All language subtitles for Queers s01e05 I Miss The War.eng

♪ They seek him here ♪

♪ They seek him there ♪

♪ His clothes are loud
but never square... ♪

_

I love sherry because it's
just a little bit too strong.

I like a small glass, first thing,

just so I can feel my heart in my chest.

Sip, sip, sip, like an old dowager,

which suits me now I'm respectable.

But we'll come back to that.

♪ He thinks he is a
flower to be looked at ♪

♪ But when he pulls his frilly
nylon panties right up tight ♪

♪ He is a dedicated
follower of fashion. ♪

I love this one.

Bona! Fantabulosa!

Oh, yes, dear. Please and thank you.

Dry sherry. None of
your Harveys Bristol.

Look at all these bright young things.

Enough to make your head spin.

They're beautiful,

like kittens in a shop window
gambolling and pushing each other about.

Oh, I could eat them all.

I might, at that.

Me with my handsome face all
lined and my hair all grey.

I call it "distinguished".

I could teach them a thing or two.

If I had a whistle, I'd be like
him in that film, Captain Von Trapp,

bossing around the little
virgin from the convent.

The polone with the butch riah
who does the twirls on the hill.

Some of them like that,
being ordered about.

But they all come into my shop.

They like to flirt a little and
hear me talk the polari to them.

Ooh, vada that great butch lucoddy.

It makes them roar.

It's in Duke Street, my place.

It's cheaper than Savile Row.

I am the Duchess of Duke Street.

Put all my ill-gottens into my
little tailoring establishment,

so I can now spend my dotage
politely touching up young men with

the heating on full blast. Bona.

And then I come here every
day after I've shut up shop.

Might be some sport to be had.

There's a crackle in the air this week.

Excitement. The burden of lily law

has been lifted from the homosexual.

We may now practise our sexual
offences without fear of prosecution.

Provided it's behind closed doors,

you keep your jacket on and
don't frighten the horses.

One of them comes trolling into
my premises with the good news,

bold as brass but not actual brass.

A beautiful chicken
slathered in cologne.

His trousers are very tight
so you can see his front room.

I made them like that on purpose.

And well appointed it is, too.

His jacket, it's kingfisher blue.

He's got on a polo
neck sweater, cashmere.

Bona. Well,

you would have sworn he'd have got
bored of playing a harp on a cloud

and just bounced down into
the West End for a lark.

And his face, his eek,

the countenance divine.

My arse was snapping
like a Venus flytrap.

He's a chorus boy at the Drury Lane,

spends the interval flashing his bum

at the dressing room
window of The Fortune.

Says there is another chicken
on the other side smiles at him.

It's like semaphore
for buggers, I suppose.

This way, dear. This way.

"So what are you going
to do now?" he asks me.

Well, you know, now that it's all legal.

Like he's done all the
heavy lifting himself.

"Think how it'll change
your life, Jackie.

What will you do now?"

Well, I'll do what I'll always done.

I'll praise God. I will
laud and sanctify his name.

I will lift up my voice to the
heavens in constant jubilation.

Alleluia, alleluia,

hosanna in the highest.

"Oh, you're so funny, Jackie," says he.

"I'm not trying to be funny," I say.

That is what I'm going to do.

You just don't understand.

Anyway, now you're here,
anything I can do for you, doll?

How about a whisky? Is it too
early for a couple of fingers?

Oh, you bought a hat, didn't you?

If you're here to get your beaver felt,

I'm afraid it's not quite ready.

And he bounces off.

And that's my lot.

Like I say, apparently
I'm respectable now.

It wasn't always thus.

I took the king's shilling in 1932.

I don't want to be
indiscreet, heaven forbid,

so I won't say which regiment,

but it's the oldest regiment
in Her Majesty's Armed Forces,

has a dolly red tunic
and a bearskin hat.

I joined up at a good time.

Well, they knew better
than to put me near a fight,

and the top brass always loved me
for my ability to polish 'em up and

turn 'em out looking like
Cleopatra in her barge.

Corporal Jack Edwards,
best boot polisher around.

In the early days of my career,

I did what I was told
and looked very smart.

But one summer's evening as I was
taking the air in St James's Park,

I was pleased, nay,
delighted to discover

that the meagre income
provided by the king could be

easily supplemented by the
generosity of older gentlemen.

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

I have been a rent boy, a renter.

Or as I prefer to say it, a rentleman.

I have sucked from the forbidden cup,

I have whispered the love
that dare not speak its name,

and I could tell you the price of a wank

each year since the abdication.

This generation here, drunk
on possibility and privilege,

will never know the
happiness I did at that time.

I knew exactly where I stood.

Usually that was in a cottage cubicle

tossing off a judge
or a man of the cloth.

I always loved a clergyman customer.

Well, it was my privilege to step out

with several princes of the church.

We all used to love them.

They'd come quickly and they'd
always pay what they said they would.

That's a very Christian act in my book.

Five minutes tops,

I'd be a few bob richer and there'd
be spunk all over me bearskin.

I'm only joking, I wouldn't wear
a busby to suck a vicar's cock.

I'm not a monster.

I spent all the war in England.

Never set foot in a foreign field

but by the time it all kicked off,

I was safely ensconced as
batman to a colonel, thank God.

That's a bona job.

I followed him around, making
sure he looked the part.

London may've been burning but at
least we looked dolly while it did.

Don't think me flippant if I
say there are things I miss.

What I really loved was
the darkness, the blackouts.

We're like eels, you see, my kind.

Eels live at the bottom of the lake
where it's coldest and pitch-black.

They slither around and
they burrow in the mud.

Sometimes they bump into each
other down there in the mud

and it feels nice.

They rub their cold,

slippery eel skin against
each other and they love it.

But then they move on, slither on,

and back then, I could find
my way in the dark, you see.

These ogles of mine were
already accustomed to it.

And everybody was moving around
all the time, constant motion.

All in need of comfort, really.

All of them scared,
desperate for some kindness.

And then,

best of all, were Americans.

The Americans saved our bacon.

Well, we would have lost otherwise,

and I would be speaking German at best.

Now, I've heard many a sermon from
many a pulpit and they're always

very keen to tell you about heaven.

Heaven this and heaven that,

heaven shall be our reward
for living a good life.

By which they mean paying your
taxes and not causing any trouble.

Well, I can tell you,
categorically, they're all wrong.

Paradise, if it's to be found anywhere
at all, is right here on Earth.

For I have seen the face of
God right here in the West End.

Just around the corner from
here is a great big square,

and in the middle of it there's
a statue of a sea captain

and around him, four bronze lions.

And that day, standing
by one of the lions,

is an American private with
green eyes and curly hair.

Blessed is he that comes
in the name of the Lord.

And the sun is on his face,

hosanna in the highest.

He's looking at me.

A daytime look, full of
cigarettes and advice.

I can't tell the steam from his
breath from the smoke of his cigarette

and he has no gloves
and he's looking at me,

not sizing me up to see what he can get,

and he has little apples in his cheeks.

Little apples.

In his cheeks.

And finally I understand why
the Trojans fought their war

and why Orpheus looked back,

and why the fucking nightingale
was singing in Berkeley Square.

He's looking at me.

He doesn't even know what it means.

I approach him for a light,

he tells me his name, but...

I won't to tell it to you.

I suggest we take a
turn around the square.

We walked around London all that day.

I bought him some gloves.

He taught me some words in
American and pestered me for fags.

The war had been cruel to him.

Most people had been cruel to him.

But I gave him sips of whisky

to see the apples glow.

As the lights started
to fade, the fear set in.

The dragons come at night, don't they?

Terrible wail of sirens,
and scrambling haste

to save places underground.

Those with an investment in the
future want to clasp their precious

progeny to their bosom and hunker down,

exalting God to grant them another dawn.

But not me.

I was in the presence of my God.

And for once, it was the
others that were subterranean.

And the likes of us roamed the plains,
and for one night, we were free.

We kissed...

on the mouth in the street.

We went to my room and I undressed
him cross-eyed with excitement,

and for that night we were
abandoned to each other.

I laid him out and worshipped every
inch of his beautiful body by turn.

I was lost in his arms.

But it was easily worth the risk
of staying aloft in an air raid.

Had that been my last night on Earth,

then a lucky man was I.

Next day he was gone.

Slithered on.

Two things you must always
do before sex at my age.

Cover all the mirrors, and put on
the wireless or whatever you want...

just not silence, but
definitely cover the mirrors.

I once caught a glimpse
of myself going at it.

Looked like one of those lions
in East Africa eating a gazelle,

rubbing his nose in the viscera.

I've seen it on Zoo Quest.

If you care to ogle me for a moment,

you will see that I am a
lesson in the art of growing old

with dignity and elegance.

I have, like the
stately homes of England,

been somewhat in decline
since the end of the war.

My paintwork is peeling,
my plumbing is Victorian,

and my servants' entrance is
badly in need of attention.

I know what I am and what I like.

I make the most of what I've got.

I play the hand I'm dealt as best I can.

I come here every day and
more often than not, I do well.

I'm generous to renters,
pay them what I say I will.

Maybe even the rentlemen
will dry up now.

Have their heads turned by the
possibility of living together

like Mum and Dad in their little houses.

Is that really what they want?

Sex is more fun if you do
a little bit of groundwork.

Christ. I've raised it to an art form.

It's a kind of hunting.

You send out signals, a bit
of polari here and there.

See what's on the radar.

Christ, it's a thieves'
cant, for heaven's sake.

It's supposed to protect
you from lily law.

It's not supposed to be on the
wireless every day for the amusement

of bored polones.

I'd say bona to vada
your dolly old eek, dear.

Come on, doll. Let's go
for a bevvy somewhere ajax

so I can ogle the dish on that omi.

Understand? No.

Good.

Trust me, homosexuals will be
no better off than they are now

or my name's not Cassandra,
and my name's not Cassandra.

We will be forced to
swallow the great lie

that romance happens only once

and that love is forever.

That's just not true.

Why do you think normal
people are so unhappy?

Because they have
unrealistic expectations.

I am what everybody learns to fear.

The lowest of the low.

A dangerous predatory homosexual,

the kind that lurks silently,

waiting to corrupt the healthy manhood

of this septic isle.

And that's exactly what I
am and they can all fuck off.

I'll be in my tailor shop.

They're walking straight
into a trap, but not me, dear.

No point in that.

Nanti point.

They won't catch me.

It's a short walk from Duke
Street to Trafalgar Square.

I walk there everyday.

I stand in the same spot,

I look over to the lion,
I make my devotions.

I remember the apples.

Shorter walk still from
the square to this place.

A watering hole where the gazelles
gather, and the hunting is good.

I've been doing it all my life,

I'll do it in my lean and
slippered pantaloons, I hope,

because you never know what's
coming round the corner.

I want to fall into someone's
arms, not someone's hands.

I want to make my devotions to
a teenage god with perfect skin,

hot with life and blushing.

What secret shame...

doth rose thy Ganymede cheek?

I know.

♪ They seek him here ♪

♪ They seek him there ♪

♪ His clothes are loud
but never square. ♪

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