Tamara Drewe (2010) - full transcript

The Independent journalist Tamara Drewe returns to Dorset, Ewedown, to sell the Winnard Farm that belonged to her deceased mother. Her neighbor Beth Hardiment runs a writers retreat with her unfaithful and womanizer husband Nicholas Hardiment who is a successful writer of Inchcombe adventures and cheats on Beth every now and then with younger women. Tamara was the sweetheart of the handyman Andy Cobb, whose family owned the Winnard Farm but lost it to Tamara's family, and when she sees him, she rekindles her love for him. However, when Tamara travels to interview the unpleasant drummer of the Swipe band Ben Sergeant, he has just found that his girlfriend Fran is having an affair with the other musician Steven Culley and he breaks up with the band. Tamara and Ben have a love affair and Ben moves to Winnard. Meanwhile, Ben's teenager fan Jody Long and her best friend Casey Shaw who are bored in Ewedown feel happy with the presence of Ben in the village. When Ben proposes to Tamara, they travel to London to spend a couple of days in the big city. Meanwhile, the jealous Casey breaks in Tamara's house and uses her computer to send an e-mail pretending to be Tamara that will change the lives of the dwellers and end in a tragedy.

And love slipped
the bonds of restraint.

His touch was like a cosmic ''yes.''

''Fuck you,'' screamed Kelly.
''fuck you to hell.''

Scott stepped back
from the cell door
as the gob of spit flew. ''fuck you.''

This matrix is what Hardy meant
by ''the ache of modernism.''


Inchcombe knew too well
the dreadful mundanity of murder.

But Patel was stricken.

lnchcombe realized
his lack of feeling was almost...


'''I've been wearing the wrong size
all my life,' says Katie.

'I was always popping out.
Turns out I'm a 30 GG,' she says.

'Now my bras finally fit.

Though Simon prefers me
without one.'''

We can go round mine, if you like.

And watch your dad
farting into a sofa?

A taxi?

In Ewedown?

Come on.
Where are we going?


Glen, can I tempt you?
Oh, wow, thank you.

Uh, I often take something snacky
to Nicholas this time of day.

I know how the brain needs feeding.

So how you
settling in?


The last writers' retreat I was at,
I kind of froze my balls off,
you know?

Screeching fire doors
and curried lasagna,

and a needy poet,
from whom I still bear the scars.

Well, we try to keep it peaceful here.
Far from the madding crowd.

May I?

Well, it's paradise.

In Ewedown?
What are you doing there?

I haven't told her yet.

Why not? You keep saying
you want to be with me.

Well, I can't tell her just like that.
It's 25 years. A marriage.

Ah. Come on, Nicholas.

Or I'm gonna get in a taxi
and find your farm.

Come up there and I'll drag you out.

No, don't.

I wanted to be with you.
I thought you'd be pleased.

Well, of course I'm pleased.

Nadia, go to the pub and stay there.
I'll come when I can.

Are you going to tell her?

Just give me a couple of hours.

Cock pie.

How's the worker?
Good, actually.

Just about to embark on forensics.

Well, give me your pages
and I'll get started.

Reckon I might pack it in
a bit early today.

Need to think
about my blood smears.

Might take a drive, have a pint.

Stir the old grey matter up.

Who were you talking to just then?

Judy. She said the Impala contract
should be through in a day or two.

I could come with you.

For a drive.

I don't know when we last went out.

Mm. This is absolutely yummy.

Or we could go into Hadditon,
get a meal.


But what about the guests?

Mary's got Casey to help.

But I-- I'm supposed to be thinking,
you know, about...

You can run it by me.
I'm good at forensics.

Andy, can I tempt you?

Oh, uh, we've got a new academic.
Glen, American.

Turns out he's working
on Thomas Hardy.

Said he might have
some farming questions.

Needs an expert yokel, does he?
Would you mind?

Oh, and the--
The writers are eating
alfresco tonight.

Could you check
there's no bird shit
on the seats? Sorry.

You okay?


Nicholas and I
are going out to dinner.


Fucking bingo.

What a dump.

We could walk up the garage.

Oh. I'm supposed to be
helping my mom
up at Stonefield.

They keep you busy.

You never stop, you.

Bet them writers are wankers.

It was called from Hearth to Heath:

The Doomsday and Revelation
in Victorian Verse.

What was it about?

Well, you know,
pale poets on laudanum
and dark towers and sunless seas.

A little Sturm und Drang
in a teacup.

Did it sell?

Well, of course, my kind of books
aren't about sales,
that's not why I write. So, no.

So, what are you working on next?

Thomas Hardy.

Is there anything left to say
about that maudlin bore?

Excuse me, but there's
nothing dull about Hardy.
That is a misconception.

At least you've been published.
I'm seething with envy.

I'd love to be published.
I publish myself on the Internet.

Oh, do you earn money doing that?

What do you write?
Lesbian crime.

I'm here picking up tips
from the master.


Why don't I just pop out on my own?

Well, I'm ready now. Come on.

Is that..?

I mean, are you wearing that?


It just looks a bit hot.

You know, Hadditon's
always packed with pissed
Londonites on a Friday.

I doubt we get a table anyway.

Let's do it properly next week.
Make an occasion.

I'm always taking you for granted.
I'm vile, I know.

You should kick me, really.

Who is she?


Oh, come on, Beth.

Tell me who.

Look, it's nothing.

It's been once or twice, that's all.
It's just--

Beth, it's not anything.
Who is she?

So she's on her way in,
the bride and groom are--

Just a researcher on Radio 4.
What's her name?

Nadia. Nadia Patel.
Patel? She's in your book.

No. No. I met her when I was on
Desert Island Discs.

You put her in your book.
Well, just the name.

Desert Island Discs was a year ago.

So ''once or twice''?

I was going to tell you.

In the book, from your woman,
Shh! Shh!

saying that they're coming
to the par--

I've had enough of this.
Beth. I'm a ruin, I know.

But I've been in a real state
about this.

I-- I didn't want to hurt you.

How could you lie to my face?

Can we talk calmly?
There are people out there.

You looked me in the face and lied.

For God's sake,
we're surrounded by novelists.

You bastard.

we're like a pair of compasses,
Oh, don't you dare.

joined solidly at the top,

but with the ends
able to roam in freedom.

That's her, isn't it?
Are you keeping her waiting?

We've talked a lot
about the creative mind,

and we agreed
it needs a certain freedom
to explore.

Take your freedom.
I can't live like this anymore.

It makes me feel worthless.
Calm yourself down.

Go set up home with Patel.
See if she does your tax returns.

Do you love her? Is she young?

For heaven's sake--
Is she?!


If you leave here tonight
to be with her, don't come back.

Beth, you're making fools of us both.


I didn't know
they provided material too.

Beth does everything for him,
you know.
Types his manuscript,

deals with his agent, makes his
female characters convincing.

She even came up with the name
Dr. Inchcombe.

No wonder he's bored.

I hope she takes him
to the fucking cleaners.

At the end of the day,
this is why I'm glad I'm single.

Will she take him back though?
That's the question.

Would you?
Well, I'd be torn.

He's far too up himself.
Yeah, but what about their farm?

Splitting up all this?
Must be worth a fortune.

Wadia Patel.

''Gazelle eyes.'' ''Tantric sex.''

She's very rash,
making him choose.

Why would he choose me?

I thought you weren't going to come.
I was busy. Rowing with my wife.

Where are we going?

To your farm?

We could have gone on
just as we were.

Yes, but you said
you wanted to be with me.

Yes. In London.

Now and then.

Big glass of Rioja, please.
And I need a room.

Sure. How many nights?

Don't know. Just one?

Are you here for the writers' retreat?
No, but I'm a writer.

Well, journalist.

I don't mean to pry.
I'm just really nosey.

I'm from here. Sort of.

Well, it's a nice place. I love it.

I keep meaning to leave, but--
Hard to get away.

My mom's house
is just up the road.

You're not staying with her?
She's-- She died.

Have that on me.

And here's your key.

Up the stairs, right in front.
You can't miss it.


Didn't think I'd see you tonight.

Bit of an atmosphere at Stonefield.
Tell me everything.

Marriage. Remind me never to try it.

Andy, you're just a sex object.
No one would have you.

Ahem. So the Hardiments
have lived here for centuries, huh?

No. About 20 years.

Still strangers, by local standards.

Andy, uh, come look at Ingrid.
I, uh--

I think she's coming into heat.

She's very nice, Beth.

Yeah. I owe her a lot.

Husband's kind of a sleazebag,

We'd say ''prick'' here, actually.

Or wanker.

That's good.
We might even call him a fuck.

That's good too.

Can I help?
It's going rotten underneath.

Can I have a look at Ingrid?
Look, it's-- It's falling apart.

Yeah, well, I can do that. Beth...

He won't last five minutes.

Oh, Jesus. He's been translated
into Icelandic and Swahili.

What an output.

I need my book to be a success.

I need a tiny reward
for all my endeavors.

I need a dump.

No, don't touch me.

Don't you dare.
I'm sorry.

Not good enough, not anymore.
I'm sorry.

You do what you like,
then you're sorry?

I hate myself. I hate myself.

Where were you?

I drove her back to London.
Took all night.

You drove her home?
I finished it. She was in a state.

So it's over?
I'm sorry.

I don't know why I'm like this.

I couldn't manage without you.

I've got to go to the bottle bank.


Let's talk later.

The goat's come into heat.
Has it?

I love you so much.

Me too.

I've just seen the Hardiments kiss
and make up.

The hat's on.
Looks like she's taking him back.

When the hat's on,
it means don't speak.

So peace is restored.

Oh, for fuck's sake!

I don't like cows.

They exude bovine malice.

These girls are killing machines.

They don't like Americans either.
Very funny.

It's Winnards Farm.

Lady there died a while back.
Place is empty.

Think it's being robbed?

Probably just kids.

Nothing to do around here
except make trouble.

What if it's bad guys?

Don't you have a blunderbuss
or a fowling piece or something?

Used to belong to my dad,
this place.

But it all went tits up.

The land was flogged
to a consortium
and the house sold to Londoners.

The Drewes.
So this is your ancestral pile?


Born in that room up there.

You must have been
pretty resentful.

Oi! This farm's mine, big nose.

Hey, what are you doing?
Who are you?

Andy, you moron. It's me.


I didn't even recognize you.

Well, you won't do it that way.

Then help me.

Used to do bits of work
for your mom.

Been keeping an eye on the place
since she died.

What kind of work, graphics?

No, I do horticulture now.
You're a gardener?

Wow, this is a great old house.

Thanks. Do you want to buy it?

I'm not the property-owning type, no.
I prefer my life to fit in hand luggage.

That why you're back, to flog it?

Make a nice second home
for some banker wankers.

Look, Andy, if you want it,
why don't you just make me an offer?

Because, sadly,
I'm still prey to the economic forces

that threw the peasant classes
off the land.



What the fuck have you done
to your nose?

Oh, come on, Andy.
Aliens came and took it.

She's completely different.

What was she like before?
What's the story?

There isn't one.
Oh, come on.

It was nothing. Decade ago.
Just a teenage thing.

You should find someone
you're in love with.

Stupid prick.
You saying you love me, frosty tits?

You first.
You're the girl, you say it.

I love you.

Fuck off. I love you!

Romeo and Juliet, huh?

Something classy
in the wood shed, huh? Heh.

Would you do him?

What about him?
He's gay, you dobbin.

Oh .


Ben Sergeant.
I'd walk through fire to do him.

The drummer?
He's not just the drummer.

He writes all the lyrics. It's his band.
He's the fucking genius.

Not Steve Culley,
or any of these wankers. It's Ben.

Okay, yeah. I-- I'd do Ben.

I wanna be her, in that dress,
with him licking my teapot lids.

Yeah, me too.

So has the muse shone on you,

I've been pretty distracted
most recently

by those delicious cookie things
Beth brought around this afternoon.

Oh, yes. Of course,
we call them biscuits here.

And by the place itself, the people.

I sometimes wish
I could get distracted.

Ten-page-a-day man,
rain or shine.

Wow. That's scary.
Ten pages a day,
how do you do that?

Oh, Greg,

I wouldn't presume
to give an academic tips.

Matter of fact,
I read one of your books--

Another distraction.
--I thought it was decent stuff.

Well, how do I do it?
I just get on with it, Greg.

''We call them biscuits here.''

To the muse.
The muse.

However you find her.


Who's that?

That's Tamara Drewe.

No, it isn't.
I met her with Andy.

Good God, what's happened to her?
She had a nose job, Dad.

She's completely different.

That's what Andy said.

Poor Tamara, she's such a sad girl.

She used to come
help you wash the car,
didn't she, Nicholas?

When she was a teenager.

She liked a bit of family
after her dad left.

Is that Tamara Drewe
that writes a column

in one of the Sundays?
Used to.

Writes _or The Independent now.
Oh .

She spent weeks
going on about her nose job.

Was her old one an awful conk?

She's poured herself
into those shorts.

Hope they don't give her thrush.

Hello. Sorry to intrude.

Hi, Tamara.
Poppy. How are you?

I love your new hooter.

Thanks. It's not actually new,
it's just smaller.

Tamara. So sorry about your mom.

Are you staying down for long?

I'll have to.
There's so much to be done.

Well, let us know if we can help.

Could you spare
a pair of strong arms?

I've got a skip coming tomorrow,


I'm available.
I do skips.

Oh, bug--

Oh. Um...

Thank you, everyone.
You're very kind.

Is Andy around at all?

Oh, I-- I can't spare Andy.

He's making a new coop
for my Buff Orpingtons. Heh.

We'll soon have that dry,
don't worry. Heh-heh.

She's had Glen down there
helping her all morning.

I hope she realizes
he's here to work.

Can't believe what a difference
her nose makes.

I think it's a mistake.
Taken away all her character.

Come on, she looks 1 O times better.

And she knows it.
I found those shorts really irritating.

Going around with half her bum
hanging out. I mean, why?

To annoy people like you.

I might get a pair myself.

Of course you wouldn't.
Why not?

Because you're not desperate,
are you?

There was always something
desperate about Tamara Drewe.

Why did you change your face?

Changing my face
is the best thing I ever did.

I don't care
what anybody else thinks.

You think it would work for me?
Maybe, if you did the wrinkles too.

Oh, you're just
coming on to me now.

In your column,
you write about yourself.
Does that come easily?

Not easily. It just feels right.

My first novel is definitely
going to be autobiographical.

Your first novel? You're gonna
dash one off, just like that?

Heh. Ideally,
I'd like to make it into fiction
before I'm 30.

Then maybe a swimwear collection,
chat show, pasta-sauce range.


Life sure comes easy
for the beautiful.

You know,
before I had the nose job,

I had no problem
being taken seriously.

Maybe when they removed
that bit of cartilage,

they pulled out my brain
by mistake.

What do you think?

Thank you.

She's single, you know.

Well, it's not exactly a relationship.
We have an occasional thing.

Zoe doesn't wanna be tied down--
Not Zoe.


You should get in there.
Marry the girl.
Then you could live

in your ancestral home again.
No. Not her type.

Andy, you know, the trouble with you
is that you think like a loser.

I know this because I'm the loser
that all other losers come to for tips.

I am a loser's loser.

I'm a pedigree loser.

Had a graphics business, went bust.

Then with
my great business acumen,

I invested in a polytunnel
full of ganja.

Spent six years
stoned out of my box.
I'm only just getting it back together.


even if I was the last man
in the world,

Tamara Drewe wouldn't have me.

Why not?

I dumped her.
Oh, you are a loser.

I was 20.

And my mates thought
I was cradle-snatching.

And they used to call her Beaky.


Boys know nothing.

I've been reading Inchcombe's Dose.
The bit where Dr. Inchcombe

finds himself having thoughts
about the dead guy's daughter.

You describe her light smattering
of freckles and her striking profile.

So who did you base her on?

Have you noticed me?

Because I've noticed you.

You're making yourself ridiculous.


A man can dream, huh?


Oh, write, you numbskull.

The best ham I've had in ages.

How's Thomas Hardy?

I'm wasting my sabbatical.
Oh, dear.

I've been writing this book forever.
Don't know why I can't finish it.

Two years behind
on my delivery date,

and Fantail could ask
for their chickenshit advance back.

I can't write. I'm fucking constipated.

It's a disaster.


Oh. Uh, sorry, Glen. Um--
I've gotta grab Andy
before he rushes off.

Tamara's asked him
to do up her house.

Why? She knows
how hard he works for me.

Is this all his fan mail?

Yeah. I do a couple of sessions
a week to keep on top of it.

Pretty good
at forging Nick's signature.

Why don't we have
a proper chat about it?

Always used to help Nicholas--
You'd do that? You have time?

I'll just, uh...




Got some color charts
for you to see.

What color do you think
it should be in here?

Well, I was thinking, um,

this one for down here.

And, um...

This one for the bedroom.

So, uh, what do you have to do
to get a cup of tea around here?

Make it. Tea, sugar, fridge.

I'm off to work.


This is our village! Our fucking field!
Go on.

Get off!
Come on, bastard. Let us in!

Kiss your mother with that mouth?
Fuck off.

Get on, shove it.

Bullshit! Fuck off!

Swipe is fucking finished!
Steve Culley is a--

Fuck off.
Fran has been
shagging that tosser.

Steve, stop it!
Come on then.

Stop it!

I'm Tamara Drewe.

I'm supposed to be interviewing you,
qo_ The Independent.

It was scheduled for later,

but is now a good time?

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

They should let us in for free.
Too right.

They come here, drink our water,
use our fields.

And they leave all their crap
in our drains.

Nice girlfriend, mate.

Ben. Ben!

What are you doing?
That's Ben from Swipe.

And he's got his dog. Ben!

Ben! Ben!

That's Boss.


Boy. Come on.

Hi, Boss.

Not allergic, are you?
To indie drummers?


Who the fuck's she?

I've seen her up at Stonefield.
She's got a nose made of plastic.

So who are your influences?

Everyone asks that.

I mean,
what do you want me to say?
Phil Collins?

Animal from rhe Muppets?

This your house?

Do you want to buy it?

I want something else.

How come she gets Ben?
I've loved him since March.

Would you like a beer?

Maureen Tucker.

Moe Tucker. The Velvets.

Used to stand up to play.

Put the snare drum on its side
and whacked it with mallets.

You write a lot of songs.
That's pretty rare for a drummer.

Yeah, well, everything you've heard
about drummers is complete shit.

You mean they don't
spontaneously combust?


Only sometimes.

Any more questions?

Jesus. Oh, my God.


Who are you?

You know anything about this dog,

You want some breakfast, Tam?


How goes the opus?
Fine, Nicholas, just fine.

It's his most obscure novel,
The Well-Beloved.

Most people have never
even heard of it.

It's about a young guy of 20
who falls in love
with a beautiful young woman.

Then when he's 40,
he meets the woman's daughter
and he falls in love with her.

And finally, when he's 60,
he meets her granddaughter.

Oh, he doesn't.

Yeah. Falls in mystical love.

Hardy was the same in his life too.

Even as he aged,
he only had eyes for young women.

It's like, in one essential way,
he never grew up.

In his trousers. Ha.

He was still at it in his 80s,
you know.

Snow on the rooftop,
fire in the cellar.

Why won't it come for you, Glen?

The way you talk about it
is so engaging.

Do you wanna try?

Well, there's an academic style,
you know?

Who are you writing for?
Who's your ideal reader?

If wrote the way you spoke,
you'd make me want to read Hardy.


If you wrote like you were talking
to a friend. Try it again.


Oh! Ha-ha-ha.

No, no, no.
It's not as if I'm avant-garde.

I simply pander to popular taste.
Your books are far more than that.

Just airport fodder. I think
I write them in my sleep sometimes.

I wish I wrote so well awake.

Your prose are so economical,
so vivid, like the greats.

Like Raymond Chandler.
Oh, come on.

Graham Greene.
I'm just earning a crust.

You created Inchcombe.

If only he were real.
He's my kind of man.

Yes. Sophisticated, jaded,
but so vulnerable.

Cynical, but a man of total integrity.

My books don't say anything
remotely profound.

I can't pretend to be an intellectual,
not like the professor here,

illuminating our ignorance
with his critical glow.

I love prose. I turn a decent plot.
That's pretty much it.

Excuse me.
People like crime fiction,

because no matter how violent
or shocking, it comforts them.

Secretly, Nicholas hates all this.

These crime weekends
really take it out of him.

in my case, a jaded doctor.

Let me help.

Oh, well, they need dusting with this.

Restoring order to--

I went to my room today,

and I wrote for three hours.
The time, it just vanished.

That's great. That's brilliant.

I feel like a man
who's just passed a gargantuan stool.

Oh, super.

Oh! Uh--

Sprig of mint on top.

Of course, my life isn't like that,
so I just make stuff up. Ha-ha.

The real secret of being a writer
is learning how to lie,

because that's what storytellers are,
thieves and liars.

''The basis of all excellence is truth.''
Samuel Johnson.

I met a girl on a farm
Her name was Tamara

Ben, I'm trying to write.

I wanted to write her a song
But one thing caused me alarm

Please, Ben, it's a new story.

Her name didn't rhyme
With anything

Not a single thing
I wanted to sing

It comes from my heart,
it's about my mom and dad.

All she wants to do is type
It's making me want a little bite

So cook me pasta carbonara
Because I'm ravenous, Tamara

Then shag me
Wearing your tiara


Let me dog in, will you?

Cheers, mate.

He must like kissing plastic.
He doesn't really love her.

He's just on the rebound
from losing Fran.

Numbing his pain
with loads of empty rampant sex.

What he really needs--

Is a 1 5 year old from Ewedown?
So? Stranger things happen.

He's only 1 O years older,
and that's nothing. If he met me--

If he just met me--
It'd be love, right?

Yeah. But I'd settle for sex.

Cooer, in your parents' bedroom?
Still, I suppose being an exhibitionist

is part of his job,
strutting about on stage.

He doesn't strut. He's a drummer.

He sits on his ass.

He's very good-looking, isn't he?
Poppy YouTubed him.

We both got quite hot and bothered.

Is that his car? The yellow Porsche.

Yeah, a bit brash,
vrooming through the village.

Fancy our Tamara bagging
a bona fide rock star.

She was such an ugly duckling.
She must be thrilled to bits.

We're not open for another hour.


I mean, she used to be so funny.
So human.

What does she see
in that London knob?

He even wears fucking makeup.
How did she get so shallow?

Andy, are you really
going on about her now?

Where are your manners?

I'm sorry.

Bide your time, you big prick.

Oh , Ben .

Come here, you wretched beast!

Stinking animal!

Filthy hound!

Fuck soup.


What's this?
What does it look like?


Which finger?

Wherever you want.

That one's nice.

Stick it on that one.

Those girls could have aborted.
Calm down, Penny. I'll sort him out.

It beats me
why you people
want to live in the country.

You have no sense of responsibility.
It's not our dog.

Hello, Penny. How's tricks?

Oh, Nicholas.
You're looking good. Terrific coat.

Oh, what, this old thing?
You look like royalty.

Well, I try.
Can't wait for your next book.

lnchcombe's such a saucepot.

Giles always says,
''What are you reading, Penny?

You've got steam
coming out of your ears.''

What's the ring saying, Ben?

''Hello, I'm a ring.
Will you marry me?''


I didn't know.

Didn't know what?

That you're in love with me.

The ring is saying,
''I'm platinum with a long guarantee.

Will you marry me?''


Oh, is Tamara there?

She is being proposed to.

Shh. There are writers here
trying to write.


Oh, um, this is, uh,
a Buff Orpington.
He's a bit peaky today.

They're not great layers,
but they're very decorative. Heh.

We're, um--
We're fully organic here.

Though, uh,
I like to think our champion product
is, uh, the written word. Heh-heh.

The famous Ben.

Swipe, eh?

No, Swipe's over.
I thought the whole world knew that.

It wasn't on Newsnight, no.

Ben's engaged to Tamara.
Isn't that lovely?

He'd just popped the question
when I rang.

And she said yes?

We're delighted for you both.

Why is he on a fucking chain?

He was out of control.

How would you like
to be chained up?

He was chasing livestock.
He could have got shot.

They shoot him,
I'll fucking shoot them.


Here, pooch.
I think the word is gobshite.

I hope he makes her happy.

It's hard for girls
when their dads walk out.

Gives them bad taste in men.

What's that supposed to mean?

Oh, just saying Tamara's father left
when she was a girl and--

That is 1 O-pence psychology.

You don't know
what you're talking about.

Poor little man.

''My Buff Orpingtons.''
''Oh, the written word.''

What a fucking freak.

It's a shame the ring doesn't fit.

Why didn't you bring one of mine
along when you bought it?

I didn't know you then, did I?

So when did you buy it?

Was it for someone else?

You bought it for Fran, didn't you?


It's yours now.

She never wore it. She didn't want it.

Did you ask her to marry you?
Just as a gesture,

when she started seeing Steve.
That backfired.

Look, it's you I wanna marry now.

The ring-- The ring doesn't matter.

The ring's just
a consumerist piece of zinc.

What matters is that I love you.

Do you?


With my whole heart.

And all the other stuff.

Like me brain, me entrails.

Me pancreas.

It all wants to marry you.


She wondered if you had a delivery
date in mind. I said Easterish.

Oh, mind that cocoa, it's hot.

There's a few invites.
I'll pop them there.

You just tick the ones
you want to go to.

Oh, and, uh, Tim wants
to know if you'll do your
Christmas signing in Hadditon.

I know he's always ungrateful,
but I think it's so important

to keep these little bookshops open,
don't you?


Come in soon, my love.

Look at that cellulite.

She been sitting on a bead car seat
or what?

''Her latest tattoo count was nine,

including a Sumatran tiger
and 'eternity' written in Sanskrit.''

She'll be getting
a bar code done next,
right across there.

And Judy Garland's face
right on there.

Nice baby, though.

I'd like one that color.

Shut the fuck up.

That Ryan's a dick.
I think he's cute.

No, you don't. Would you snog him?

Be like having a slug in your mouth.


Shut up, fat arse. It ain't funny.


Come on, let's do some messing.

What about you, Glen? Sorry.
Where will you be?

In London
with a collection of spare academics.

We'll be decking the halls
in our own erudite way.

I'll miss our chats.

Yeah. I've been in a state
of writerly bliss these past weeks.

I hope I get to come back.
Oh. Me too. We'd love to have you.

You know, these are the best
mince pies I've ever had.

If it were possible
to have an orgasm from food,

these mince pies would do it.

Golly. Heh.


She keeps this here for Andy.

What if she's got an alarm?
Soon find out.

What if they come back?
If you're too chicken, go home.

What the fuck are we doing here?
It's kind of research.

I want to write about them.
They're funny.

Come on, Ben.

2001 was the best year.
I just sold my last three cases.

It's a perfect wine for the price.
Besides, I want to show you off.

What am I, arm candy?

More like arm fungus with that face.

I got her this gorgeous
Rajasthani Ghagra skirt.


She'll probably loathe it. Ha-ha.

But if she does, I'll have it.

Meet Ben. Ben, Glen.

Hi, Ben.
Ben's my fiancé.

You're getting married?

Okay. Beautiful dress,
magazine photo shoot.

the aspiring novelist needs.

I knew you'd be pleased.
Have a mince pie? No.


Can we get the fuck out of here?

In field of Tares,
you made Fred a corporal,

but there's no such thing
in the Royal Artillery.

They call them bombardiers.

Oh, thank you for that.
Very good.



Would you make that out for Ben?

To Ben.
My fiancé.

We're getting married
in the summer.

So I hear.

My heartiest commiserations,

Merry Christmas, Nichol-arse.

Casey, look.

The sticks.

No, don't touch.

Pour Homme.

Smells like men.

Live the dream, Case.
Live the dream, Jode.

His boots.

This is a call
for a domestic dispute

She's got me in the corner
And she's put in--


Oh, my God.

Look, stop going on about it.

I've invested a lot of time
into this house.

Why don't you sell it, then?
Because I've started writing.

You can write anywhere.

Yes, we've done it.

No, Ben, this is proper.
It's not just stuff for the paper.

It's about my teens,
and it's actually working for me here.

I'm glad it's memory lane for you,
but it's doing my fucking head in.

I want some London.
Some noise, some urban.

I've had enough.
Are you with me or what?

Of course, I'm with you.

It's depressing here. It's boring.

And every time
I look out the window,
I see Andy Cobb's arse.

What's that about?