Queers (2017): Season 1, Episode 3 - More Anger - full transcript

I'm getting quite good at dying.

Mostly, that's me in a bed,
in a hospital,

looking pasty and terrified
and tetchy.

They expect you to be tetchy.

Like, I had PCP for
a single on Channel 4.

Pneumocystis pneumonia - horrible
job, take after fucking take.

The director comes to me -
Dan, his name is, he said...

"We need to see more anger, yeah?"

I said, "Why?"

Well, he just looks at me
like it's obvious.

"Because the Government are
doing nothing, yeah?



"There's no funding,

"and these fucking iceberg films
they have on telly now,

"it's fucking criminal."

I said, "I thought my character
would probably be past anger

"by this stage. I'd probably be
thinking much more practical things,

"like, is this going to hurt?

"Or will it be over quick?"

"What would I have done with my life
if I'd lived?

"Maybe. Could I have done things
differently, been more careful,

"made different choices?"

Anyway, he wanted anger,
so, ooh, he got anger.

I channelled the anger I was feeling
towards him and that helped.

This is a key skill.

Some actors can't draw on
themselves, their experiences.



I can,

though, obviously, I'm not dead yet
so I've been having to make that up.

Then after that, I did a film

where I get stabbed by a serial
killer who's picking on gays,

for some unknown reason,

but, obviously,
that was just a metaphor.

When the police finally catch him,
even he doesn't know why he does it.

I saw that when it went out
at the Curzon

and I could hear quite a few
people sobbing in the audience

when I pegged it.

I got a bit tearful myself,
actually.

It's just the face.

I look young and innocent,
so you're immediately thinking,

"What a waste."

That's why I get the parts,
I reckon.

The scene...I'm really good at

is the deathbed scene
where the boyfriend shows up.

More often than not,

I'm doing well health-wise
when the complications hit,

so the sudden deterioration's
a surprise for both of us.

He's sometimes older - not always -
cute, obviously,

but there is an awkwardness
between us.

It's not actually said, but...

..you get the vague sense
that he's been messing about

in saunas and toilets

and not taking precautions,

while I, of course,
have been faithful as a puppy,

so then there's the injustice
of it, too.

I have a bit of a barney with him,
but I'm generally forgiving.

I just go a bit arch, you know,

got me sparky sense of humour
right till the end.

Eugh.

I had lunch with my agent, and
she's dead pleased I'm working -

and so am I, but...

..it's getting a bit samey.

I don't feel like
I'm moving forward, you know?

She reckons I should be grateful.

"You're really grabbing at
the heartstrings, Phil,

"really making an impact."

I just worry they're going to get
sick of the sight of me.

"Him again - dying, again."

She wasn't having it.

"The characters you get are pivotal,
Phil, pivotal.

"Everything around you changes
once you're..."

"Gone, yeah?" I said,

"It's awfully nice that my friends
get really, really upset

"when I'm dead,

"and then kind of reassess
their priorities and stuff.

"I just wish I made it past
page 18."

She said, "You get the full fee."

I said, "That's not the point."

Still, it's work.

She said there might be a role
playing a bat thing on Doctor Who.

"Do they still make Doctor Who?"
I said.

"Apparently, yeah."

Plus a bit-part in an indie film,

English mourner at a funeral
in New York.

"Can you do grieving?"

I said, "Probably."

The truth is, I don't have much
to draw on there.

I've been lucky.

I know what it looks like, though.

I've seen it.

I've seen it often enough,
too often.

Horrible.

Then out of the blue, she asks me...

..if I get tested.

I said, "What?"

It's none of her business.

I don't,

as it happens.

I couldn't face it.
I'd sooner not know.

I'm just not strong enough.

And it is possible to not get it,
if you're careful -

and by careful, I don't mean
bloody celibate or monogamous.

I fucking love sex, me.

Bum sex mainly, but there is
an underrated beauty

to blowing a total stranger
in a toilet cubicle

that's hard to convey,

and if you try to convey it, it gets
boring or icky, quite quickly, so...

No squatting on your haunches -
knees must hit the floor,

and eye contact throughout.

Ooh. Oh!

I could be blowing someone now if it
weren't for this bloody death scene.

Agent's promised
she'll get me a role

that doesn't involve losing
half a stone

and whiting the face up,
so fingers crossed.

I quite like doing
coming-out scenes,

though even there,
death crops up pretty quickly.

I did a play where
I was Liverpudlian,

so it was dead bitter, but really
funny, like corrosively funny.

The mother's mopping the floor,
and I drop the bombshell.

We have a row. I throw in...

LIVERPOOL ACCENT: "What do you
want me to do,

"get married and be unhappy?"

She comes back with, "Why not?

"That's what I bloody did!"

The mother gets the best lines.

The gay boy's the feed.

Then, of course, she realises
I'm not done with the bombshells,

and the full horror of her situation
dawns on her - her little Billy,

gay and dead, in quick succession.

"More than a poor girl's
heart can take."

The upshot is, she loses her faith.

That was at the Finborough,

so while she's rowing
with the bishop at the funeral,

I slip out early and
get down the Coleherne.

There's a bloke goes there
some nights.

Simon.

Fucking...

The legs. Dancer's legs, and,
sorry, I actually am a size queen.

I make no apologies.

Simon fits the bill.

The best fuck ever.

I've kind of got a top top-ten
in my head,

and for a long time, it was a guy
I met in Portsmouth at number one,

but Simon has knocked him off
the top top spot.

Dead fit, proper man.

Nice enough bloke, as well,
sense of humour.

I don't normally talk to blokes
down the Coleherne

cos it risks breaking the spell,

but it hasn't broken Simon's spell.

Agent called yesterday, got me
an audition for a TV new soap.

Gay character - called Clive,
who isn't ill,

and according to the man at
the Beeb, never gets it,

it's actually in the contract.

Just has a life.

Has the same kind of plotlines
as the other characters,

but from a gay perspective.

So, well, that'd be progress.

If I got it. He's also not camp,
which is fairly important -

not that I can't do camp, but
the days of Mr Humphries are over.

Lads at school used to take the piss
when that programme was on,

not of me - I'm not naturally camp.

I can go quite blokey, in fact.

I should get put up for
more straight roles, really.

I did play angry shopper
in Albion Market,

but it wasn't established
whether he was gay or straight,

so it doesn't count.

Nor does the bat thing
on Doctor Who.

Well, not really.

No, Clive isn't camp,
but he's not blokey either.

He's, um, sensitive,
takes life seriously,

and may appear guarded
when we first meet him,

but underneath,
he's warm, emotional,

and soon becomes a popular member
of the local community.

LAUGHS: I can play Clive...

..standing on me head.

Ah, so now it's my fault, is it?

Oh. So now it's MY fault.

Is it?

Oh!

So now it's my fault, is it?

Oh...

Clive is the most boring man

ever presented on a TV screen -
seriously.

Fretful fucking creep.

Not camp, no.
No sense of humour whatsoever.

I've got this beige boyfriend,
like Clive Mark 2.

Only taller with a pierced ear.

And the fucking hugging
we get up to - oh, scandalous.

I can't get ill,
obviously, of anything.

The fucker isn't even allowed
to cough.

Plotline at the moment where I turn
out to be fiddling my tax returns

so me and the boyfriend can build
a beige life together.

I had thought fiddling the tax

might lead to a prison story,
which could be quite, um, meaty.

But no. Clive's not fiddling
THAT MUCH.

Of course he fucking isn't.

Eurgh.

Ah...

Simon's not beige.

That's one colour that
Simon really isn't.

He's so fit.

We've kind of been seeing a bit more
of each other - his suggestion.

It threw me at first.

We'd just got it on
in the Coleherne,

cubicle nearest the window, and...

He gets nasty, does Simon.

Full palm of the hand stuff.

And we were having a pint
in the front after,

and he suddenly says,

"We could go and see a film
or something."

The thought of us, hand-in-hand,
buying popcorn...

But we gave it a whirl, and...

..it was nice.

He's strong. Only a few years older
than me, but he's lived proper, man,

like a...

big brother.

Taps into something, you know?

SIGHS: It's nice.

His legs are incredible.

I know he's more than just a pair of
legs, but all the same.

I could actually play...

..in love, these days,

if the right part
would only fucking come up.

Oh, so now it's my fault, is it?

There's a line in
next week's episode

where the beige boyfriend

says he's thinking of moving back
to Hemel Hempstead.

I have a feeling
Clive's going to go with him,

so that'll be the end of that.

Yeah, good riddance to him.

I went back to the agent.

She says Clive isn't easy to love,
and,

"If you are dropped
from the show, darling,

"at least you're not
leaving in a wooden box."

Which is true.

I just thought that I was...

..getting somewhere.

Still, I'm up for a tour of Bent
at the end of the month,

so it's not all doom and gloom.

I just think, if you're entering
into a relationship with someone,

you should be honest from the start.

Not hide any bombshells, pull
the rug from under a bloke's feet.

I was completely not expecting it,

just sitting with him on the sofa
watching a film,

and he comes out with it.

"By the way, I'm positive."

Well, he must've seen panic in my
eyes because he immediately says,

"We've been safe.
You're not in any danger."

Which calmed me down a bit.

Still, I was shocked.

He said it was more than just HIV.

He actually had

AIDS.

"But I'm OK.

"I'm looking after myself.

"I get regular check-ups,
do all the right things.

"Yeah, I get scared sometimes,
but...

"I stand a good chance.

"And I wanted to tell you,

"because, well, it's important
if we're going to...

"..get more serious."

I didn't say anything.

Just nodded.

Well, it's a lot to take in,
isn't it?

We tried to just spend the evening
together,

but an hour in, he says,

"This silence isn't just you getting
your head round the news, is it?"

I just looked at him.

After that, he went off into
the kitchen and...

I heard him crying.

Sobbing like a baby.

So that was that.

Spell broken, well and truly.

It'd be nice if I had some work to
take my mind off him, but, um...

You see, the fallow periods
are part of the job.

The trick is not to see
one rejection as part of a trend.

Time passes, though, doesn't it?

I won't be in the young and innocent
market forever,

and then dying's not as in demand
as it was,

which is ironic because there's more
dying now than ever - way more -

but the circus has moved on.

Doctors say it's heading
towards a peak,

and with all the drugs coming up,

more people are going to live
longer and longer.

It'll be like normal lives.

Well, that may well be true but...

..I wonder where it all leaves me.

I mean, the only thing to do
once the '80s are gone

would be to wipe the slate,
press reset, start...

..having fun again.

And then no-one's going to want to
watch the stuff I made

once it really is over.

I mean, why would they
look back on all that death?

It's just depressing.

It's no way to move forward, is it?

So, no repeat fees.

My oeuvre will moulder
in the archives.

I ran into him last week, Simon...

..in Tower Records.

He doesn't go down
the Coleherne now.

He was there with his little BF -
smiley, cute enough,

and clearly Lady Helium Heels.

Well, he'd have to be.

We talked a bit, but it was...

..a bit awkward.

I came away wondering whether he'd
even told the little boyfriend.

Well...

It's none of my business.

I know what my future will be.

I'll get work -
quiet, single bloke at party,

some swish loft apartment, music.

I'll be just right for the man

who can't quite get into
the swing of things.

Some young blonde lad'll
come over and start on me,

"Oh, smile - it might never happen."

And that'll be my cue...

..to wag my finger, to lecture,
tell them what went on,

what WE went through.

They'll all listen, but
it'll be uncomfortable.

They'll all kind of exchange
glances, let me say my piece,

and then I'll probably storm off.

The blonde lad'll say something
funny to lighten the mood.

Time was, it was me who had
the funny lines.

Sparky sense of humour.

Only back then, I was dying,
and they're not.

But what was I supposed to do?

He broke the spell.

If finger-wagging really is all
I have to look forward to,

then I'll have a lot to work with.
Have you heard?

The Department of Health's pulled
its finger out -

they're going to print
some information about AIDS

in the papers -

only Thatcher said no.

They should just stick some posters
up on lavatory walls,

and leave it at that, because normal
people can't catch it, you see.

And no-one wants to read about
arse-fucking in The Sun, do they?

The Sun. "When you mess with nature
you've got it coming to you, mate."

The Sun. And we've got Private Eye
telling us

gay stands for "Got AIDS Yet?"

That's a good one, isn't it?

The Met police raided
the Vauxhall Tavern last week.

The coppers were wearing
rubber gloves

to protect them from
the gay plague.

Stuff like that...

..is happening to us.

While hundreds of people die,
our friends and our lovers,

stuff like that is
fucking commonplace.

It feels like the world's
gone cold and mad.

And I'll bet you, years from now,

if you want to get anywhere near
this stuff on stage,

you'll have to do it tangentially,

use some clever trick
to keep things light,

because, hey, being gay in the '80s
was more than just AIDS, wasn't it?

Was that anger enough?