Queers (2017): Season 1, Episode 8 - Something Borrowed - full transcript

Steve nervously prepares his speech for his wedding to American partner Adam, laced with some bitterness towards past discrimination he suffered. He is full of praise for his mother, who ...

This programme contains
some strong language.

When I was wee,

and we'd be out in the car
and we'd pass a wedding,

a church or outside a registry
office, my mum would, without fail,

slow down, roll down her window
and shout out, "Don't do it,
you mad fools!"

In retrospect, I think she was still
processing her feelings about

the divorce, but we just thought
it was funny.

Every time! Really funny.

Though not if you were a...

..reluctant bride with acute
hearing.

Such incidents bred in me
a suspicion,



a certain uncertainty
towards marriage.

Towards men.

Towards making promises amid pomp
and circumstance.

Towards institutions
and the done thing.

What one ought and what one not.

Oh, my scepticism is
a rich inheritance.

The family fortune from my
mother's side.

But here I am...

..which is why I have to get this
right.

Which starts with
getting THIS right.

All those Jaffa Cakes inhaled for
inspiration can't have died in vain.

HE CLEARS THROAT

Once upon a time, a plucky young man

went on an adventure
miles from home.



In a magical kingdom
in a far-away land,

he met a handsome prince who spent
all his days bringing joy to

the lives of others.

One night, at a ball where all the
beautiful people in the kingdom
had gathered,

the handsome prince spoke to the man
who was minding his own business

while desperately trying to get
served at a bar where, yet again,

he had forgotten to take off his
cloak of invisibility.

So kind was the prince that he
bought the plucky young man a drink.

And so gracious was the man that
he asked the prince to dance.

And the dance was so entrancing that
everyone else in the room vanished.

The world stopped spinning and it
was just the man and the prince in

each other's arms
on top of the world...

..with only Lady Gaga for company.

Now THERE'S a threesome!

HE CACKLES

Pause for applause, wild applause,
possibly some cheering.

Obviously, if I fill in
a few details,

the magic of the story may pale,

as magic often does when you see
its mechanics.

The adventure was a fortnight
in Florida.

The ball was a club playing
Bad Romance.

The plucky young man was...

..youngish.

And the prince wasn't a prince
at all,

but another plucky young man on an
adventure of his own.

That his adventure was working on a
roller-coaster in a theme park gets

bonus OMG points in my mind,

but then I've always loved
roller-coasters.

Real and emotional.

Lest you hadn't noticed.

Of course, this story isn't like
the fairy tales I was raised on.

No horse-drawn pumpkins,
way too many homosexuals.

I do have a story about three bears,
but NSFAJ.

Not Suitable For Auntie Janice.

Nor anybody else, mind you.

No, people like me didn't feature in
the stories I was told growing up.

Felt as if I didn't exist.

Even if there were characters
like me,

they were Hall of Mirrors
distortions that made me feel like

I didn't want to exist.

I had a go at ending my existence
back then.

But I was as good at suicide
as I was at physics,

so I lived and learnt.

It's painful to be invisible in
other people's stories, but there is

a sliver of liberation.

You can tell your own story.

You can author your own life.

There's no script to stick to...

..which is fucking terrifying.

And quite exciting.

And fucking terrifying.

Not that scripts can't be
quite useful.

For me and my people...

Oh, my God! My people?

For me and other gay people, we now
have the opportunity, the right,

to have the fairy tale wedding
that others have always had.

Even just for a day,

we can be handsome princes
and/or/and beautiful princesses.

Though inevitably,

some of us will end up more Princess
Margaret than Kate Middleton.

We, the gays, can now tell, out loud
and proud, our stories.

And everyone - yes, even you,

Auntie Becky, who told me I was
making my life difficult with my
"choice"

to be gay...

..has a better life because of it.

Me having the right to get married
doesn't take anything away from

anyone else. Rights aren't like
cake.

Me having some doesn't mean
you get less.

And speaking of cake...

Too wordy? Too wordy?

Too twee? Too angry? Am I angry?

Maybe I should start a fight.

Set fire to something.

Uncle Frank, perhaps.

Bloody straights!

Not only do they go around
shoving their lifestyle
down everyone's throats,

but they've also exhausted every
aspect of getting married,

made every possible choice,
and to a cliche!

And only now, when it's on its last
legs, do they wheel in the gays for

a vital refresh after all this time.

Hardly any time at all.

Not just a big day, but monumental.

Part of me wants the formality and
frivolity over and done with

so life can get back to "normal".

Another part of me wants to live in
perpetual anticipation...

..in the thrall of the imminent
thrill.

And another part of me wonders if
it's a good idea at all.

Even in victory, you lose something.

The feeling of...

..being the rebel...

..the subversive, the outlaw.

I know!
Never happy with what I've got.

Until him.

I personally have no reservations,
no nerves, no niggles,

no last-minute jitters,

no brief or lengthy reconsiders
for the love before this one,

or for my first, or for the one
that got away,

or the one that required an escape.

Not even for my great unrequited
who might have...

..if I'd asked.

Nope.

The answer to the proverbial
question when popped was never going
to be no.

It's at moments like this you
realise, despite your best efforts,

you've still been indoctrinated with
old-fashioned, romantic,

sentimental ideas of what love is
and how it plays out.

I read it described once in a book

as having fairy tales
stuck in your innards.

Love is a sentimental tapeworm.

Sometimes, I still can't believe
I'm having a wedding.

Getting married's one thing,
but a wedding? Ha-ha!

And a wedding of this size!

A wedding we technically cannot
afford.

A wedding at which I'm already
having an issue with the table
decorations.

From Auntie Sheila.
She normally buys them half-price
in the January sales

for the following Christmas.
Only, this year,

she decided my getting married was a
special enough occasion

to get them out six months early.
A special enough occasion!

And the fact that she's not sure
she'll be around come Christmas,

her bowels...

..being what they are.

All I care about is they don't pull
focus today.

The bowels, not the crackers.

These crackers were only from Asda.

But let's not get entangled in
Auntie Sheila's innards.

Marriage - an institution for the
insane to which you commit yourself
voluntarily.

For those that won't commit
or submit, those that can't,

won't or don't fit...

..there are other institutions.

Asylums and prisons, say.

In the end, we all find our place,

or are put in it. The kitchen,
the bedroom, the attic, the cellar,

the cemetery.

I read The Handmaid's Tale at
school. It was very illuminating.

I loved school!

Well, I loved learning.

Could have done without
the relentless bullying,

having the shit kicked out of me
on a weekly basis.

And kids I didn't even know shouting
across the playground at me,

"Die of Aids, you fucking poofter!"

Children - so adorable.

You can't really blame them.

Little pitchers. What gets poured in
gets poured out.

And what got poured in then was
Section 28, Tory family values,

the gay plague and EastBenders
on the front of The Sun

because I was the danger, me!

I never felt that, of course.

I wish I'd felt dangerous.

What I felt was anxious.

Fearful, most of the time, forever
poised for fight or flight.

Needing to read every room in an
instant to assess the potential
threats,

who the alphas were, who to avoid
and who to make an ally.

From that,

the last one left standing,
unpicked at PE,

the saddo sitting out the school
disco slow dances because he

couldn't wrap his arms round the one
he wanted,

the teenager looking for love

in pissy public toilets and parks
after dark...

..to this.

Respectability.

Propriety.

Decorum.

Perhaps everyone has their price...

..and maybe mine is measured in
crockery and cookware on
a John Lewis gift list.

Or maybe it's measured in love
and loving,

from spoonfuls to right big buckets.

And what I learnt about love, first
and foremost, I learnt from Liza.

Oh, my lovely mum, not Ms Minnelli.

Although...terrific!

There was this one time
when I got really badly beaten up
by Grant Smiley

at the swings and Mum went round to
his house like a pocket tornado.

She ripped strips off Grant's mum
and scared the bejesus out of him.

He steered well clear after that.

Smiley's not so smiley then.

Knights in shining armour come in
all shapes and sizes.

Mine was five foot nothing
in her stocking soles.

I remember Mum having to decide
whether to buy a pint of milk
or a loaf of bread

because we couldn't afford both...

..but I never remember having to
choose between love and laughter.

We had both in abundance.

Some shouting, too, admittedly.

OK, a lot of shouting.

Some screaming even, maybe,
occasionally.

But mostly...

..overwhelmingly, love.

When I told her that
I'd met a man on holiday

and he worked in a theme park,
she didn't bat an eyelid.

When I brought him home,
she welcomed him with open arms
and asked if, being an American,

he liked the Dixie Chicks.

And then she said it was typical
Steven to win a man at a funfair

when most people make do with
a goldfish.

But she's always been the witty one
in our family.

Oh, which reminds me.
Obviously, there's going to be
an Oscar Wilde quote.

You can't have a gay wedding without
an Oscar Wilde quote.

When I worked in a care home when
I was at college,

there was an old blind man I read to
sometimes.

He loved Oscar Wilde.

He even said he'd seen him once.

And that's how I know this quote.

"All women become like their
mothers.

"That is their tragedy.

"No man does.

"That's his."

That's not my tragedy.

For better or for worse,
mostly better,

I am totally turning into my mother.

And I'm fine with that.

Though I suspect she'll always be
the better line dancer.

I could say, I suppose, that...

..today isn't about me,
it's about her...

..about seeing my lovely mum
so happy.

And that wouldn't entirely be a lie,
but come on!

Let's face it!

Today's all about me.

Me and him.

But mostly me.

And him.

Him!

The man who, when we first met,
smelled of candyfloss,

soap
and everything will be all right.

Quite a heady combination.

My someone to dance round the
kitchen with,

my someone to take photographs of,

someone to talk to all day and spoon
with all night.

He loves my singing.

OK, totally hates my singing.

And he even likes my cooking.

He laughs at my jokes
and he lets me cry.

He encourages me to be kind.

He makes me want to be a better man.

And the best view ever isn't Uluru,
or Iguazu, the Taj Mahal,

the Grand Canyon, or even Edinburgh
as seen from Arthur's Seat on

a clear autumn day with the Forth
shimmering in the distance.

It's the nape of his neck when
he's lying asleep in my arms.

I know we don't get happily ever
afters in real life.

I'm a hopeless romantic,
not a total fucking idiot.

As my friend, Russell, said to me
once,

"Even with the happiest couples,
one of you dies first."

But first...

..there is such...

..unalloyed joy.

We went to the supermarket yesterday
and we were wandering around and,

at one point, he took my hand,
because that's the kind of thing
he does.

And instantly, I got flustered.

Residual anxiety.

Remembrance of past battery.

Enduring scars.

Even though I know I'm hardly likely
to get my head kicked in by the
salad bar,

PDAs can still make me nervous.

And then he said,

gentle as anything, and I'm not
going to do the accent...

"If there's a gay kid in here
with his folks,

"frightened that he's a freak,

"don't you think that it might give
him hope,

"seeing two guys wandering around,

"being themselves, getting their
groceries, like everyone else?"

If happiness is a place...

..it's the biscuit aisle in
Sainsbury's.

And anywhere else I am with him.

And when we met,

I'll never forget what he said when
I introduced myself.

"Pleased to meet you, Steve.
I'm Adam." And then,
"And if that's the case,

"we should probably get married.
Adam and Steve has a certain ring
about it, don't you think?"

Oh, and now it has got a certain
ring about it.

He liked it and he put a ring...
Ooh, don't spoil it, Steven.

HE SIGHS

This is the beginning of a new
chapter in my story...

..our story, that continues tomorrow

when we go back to where our tale
began,

and I get to meet Adam's extended
Orlando family which,
funnily enough,

does include a giant
and a couple of dwarves.

We may even stop off for a dance
at the ball where the beautiful
people are.

Sadly, they don't do glass slippers
in my size, but then,

when did I ever leave a club
before midnight?

Ladies and gentlemen...

..please raise your glasses to my...

..husband, the love of my life,
Adam.

To our always and forever,
till death do us part...

..as hopefully happily ever after
as it gets.

I think it's better off the cuff.

From the heart. Oh, you can really
overthink these things, can't you?