Whenever Boo played anything
in the café she'd be all...

(♪ 'The Mother We Share!' by Chvrches)

♪ Never took your side ♪

♪ Never crossed your life ♪

♪ I keep my whip shut tight ♪

♪ Until you ca-a-a-all ♪

She's also a sneaky little shit.

She knows how to open her hutch door.
I've seen her do it.

She pushes the little wood stopper till
it drops out and the door swings open.

Then she freezes!

Like she hasn't done anything.

Then she actually turns herself around

and lowers herself down onto the counter,

little legs kicking,

looking over her shoulder occasionally,
checking.

Checking.

She often does
a little poo in the excitement.

Then, once landed, she creeps...

..all the way along the counter
till she gets to the window.

And then, when she gets there,

in her frenzy of freedom...

..she sits down and she looks out.

Watching the world.

If she wants me to think she's really
profound and poetic doing that,

I'm not rising to it.

Apparently, guinea pigs need other
guinea pigs or they can die of loneliness.

But Hilary never needed a mate.
She got more than enough attention.

The punters loved her,
she was always on someone's lap,

and she had Boo,
who never left her alone.

They adored each other.

The morning Boo's boyfriend told her
he'd fucked someone else,

she walked right past me,
took Hilary out of her hutch

and sat out the back with her for hours.

I once read a story from the paper
to Boo and Hilary about a little boy

who repeatedly stuck rubber-ended pencils
up the class hamster's arsehole

cos he liked it
when their eyes popped out.

He was sent to a juvenile boot camp.

I read it out as a bit of a joke really,
but Boo was distraught.

'What? They sent him away?
But he needs help!'

She was a surprising person.

Yeah, he pencil fucked a hamster.

What are you gonna do?

'Yeah, but he's obviously not happy.
Happy people don't do things like that.'

Fair point.

'And anyway, that's the very reason
they put rubbers on the ends of pencils.'

What, er... What, to fuck hamsters?

'No! No.'

'Because... people make mistakes.'

But now Boo's gone it's a death café,
so no-one comes in any more.

Hilary sits in her hutch like a lump,
staring at me.

I don't know what to do with her.

Six o'clock.
(SHOP BELL RINGS)

Two yoga-body girls come into the café
and order risotto off the menu.

I pop to Tesco,
microwave their economy meal.

The girls are talking about
how they never want to give birth

because of the effect
it'll have on their sex lives.

Still haven't heard from my sister.

I put an empty crisp packet
in the microwave, watch it shrivel.

Play with my phone for a bit.

Hi, this is Boo.
I can't come to the phone,

but leave a messiagio
and I'll get back to you.

Someone should probably disconnect that.

I start texting Tube Rodent.

I apologise and apologise and
eventually send him a picture of my tits.

He sends me one back.
(PHONE CHIMES)

I think it's of his cock.

My boyfriend before Harry

used to make me send him pictures
of my vagina wherever I was.

Ten or eleven times a day.

I used to have to go
and lunge in a disabled toilet,

take an attractive picture of my vagina,
which isn't easy, on the whole.

Specially as he always
wanted the worm's-eye view.

It often looked a bit like

someone had dropped a little bap

on its side

on the floor of a hairdresser's.

Then taken a photo of it.
(PHONE CHIMES)

One temping morning,

he asked me to send him pictures
of my favourite bits of my body.

I go to the disabled loo.

(PHONE CHIMES)

MAN: 'Oh, that is so hot!
Send another one, you beautiful bitch!

(PHONE CHIMES)

MAN: Now say something so dirty you shock
yourself. Send me another picture.

Oh, God! I'm wanking!

It exhausted me, but you've got to do it.

Can't have them looking elsewhere.
(KNOCK ON DOOR)

The boss banged on the disabled loo door.
It was my fourth visit that morning.

(AUSTRALIAN ACCENT) 'Um...
Is everything all right in there?'

He's Australian.

Yeah... I just... I've got cystitis.

'Oh, no! You poor chickadee!
Oh! My wife gets that all the time.'

'Cranberry juice, that's what you need.
Buckets of it.'

'Shall I get you some from the canteen?'

'Huh?'

'Hello?'

'Are you crying?'

I'm going to stop waxing.

I met a man once who said... I say 'said',
it was more of a yell really.

..how much he loved A FULL BUSH
and how rare they are these days.

Even though it was inappropriate
at the time,

family friend at Mum's funeral...

...it filled me up with something.

Hope?

Relief?

I don't know.

Can't bring myself to actually grow one.

I call Tube Rodent, he comes to the café
with a bottle of wine. We drink it.

He whispers to me...

(WHISPERS) 'I have an enormous penis.'

I say... (WHISPERS) Really?

He says...

(WHISPERS) 'Yeah.'

I say... (WHISPERS) Well, that's lucky.

Because I have an enormous vagina.

He says...

'Awesome.'

We fuck behind the counter.

He's very bony. All corners.
It's like having sex with a protractor.

He doesn't come. He says I'm being
too intense, whatever that means.

We turned the lights off,
so it's quite dark now.

He's pulling on his trousers,
trying to find his phone

to see if his friends are going out later.

He's wearing this pink and purply
paisley scarf. He looks like a lady.

He hops over to the window,
leans on the sill,

turns his phone on,
then he screams, really high-pitched.

The light from his phone had made
Hilary's eyes flash red in the darkness.

She must have wandered over to the window
while we were having sex.

For a second, I laugh at his reaction,
but she moves, and he screams again.

She tries to run towards me,
but panics and sort of slips off the side.

She lands on her stomach
and struggles a bit,

but Tube Rodent sees red and kicks her.

She flies against the wall with a thud.

He just stares
at the furry pile on the floor.

But she twitches.
It makes him jump and he kicks her again.

She goes flying across the floor.

I can't move.

I think about Boo.
I think about them playing together.

Tube Rodent's panicking,
mumbling something about a rat phobia.

I tell him he can go and he disappears.
(SHOP BELL RINGS)

Hilary's on her front,
but her back is to me.

She looks like a... a furry bullet.

She's still alive, but...

I put her back in her hutch
and we sit for a bit.

I text Arsehole Guy.
(PHONE CHIMES)

He texts back saying he has a girlfriend
and was really drunk the other night.

Would love to hang out
in a non-sex way. Sorry if he led me on.

I send my ex a picture of my vagina.
I send Harry a picture of my vagina.

I text Lily. Still nothing from my sister.
Hilary's not moving.

Hi, this is Boo.
I can't come to the phone

but leave a messiagio
and I'll get back to you.

Hilary's making this horrible,
chattering noise.

I take her out of her hutch, put her on
my lap, stroke her but she doesn't stop.

I put her back.

I go to the Rabbit and Winslow pub.

I smoke outside. There are three
people laughing by the door.

I can just make out the white hair
and the braces through the crowd.

(FAINT CONVERSATION, LAUGHTER)
I can hear him.

(UKULELE STRUMMING)

Someone's let him on stage
with his ukulele.

He's singing his song.
People are laughing and clapping.

I listen to it from outside.

It's about a train journey
he once took through Ireland,

where he met a man
who told stories to everyone

about love and home
and romance and adventure.

And beautiful women and beautiful men
and mothers and daughters.

And fathers and sons and monsters
and fairies and parties and wishes.

All the usual crap.

The whole scene is like something out of
a revolting rom com, but he's nailing it.

He goes to the bar after.
Everyone buys him drinks.

The man doesn't need to work.

I realise I'd forgotten
to give Hilary her Earl Grey.

10:30 that night.
(KNOCKING ON DOOR)

I hammer and hammer and ring the bell.

I can see his silhouette at the top of
the stairs, but he doesn't open the door.

Back at the flat,
Harry's obviously been round.

The TV has gone
and it smells like he did a shit.

He never used to shit in the flat.
He was really weird about it.

Used to go to the pub across the road.

I sit on my stripy sofa.

Open my laptop.
(WOMEN GROANING SEXUALLY)

Anal, gang bang, mature, big cocks,
small tits, hentai,

Asian, teen, milf, big butts,

gay, lesbian, facial, fetish,

young and old,
swallow, rough, voyeur, public.

Suddenly,
the sun's creeping in and I'm raw.

Lease is up today. Still nothing
from my sister. I leave the flat.

Hi, this is Boo...

I've put the closing sign
up outside the café.

Three minutes past 11.
He's not here yet.

Ten past. The door flies open.

(SHOP BELL RINGS)
'All right babaganoush? Forgive me.'

'I'm a little late, but have I got
a morning story for you or what!'

'Listen to this.'

I tell him to shut up and close the door.
He looks confused, but he does it.

Why do you come here, Joe?

'What?'

I lock the door and close the blinds.

Why do you come here, Joe?

'Tea, love. See my ladies.'

Hilary's not moving.

It's OK, Joe. I understand.

There's nothing wrong with you.

I take off my top, unhook my bra
and place them gently on the counter.

He stares at me.

I step forward,
showing him my young tits.

He shuffles a bit. His breathing changes.
He's trembling. He moves his hand up.

Nine o'clock that morning. My sister's
door. Martin looking down at me.

'Hello, you.'

Is Claire here?
'Aye.'

I try to get past him into the house,
but he won't let me.

Claire comes to the door.
She's crimped her fringe.

I deliver a beautifully constructed joke
about it, but she snaps at me.

Tells me I've got to stop talking to
people like I'm doing a stand-up routine,

that some things
just aren't fucking funny.

I laugh.

And then I don't laugh.

Then my throat goes dry.
No-one says anything for a bit.

You didn't transfer the money.

'No.'

You're not going to Finland.

'No.'

Why is he still here?

'He didn't touch you.'

He tried.

'He said it was more like
the other way round.'

What? But that's just not true.

'How can I believe you?'

What? Because I'm your...

'After what you did to Boo.'

That wasn't my fault.

He wanted me.

He wanted me.

So...

11.15 now. Joe's shaking.

I'm standing, topless,
just the right angle.

His hand keeps rising,
till it rests on his eyes.

'Put your clothes back on, darling.'

What?

'Put your clothes back on.'

It's OK, Joe. I'm not going to judge you.

'I... I come here for my tea, darling.'

'And to see you.'

'That was a sad thing
that happened to your friend.'

You're weak.

'Yeah, that may be true,
but I'm going to go now.'

Come on, Joe. Stay. Please.

I'm nearly half your age.

He stops.

He brings his hand down from his eyes
and he finally looks at me.

'Go home, darling.'

'I'm sorry, but this ain't my bag.'

I grab his arm as he walks past me.

He's thin but baggy. His skin
pinches in my grasp. It's disgusting.

(SHOP BELL RINGS)

I sit on Joe's chair for a bit.

There's something not right
about that man.

Hilary's teeth are going again,
crashing against each other.

The noise is unbearable,
this relentless, relentless chattering.

They do that when they're in pain
or distressed. I can't listen to it.

I take her out her hutch.

I hold her little body to my naked chest.

I can feel her claws.

Her bones feel bent
and her breathing is shallow,

but her teeth are going like... I can't...

I look into her face
through her little punky bit.

I imagine sticking my finger in
to make her eyes pop out.

I imagine that. I imagine doing that.

As my hand moves down
her body I...

I...

When I first gave her to Boo
she was so tiny.

I put her in this little gift box
from a crappy card shop.

She just sat on this bit of cotton wool
looking up through her tiny punky bit.

She was ridiculous,
this overexcited little fuzzball.

She'd just sit in your hand like...

Boo's face!

Boo's face when she opened that box.
A huge grin spread over her whole body.

'Is this a...? Is this a guinea pig?
Did you get...? What is this?'

I don't know. Something to love?

I'm crying. My fingers are gripping her.

But I can't...

I can feel how scared she is.

How much pain she's in.

But I can't...

I hold her to me tightly.

And hold her to me tighter.

I hold her to me tighter
until I feel her bones crack against me

and her chattering stops.
(CRACK)

Everything is quiet.

And she is safe.

MAN: OK. Please leave.

What?
But you don't understand. I need...

MAN: Please just leave.

- Perv!
- Slut!

Wow!

- Please leave.
- You please leave.

- It's my office.
- Yeah?

OK.

(FOOTSTEPS WALKING AWAY)

Wait!

What made you laugh?

- What?
- On my CV. You said it was funny.

You wrote that you run a café
for guinea pigs.

Right, OK. That's not strictly...
Right, OK. That made you laugh?

- I never thought guinea pigs needed...
- It's guinea pig themed.

- Oh, right. That makes sense
- Yeah.

What if I wrote
that I fucked that café into liquidation?

That I fucked up my family, that I fucked
my friend by fucking her boyfriend.

That I don't feel alive
unless I'm being fucked,

I don't feel in control unless I'm fucking

cos fucking makes the world
tighten around me.

I've been watching people fuck for
as long as I've been able to search for it

and that I know that my body as it is now
really is the only thing I that have.

And when that gets old and unfuckable
I may as well just kill it.

And that sometimes I wish that
I didn't even know that fucking existed

because somehow there isn't anything worse
than someone who doesn't want to fuck me.

That I fuck everything but this time...

This time I really wasn't,
I genuinely...

Either everyone feels like this
a little bit...

..and they're just not talking about it...

..or I am completely fucking alone,
which isn't fucking funny.

MAN: That really wasn't appropriate.

Right, yeah. Sorry.

MAN: Look...

Three months ago, I touched a colleague's
breast at a party.

Not for the first time.

It's ruined the reputation of the business
I've been building up my whole life,

and has completely alienated me
from my family.

- Why did you do it?
- It was a terrible mistake.

- People make mistakes
- Yes, they do.

That's why they put rubbers
on the ends of pencils.

Is that a joke?

I don't know.

- Shall we start this interview again?
- OK.

Thanks for coming in.
Really appreciate you sending in your CV

- No problem.
- It was funny.

Fuck you!

(APPLAUSE, CHEERS)

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