Original subtitles

Hi.

So, yeah, that is me,

Amina Hussein, 26, Capricorn,

finishing a Ph. D. in microbiology.

That is Mum, Dad, parental unit, standard.

They didn't always come with me to meet potential spouses.

This guy insisted.

So do you have any hobbies, aside from worship?

Worship is not a hobby.

Yes. No, of course. Duh.

Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?

Sure, he had dementor vibes,

but his eyes were actually kind of... dreamy.

With the shoulders of a Mesopotamian warlord.

Our eyes meet across the sand dunes.

Do you always dress like this?

Bright colours and everything?

Oh, no, no, she's� mmm

she's usually much more modest.

And her�And her skin is usually a lot clearer,

but she's, you know, pre-menstrual.

Well, she sweats a lot.

I mean, but she's very fastidious.

Please stop.

Have you been on hajj? -Not yet.

Soon. -Inshallah.

Amina, why don't you play everyone a song?

What? -What?

Well, she's playing

at the Syrian children's fundraiser...

No. -At the town hall.

Please stop.

Music is haram. -Totes, innit?

Yeah, I'm not actually playing.

My kids are playing.

You have children? -No!

I teach guitar

to underprivileged youth� charity.

The kids are playing at the fundraiser, not me.

I�I don't perform.

No, you don't have to worry.

She hates playing in public. Huh?

Her nervy disposition induces diarrhoea and vomiting.

What was that song you used to play?

Okay, so my husband quest was going fairly disastrously.

Little did I know, things were about to change, big time.

One, two, three, four!

* I'm gonna kill my sister *

* Gonna *

* This ain't about you *

* It's between her and me *

* She stole my eyeliner *

* What a bitch *

* And she's been stretching my jeans out with her *

* Fucking big back *

* It's an honour killing, it's an honour killing *

* It's an honour killing, it's an honour killing *

* I'm gonna kill my sister *

* Die! Die! Die! *

* Want to kill her mister *

* She's mine, motherfucker *

Lady Parts. That was the band name.

Concocting a confused mix of hash anthems

and sour girl power.

One part boredom, two parts identity crisis.

No. No. No. Stop. Stop.

Why are we stopping? -We sound wank.

Profoundly wank. -Harsh assessment.

No, you know what? We sound worse than wank.

What's worse than wank? -Haemorrhoids.

You know what, I think we sound great.

Boris Johnson? -No.

We sound shit. On a cosmic level.

Athlete's foot. Puberty. Camel toe.

The Plague. Black lung. Vegan cheese.

Shut up, Taz. -We can't audition

for Sound Smash sounding like this.

You said that last year.

Maybe the universe is ready for our vibes, man.

No. No. -Why do you have to be

such an epic bonerkill all the time?

We are not ready.

Can't you hear our sound is thin?

We need something more.

We need a lead guitarist.

Saira.

I beg you, man, don't start this again.

Start what again?

Sisters, huh?

With mutual love and admiration,

we lift each other up, yeah?

Feminism, innit? Hmm?

Dickless. Le Tigre.

Babes in Toyland. Great three-piece bands.

Blink-182.

Blink? Blink? -Yeah, Blink?

Seriously, Blink? -Okay fine, not Blink.

You know, I think getting a lead guitarist

could be a good shot.

Historically, four-piece bands

do have a higher success rate.

Like Metallica, Rolling Stones,

Beatles.

We're in a punk band.

We don't need a wanky, self-indulgent guitar soloist

just jizzing all over our songs.

Eh. Ugh.

We're getting a lead guitarist; it's decided.

Who would have thought that our orbits

were soon to collide,

like a freight train careening

towards a cute, unsuspecting lamb

who innocently trotted onto the tracks in search of,

I don't know, snacks?

I'm the lamb, by the way.

What you have to understand

is I never met girls like this before.

Saira, lead vocals and guitar.

She works at a butcher's as her day job.

She likes her job.

Apparently, sawing carcasses

gets the creative juices flowing.

The band is her life.

Her raison d'etre.

Just morning shift this Saturday, huh?

Come on. -Mo, I told you I can't.

Band practice. Get Mustafa do it.

Mustafa no good. Terrible.

He's your son.

Why you still trying to be famous pop star, huh?

Like Michael Jackson, Mick Jagger?

Famous pop star? We don't seek fame.

We simply seek to speak our truth before we're mangled

by other people's bullshit ideas of us.

Our music is about representation.

It's about being heard.

Well, you should wash your hair if you want to be heard.

No. You can't have audition here.

Please, Mo. Come on. -No. No. No.

This is not a nightclub.

This is not a den of sin, okay?

Forget it. Forget it!

I'll work Saturday.

Okay. Deal.

Ayesha, drummer.

She likes to vent her displeasure with humanity

on her drum kit.

She drives an Uber for money.

Her whip is a VW Golf named Hans.

She wasn't even fit. -She was fit, mate.

You see the tits on her? And her backend.

You can't fucking say that with one of them.

Do you know what I mean? -Hey. Hey.

You know, you don't see a lot of girl Uber drivers,

do you?

Especially none like you, anyway.

Yeah. Is your dad making you work or something?

Yeah, he said if I don't drive

simple, dickless pissheads around,

he's gonna send me to Iraq to marry my cousin.

Oh, no, that's awful.

Is that meant to funny?

Are you starting? Is she starting?

I'm gonna give you a shit rating, mate.

One star. -Give a fuck.

Just put on some fucking music, would you?

We're your customers.

We do have to be treated with

a bit of dignity and respect.

Momtaz is the band manager.

Some say she did time inside for arson.

Others said she divorced some sheikh.

No one really knows.

a purveyor of cheap ladies' undergarments

sold at a significant markup.

Excuse me.

What do you have in 36-D?

Depends.

What sort of bra are you looking for?

We got recreational,

tittilational, factual, respectful,

shag me kindly, shag me hard.

Sports?

Shag me kindly?

Excellent choice.

Here's Bisma, bassist.

Earth mother, actual mother.

A cartoonist by trade.

a celebration of femininity.

It's called "The Killing Period bracket Apocalypse Vag."

All biro and Sharpie on paper.

It's set in an alternate dystopian present,

about a group of young women

who all become homicidal maniacs

when they're on their period.

Think "Handmaid's Tale" meets "Rugrats", mm?

Two pounds for a single issue,

ten pounds for the first volume.

This is actually disgusting.

Eww, man.

Sisters, don't hate your bodies.

Your blood is your friend.

Your blood is your friend!

Sorry.

Yeah. So this is Lady Parts.

* When I wake up *

You get the picture.

* Well, I know I'm gonna be *

* I'm gonna be the man *

* Who wakes up next to you *

* When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be *

* I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you *

* And I would walk 500 miles, and I would walk 500 more *

* Just to be the man who walks 1.000 miles *

* To fall down at your door *

* Da-da da da, da-da da da, da-da da da, da-da da da *

* Da-da dum diddy dum diddy dum diddy da da� *

"Band seeks lead guitarist to elevate sound."

An unstoppable force

soon to meet an unlovable object...

Me.

Yeah. Yeah. Me.

Perfect.

Okay, so the last guy wasn't the one.

There's plenty more fish in the sea.

Keep looking.

Noor, my best friend.

She was helping me reel in a prized catch.

Ooh. Nasir.

Looking for devoted wife/mother.

Eww. Freaky.

So he wants someone to be his wife and mum at the same time.

Is that, like, a fetish thing?

No, you numpty.

He wants a woman who will be a devoted wife to him

and mother to his children.

A lot of p-nouns missing. -Tricky.

Here, let me see your profile.

Wow.

Why are you mentioning you teach guitar?

It's my charity work.

I thought it'd look good if I say

I teach underprivileged kids guitar.

No. It doesn't.

It was good for getting into university,

but not for getting a husband.

You can have your little music obsession in private,

but on here, keep it halal, yeah?

Come on. It's not an obsession.

"Obsession."

Do you think any self-respecting,

God-fearing, Muslim man would want to marry you

if he knew you had this old white man on your wall?

That is not a white man.

That is Don McLean.

Really, Amina? Really?

Okay, I'm sorry.

It's just...

I really want this to happen for you,

'cause, like...

You know you've been my best friend

since we were bubs, right?

And I wanted to tell you this before anyone.

What?

I'm engaged.

Imran proposed.

Oh my God! That's amazing!

So there you have it.

All my friends were either married, engaged,

or in the final throes of courtship.

And I a withering shell of a woman.

I had to find a husband.

By Jove, I had to.

Is that his real bulge, or do we think he stuffs?

You're not seriously considering him.

So when's band practice?

Always wanted to have an all-girl backing band.

Backing band? -Excuse me?

Die, bitch. -What?

Yeah, thanks for your time.

We'll�we'll be in touch.

So the only person who showed up for auditions

was a massive tit.

Excellent.

Ah!

Ah!

Unloved. Unwanted.

Rejected by all as far as the app could reach.

All I had was this aching heart, three chords,

and the truth.

* I am a girl of constant sorrow *

* I've seen trouble all my days *

* I am alone, only know Whitechapel *

* The place where I was born and raised *

* The place where she was born and raised *

* For 26 years, I've been single *

* No husband here on Earth I've found *

* Lord, in this world, I'm bound to ramble *

* I have no man to love me now *

* She has no man *

* To love her now *

Hmm.

Ma, ow. -Well�

And you think it's my fault

things didn't work out with your date?

Look at your facial hair.

You've got handlebars.

I used to have handlebars.

'70s chic.

I don't see why you're in such a rush.

Your father was a fucking nitwit beef goof

when I married him; no offence.

None taken. -Just leave it, Ma.

You should go into railing.

You know how I feel about rail transport.

I threw away my youth on a good-for-nothing man-child.

No offence. -None taken.

Is that what you want? -No, Ma, I want

a loving, meaningful connection

with a witty, kind-hearted man,

with whom I can build a life.

Is that okay with you?

Let her build a life.

Where are you going? -Out.

Get some vegetable oil.

Boo-boo, you want something?

Fanta.

Perhaps a life of solitude awaited me.

I'd die alone.

My cats would feast on my eyeballs.

Oh, shit.

Ahsan Alcoff.

He goes to my uni.

Why was he looking towards me?

What a specimen.

Lustrous facial hair, indicating royalty,

while maintaining boy-next-door adorableness,

with eyebrows you could hang onto.

Was it fate bringing us together?

Destiny? Kismet?

There was no denying this was a sign.

Where'd he go?

Hi.

Um, I'm looking for a boy�a man.

He gave me this.

Medium-built, radiant,

sad eyes you can swim in.

Could you kindly direct me to his whereabouts?

You got your brother to hand out the flyers?

Thought he might reel in

a thirsty bitch with a shred of talent.

Wait, so you here to audition or what?

No. No.

You.

You went to St. Abigail's Primary School.

You played guitar in the talent show.

What? -You were good.

No. -Yeah.

Mm-mm. -Yeah.

No. -You were really good.

Until you puked all over the years sixes

in the front row.

Not my finest hour.

I remember you.

You're Saira.

You got expelled for selling school furniture.

Verily, it is I.

Oh, so hang on, you are a guitarist.

She's a guitarist.

Fuck off, she's a guitarist.

Play something. -Play something.

Play something.

I don't play. I just teach.

You've got to play to teach.

I don't perform.

My nervy disposition induced diarrhoea and vomiting.

Eww. -Mm-hmm.

I just teach, okay?

I just teach!

I just teach!

An unsettling encounter, no doubt.

But my attention was needed elsewhere.

The local mosques, schools, and community centre

had come together to raise funds

for the Syrian infants.

Everyone in the community was sure to be there.

And I was doing my bit.

My students were going to perform.

Okay, team. Well done for getting this far.

When you get out there, just remember, stay in time.

Breathe, nice and slow. Yeah?

You've trained for this moment.

Enjoy it. Yay.

Yay!

You need to chill, miss. We've got this.

I certainly hope so, Donnie.

Today, my students were my number one priority.

Ahsan? Again?

I'll be right back. Take five, team.

Was the universe trying to tell me something?

Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps.

Can I help you? -I'm fine. Thanks.

Just admiring your bath bombs.

Ooh.

What a gent.

They don't make them like him anymore.

I hope it not too bold,

but I wanted to inquire... -Yes?

Are you spoken for? -Spoken for?

No, I don't believe I am.

See, you're the most exquisite creature

I think I've ever laid eyes on.

Sir, you mustn't speak this way.

Please, don't go.

When can I see you again? I must see you.

Oh, I couldn't possibly.

Miss Hussein. Miss Hussein.

It's Donnie. Come quick.

I didn't expect them to track me down.

They must have done some serious sleuthing.

According to a tweet, she's here.

There's no way she's right for our band.

This is dumb.

Shh. We've got to find her.

Let's split up. I'll take the backstage.

No. We have to say hi first. Come on.

Fine.

Start looking.

Bro, it has been how long? -Six months.

Six months of seeing each other.

Now you got to give Saira an ultimatum, bruv, yeah?

Look, tell her, "Be my girl.

Or, you know, bounce." -Bye-bye.

She's gonna tell me to fudge off.

Well, then she's not right for you,

is she, Uncle Abdullah?

Tiny child with the wisdom. Up top.

Cool, here she comes.

Here, look, tell her, your terms, yeah?

No more of this�

Casual dating. No. -Casual dating BS.

You want labels. Labels.

Yeah. Hi. -Ma, stop.

My progeny.

How's my vegan marble cake selling?

Badly. It tastes like feet. -Oh.

Hey, knob face. You look buff.

You all right, dickhead? You good?

Yeah, I'm good, Abdullah. Are you?

Yeah. Yeah. I'm good. I'm good. You?

I mean, yeah. Yeah.

Why are you weird? -I'm not weird.

I'm not weird.

Cool. Catch you later. -Yeah.

Come on, Bisma. We got to find her.

Nice.

There he is, little broski,

all grown up, selling soap.

We knew you'd come far, but this, mashallah.

Funny. -Fig and celeriac balm.

Super food and rhubarb face scrub.

Are you for real? -Come on, man.

Celeriac? Is that a fruit?

Nah, it's ambiguous. Muslims don't need

this kind of uncertainty in these dark times, man.

Where's your sandalwood? Your oud? Oud?

I don't know. It's Salman's stuff.

I'm just helping out. Why are you here?

Donnie, just breathe.

I'm sorry, Miss Hussein. I can't.

I can't. I can't do it.

Donnie, we can't do this without you.

You're our soloist. -I'm sorry.

Well, if he's not doing it, I'm not.

If you're not going out there, I'm not.

Cynthia, you're gonna have to take the solo.

The solo?

Miss, you know I can't.

Can't you just play with us, Miss Hussein?

No. No. I don't play.

I just teach. I teach.

What about the Syrian children?

Don't you care?

Please welcome Smiling Hearts

After-School Guitar Class.

And so the moment had arrived.

The fuck is Smiling Hearts?

The onus fell on me, the teacher,

to lead the troops to victory.

From the sidelines.

What is happening?

Where is she?

Wait.

No. No. Not again.

It was coming. I could feel it coming.

Yep, that's me, Amina Hussein,

emptying my guts into a collection bucket.

Scorched by the sizzling glare of public scrutiny,

I vowed to myself there and then

I would never perform again.

But Lady Parts had other plans.

It's her.

She's our guitarist.

You sure?

She's the one.

* All the small things *

* True care, truth brings *

* I'll take one lift *

* Your ride, best trip *

* Always I know *

* You'll be at my show *

* Watching, waiting *

* Commiserating *

* Say it ain't so... *

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