All language subtitles for Ex.Drummer.2007.BDRip.x26

I've got to say, I can cope with
lots of different feelings at once.

I can be totally happy
yet quite ill at the same time.

I'm really consumed with doubts about
life and also a disregard for death.

This combination is perfectly possible
if your spirit is strong,

if you're robust, I mean, for someone
who wants to fight to the bitter end

and is as cynical as the King of Siam.

Someone like me.

I've got that in me,
that doubting and moods that change.

I'd even go as far as to say that
those feelings dictate my work.

Apart from that, I just blunder along.

Looking to see
which way the wind is blowing.

And making sure I don't crack up.
That's all.

The price of fame?

It's a strange phenomenon. I make no
secret of the fact that I live in Ostend

and people do come and bother me
now and then.

Some even go as far as ringing the
doorbell and asking for an autograph.

Sometimes there are young chicks
who think I'll want to fuck them.

Strange people, strange visitors.

Like yesterday. Three handicapped guys
came round yesterday.

Real losers.

And they were handicapped as well.

They had a rock band without a drummer
and they were looking for a drummer.

I asked how come they'd come to me

and the first one said
that his mother had thought of me.

The second one shouted that
he'd heard I was good at drumming.

The third one didn't say anything.
He just sat there, staring at my girl.

Dangerous guy. He was the singer.

And his handicap was a speech
impediment. He spoke with a lisp.

Usually you can't really refer to a lisp
as a handicap but in his case you could.

He'd also been to prison for assault.
More than once.

He said that he kind of specialised
in assault at the time.

Koen De Geyter
mainly used to beat up women.

The arrogant fucking bitches.

I'd like to drag their kissers open,
if you get me.

The way they take a drag on a cigarette.
You ever seen one take a drag?

- Eh? Have you?
- Yes, every day.

How they suck on it with their stupid
lips. I'd like to drag them open.

Get what I mean? Get it?

Watch 'em next time. I've seen 'em.
I'm not taking that!

And how they always
step in the puddles when it rains.

Never round them, in them.
As if they don't see the puddles.

No, can't say I've ever noticed that.

And how they use the phone.

Ever noticed that?
How they use the phone?

A bitch on a phone...

I'd like to beat the hell out of her.

I'd like to shove the phone
down their kisser.

And when they park...
They're finally parked OK

and then they go forward a bit,
and backward a bit.

And then forward again.
And backward again. And forward again.

And backward again.
And then they're parked OK.

The second one had a stiff arm.
Well, he had an arm he couldn't bend.

He was gay, although
he didn't really look like a faggot.

He was the one
who kept on about his mother,

which made me decide that
his interminable mother complex

could be regarded as a handicap.

His name was Jan Verbeek, the only
child of Gaston and Suzanne Verbeek.

His future looked bright
in a world like this one.

And the family bathed in bliss,
as it were.

But then it all went wrong.

And how come Jan's got a stiff arm
and his mother is bald,

I don't know.

But Koen says that
it's to do with Jan's first love.

Apparently it was
a traumatic experience.

My arm! My arm! Go away.

One day, mowing his grass
became too much for Pa Verbeek.

From then on Jan had to do
the household jobs.

Loser!

The third one was almost deaf.

Even though, at first glance,
he looked blind.

His name is Ivan, he was the guitarist
with the band without a drummer.

Ivan thinks being deaf is the most
ridiculous handicap someone can have.

Ivan wanted to become a rock star.
Deaf people don't become rock stars.

You're better off blind, he said.
You've got more chance.

A blind man playing is so pathetic
you're behind him,

even if it's only out of pity.

He was married to Marleen
and they had a child, Mia.

Look! What's this?
What's this?

- I can't play without taking something.
- I know, it's the same every week.

- What?
- It's the same every week.

I'm telling you,
it's gonna be my day today.

The guys were at the door.
I just let them in.

What a bunch of losers!

- They're handicapped. Just look at them.
- Smell them. They stink.

Fantastic, eh? Three handicapped guys
with a rock band without a drummer.

- Looking for fame and success.
- They want your success.

- That's obvious, isn't it?
- Darling, we'll use them.

There's a story in this.
What do you want?

We've been fans for ages. We've seen you
on TV, your books, interviews...

- You're quite well known, eh?
- We read that you could play the drums.

- What?
- He can play the drums.

Yes, we need a drummer.

But I think there's a problem.

- Is there? What?
- Eh?

- What problem?
- You're not handicapped.

The fourth band member
also has to have a handicap.

But you knew I wasn't handicapped.

Doesn't have to be much. A mole or
a wart or something that you can't see.

- Dries, you haven't got a handicap.
- What? What did she say?

That's it then, guys.
No handicap, no drummer in your band.

Yes, but...

- Can you play?
- He doesn't want to.

- Can't he play the drums?
- I'll think about it. Come back later.

What?

- He'll think about it. We'll come back.
- Tomorrow?

Right.

- I told you.
- We're off.

- He's much too clean.
- I could only ask, eh?

- You can see he's much too clean.
- Come on. Now isn't the right time.

- Dries speaking.
- De Geyter here. I forgot something.

What?

The band's only going to perform once.
Just one performance and that's it.

OK. Now I've got you on the phone,
I will join the band.

Really? Great! What about the handicap?

I've got a handicap, quite a
conspicuous one. I can't play the drums.

- Oh, OK.
- And I've got a good name for the band.

- The Feminists.
- The what? Feminists?

Yes, four handicapped guys
are just as good

as four feminist bitches? Get it?

Oh. Yes. OK. See you tomorrow.
Say hello to Lio.

OK. See you tomorrow.

- Who was that?
- Koen De Geyter.

What a sucker! You say you can't play
the drums and he just believes you.

- I can't play the drums.
- You can.

And you can speak perfect French.

Why d'you absolutely want to play
with that fucking band?

I don't really know. I think
I want to step outside my happy world.

Descend into
the depths of stupidity, ugliness,

obtuseness, unfaithfulness and fake.

Latch onto the life of losers,

but without belonging to that world
and in the knowledge

that I can always return
to my own world.

And to you.

Ma?

Ma? Have you gone deaf?
Why don't you answer?

Is that the next step?
Are you going deaf?

This is Dries Vanhegen. This is my ma.

Are you the famous author?
I haven't read any of your books.

A lot of people say that.
That's the price of fame.

- You haven't got a drink. Want a beer?
- No, thanks.

- Are there any beers?
- You know where the fridge is.

- Yes. And where your stupid head is.
- I'm going to check Pa.

Go and check him then.

- And you know there's no smoking indoors!
- Don't tell me!

- Tell him...
- Go and see Pa, you filthy slut!

I've had enough of you!

- Don't you want anything to drink?
- No, thanks. What's up with your pa?

Pa's not well. Now and then we have
to check that he hasn't hurt himself.

Hurt himself? Could he hang himself?
With an extension lead or something?

Come outside. I'll show you something.

Have you lived here long?

Of course, you can't compare it
to where you live.

And your pa is upstairs?

We rehearse here.
We can make a row here.

- Shall I play something?
- Yes, go on.

This is a bar.

- A bar?
- Yes, with all that beer.

- Right.
- We play here. Just a minute.

- Where did you learn that?
- Dunno. Just tried it.

Just tried it, fucked around.
How's Pa?

- He'd shit himself again.
- Again? The filthy old bugger.

- I hear you can't play the drums?
- No.

- Is there something you can do?
- Yes.

I can see from a long way away
if someone is wearing a wig.

- Get out!
- Do something about your fridge, slut!

Take him outside! Outside, I said!

- I'm going. My arm! Calm down.
- Get out of here!

- Fucking whore!
- Shut your face!

- Her wig is a bit of a sore point.
- She doesn't always wear it.

What's up with your pa? Is he ill?

- Eh?
- Yes, he's...

- Haven't you got a job?
- I'm on the dole.

I get money like that.
So why get a job?

- Got a light?
- What?

- Got a light?
- Hang on.

Give that here.

We thought about doing
a cover of Devo's Mongoloid.

- Mongoloid? That goes with our image.
- Mongols, handicapped.

- Because we are, aren't we?
- I'm not a mongol.

Isn't that the same thing? Handicapped
or mongol, that's the same thing. Fuck!

What's going on?

Fuck!

- My head, man!
- Take it easy!

- What about that cover?
- Devo's Mongoloid, man!

- Who?
- Mongoloid.

Oh, right.

Where's that fuckin' Moroccan?
How long have we been here?

- How's your pa?
- What about my pa?

- How long has he been there like that?
- Don't know. A long time.

- I feel sorry for your ma.
- Yes, so do I.

She's some crazy babe and
she's stuck with your pa.

- How long since she's had sex?
- Don't start, eh? Don't start.

- How long?
- Please don't start.

I'm not starting. I'm just asking you
a question, that's all.

- Eh?
- I don't know.

- I think she's some crazy babe.
- You'd know that better than me.

I wouldn't mind fuckin' her.
Her big tits really turn me on.

Shut your kisser!

No, I won't shut my kisser.
I think she's one hot bitch.

- I wanna shoot between her tits.
- Fuck off, man.

- You fuck off!
- You can get it yourself.

- Don't laugh like that, man.
- I was doing OK, wasn't I?

Sing a bit quieter. I can't hear myself.

OK. Three, two, one...

I don't know the lyrics,
you'll have to sing.

Fucking hell, man.
Can't you sing a bit quieter?

That's quiet, isn't it?

I can't hear myself, Ivan.
Can you sing a bit quieter?

- Sing on your own.
- That's not so difficult, is it?

Mongoloid, he was a mongoloid,
happier than you and me.

- Come on, again.
- Do I have to sing?

- Shut your kisser! May I?
- Shall I sing?

OK. Three, two, one...

Fuckin' hell, man!

I wanna fuck you.

Not now, Jan'll be home any minute.
You mustn't.

- Come here.
- Hey!

Calm down!

- I wanna poke my dick in your pussy.
- Leave me alone.

- Fuckin' hell, come here.
- I said no.

Come on, Jan's not here. Don't go on.
Fuckin' hell. Come on.

- No!
- Come on!

- I'm really gonna give you one.
- And what'll you do if Jan comes home?

Let me have that pussy! You've got
a sexy stomach. Fuckin' hell!

What a sexy fuckin' stomach!

- Will you stop it?
- What a sexy stomach!

Get off!

D'you want a kick in the balls?

Bad drumming doesn't come easily.

- Of course not. You can play the drums.
- Yes, but I can't do it.

It's really difficult.

And the number?

- They're pleased.
- Are they?

- Yes, it's a good number.
- But can those guys play?

They're fantastic musicians.

You wouldn't say so to look at them.
They look like a bunch of mongols.

Well, they really are
fantastic musicians. All of them.

They're good. Really good.
We're doing well.

- Who's that?
- What?

- What is he doing here?
- He's come to watch.

- Chuck that faggot out!
- He's come to watch.

- Verbeek, chuck that pansy out.
- But he's just come to watch!

- Fuck, are you asleep again?
- I was just dozing off.

- You mean you've been asleep all day!
- Yeah, sure!

Get him a beer! I'm going to
get some cigarettes. Hurry up!

- I'm doing it!
- Jesus!

- Not for me, thanks.
- No?

- What does he do for work?
- He just messes about. Fucks around.

Just fucks around.

- Is it a boy or a girl?
- Hasn't got a cock or tits.

- So it's a little girl.
- Yeah.

- What about you? Are you that writer?
- Yes.

- Haven't read any of your books.
- Can you read?

I'm not really interested in reading.

- Did you go to school?
- Until I was 15.

So, yeah. Got a cigarette?

Yes. Here you are.

- Thanks. I stink.
- Yeah, you do.

- My cunt does too.
- Your cunt?

Yeah. Of fish. Rotten fish.

Are you happy about that?

What can you do about it? If it stinks,
it stinks. It's probably rotten.

We used to have a gardener
and his cock was all sticky.

He stank of pigeon shit,
the whole thing did.

- His cock stank of pigeon shit?
- Yeah. And it was all sticky.

What are you talking about now?

- Are you moaning again?
- No.

Do you have to moan, the one time that
we've got a visitor? Aren't you happy?

- Yeah, yeah.
- We'll be on stage together next week.

- Yeah, right!
- Drop dead first.

- What?
- I'm off. Bye.

Say hello to Lio.

- Who's this?
- This is Christine.

Christine is
the Minister for Hygiene's daughter.

Hygiene? Then your vagina
won't stick of rotten fish, will it?

Hello. Dries speaking.

Hello Dries. It's Christine here.
From yesterday. We slept together.

Yes. I know who you are.
What d'you want?

I rang to ask something.

If it's for sex,
you'll have to wait until Lio's home.

I only have sex with other women
if Lio's there.

No, it's not for sex.
Well, that's not the main reason.

- I want to ask you something.
- Do you? What?

I'm in the middle of writing my thesis
and I'm doing a survey.

- What kind of thesis?
- For my sociology degree.

The title is Collective Sorrow.

Good title. I'm mad about titles.
Ask your question.

What were you thinking, I mean,
I'd like to know where you were,

what you thought and
what was the first thing you said

when you heard that
King Boudewijn had died?

Well, well. Sweet Christine,

with your inspiring tits and
a cunt you can drink honey out of.

So you think that
events such as the death

of His Majesty King Boudewijn the First
lead to collective sorrow?

Darling. Firstly,
collective sorrow doesn't exist.

Secondly, it'd only happen

if the price of petrol or bread
suddenly shot through the roof.

But not when someone dies.

Certainly not a moronic arsehole
like King Boudewijn.

OK, for the first few days
after something like that

there may be
a sort of collective surprise.

A collective who'd have thought? And
last week he looked so well on the TV.

But you can't call that
collective sorrow, you horny bitch.

It's not the sort of sorrow
you can write a whole thesis about.

Because, like I said,
collective sorrow doesn't exist.

There's only personal sorrow.

The King of Siam was the last king to
almost provoke something collective.

- Do you still want to take part or not?
- Yes, of course. Why not?

What did you think when you heard
that King Boudewijn had died?

At 3 o'clock that night
Lio went to bed to go to sleep

and there was plaintive,
almost unbearable music on the radio.

Then I realised
there'd either been a terrible disaster

or someone very important had died.

Whose trip across the Styx
was accompanied by strange music

that wasn't constantly interrupted by
the usual DJ bullshit.

It wasn't me. I was still alive.

Not Phoebe or Gloria, I could feel
their heartbeat in my arteries as usual.

Nor my mother,
she'd already passed on.

And suddenly I knew.

It was the king.
It had to be him.

Lio.

The king has died.

Yes? What do you want?

- I've come to get you for the rehearsal.
- Rehearsal?

- We've got to rehearse. Come on.
- I'll get my jacket and I'll be down.

There he is. Verbeek.

- You shaking, man?
- No, I'm not shaking.

- Is something up?
- No.

- No?
- No, nothing's up.

- Hello.
- Fuckin' hell! We've had it!

- Why? What's the problem?
- Harry Mulisch is going to Leffinge.

- Who?
- Harry Mulisch. Hard rockers.

- D'you know them?
- Yes.

What's the problem?
What does it matter if they're going?

- I bumped into the singer yesterday.
- Yeah, Big Dick.

Big Dick?

They call him Big Dick.
Stop interrupting me!

It's almost weekend,
I'd like to cut my grass.

- What?
- A play on words, a metaphor. Jesus!

Why do they call him Big Dick?

If they called him Big Cunt
he'd be a woman.

I was in a bar yesterday with Big Dick.

- Which bar?
- Christ, I don't know what it's called.

Carry on, Van Dorpe.
It doesn't matter which bar it was.

I was sitting there with Big Cunt,
Big Dick, having a quiet chat.

Suddenly he says, Harry Mulisch is
taking part in the rally in Leffinge.

I say, so are The Feminists.
Who, he asks.

The Feminists, I say.
He doesn't know what I'm on about.

I told him we've got a new band.

And that we... No.

And that we've got a new number,
a brand new number, Deep Fish.

To cut a long story short,
he's also got a number called Deep Fish.

He says one of us just has to
write a new number or change the name.

- That'd be ridiculous, with two...
- What?

If there are two bands with...

What's the problem? Harry Mulisch
can write another number.

No, he said
we have to write another number.

And why did
the moronic arsehole say that?

He said that he'd written Deep Fish
five years ago.

Fantastic. To which you replied that
we'd written Deep Fish six years ago.

That we wrote Deep Fish six years ago.

I didn't say that.
I said we'd written it two weeks ago.

Fantastic. Brilliant, Van Dorpe. Thanks.

Thanks. He also said that
if we dare to play Deep Fish,

he'll climb on the stage
and smash us all in the kisser.

- The kisser?
- Ever been thumped by him?

We're playing Deep Fish, not Harry
Mulisch. I'll have a talk with Big Dick.

- D'you know him?
- We were both students of Dutch.

What?

- Students of Dutch?
- Is your chick as hot as she looks?

Want me to come?

Did you know my dad was the first
one round here to bring in darkies?

- Your father?
- Yes, my father.

He was an eel seller. He sold eels.
Skinned eels and stuff.

- Maybe that's why I've got a big dick.
- Could be.

He was fed up with employing Belgians,
he thought they didn't work hard.

He had the chance to import
an Indian guy, a dark guy.

A dark Indian, a real Indian.
So he imported the Indian.

He came to work for us.
A good guy, a decent guy.

But he kept talking about
fickie fickie.

- You have done fickie fickie? He asked.
- What's that?

Fickie fickie.

All the darkies come here
to fuck our women.

We should send 'em all fuckin' back!

He brought his wife over.
They bred like rabbits.

I think the whole of Ostend is
full of Indians. Fuckin' hell!

- And we pay for them.
- Right, and we pay for them.

They receive benefits and we...

We mustn't say anything,
otherwise they say you're a racist.

Fuckin' hell!

Jesus, look who it is!
What do you want?

- How are you?
- Fine. Take a seat. Want a drink?

Or are you on the wagon
like all the old drunks?

- Water.
- Water! Erna, two beers and a water.

Jesus, just look at you.

Who'd have thought
you'd become famous?

- Happened by accident.
- By accident? The luck of the devil!

- How's your career going?
- My career?

- Have you started that book yet?
- Yeah, I've already started my book.

I do fuck all! Fuck all!

In the evening I rehearse with
Harry Mulisch. That's my rock band.

We're going to take part in
the first big rock rally of Leffinge.

I'll give it to you in black and white,
you ugly walnut, we're going to win.

The first big rock competition
of Leffinge is a stupid name.

And give it to you in black and
white is a stupid expression.

Anything else you want to know?

Big Dick. Why do they call you that?

- Is it metaphorical?
- Metaphorical, my arse.

Erna! Come here, you whore.

Show our visitor
why they call me Big Dick.

Come on, bitch. Come on.

Go on, show him.

It's something else, eh?

I made this. With my cock.

My creation.

Amazing, eh?

Jesus, it stinks in here!

I think she wants a piss.
Let's get out of here.

I get it, Erna.

- Sorry.
- Sorry, my arse.

There's nothing she likes more than
showing her exploded rat to visitors.

Don't you think
exploded rat sounds stupid?

- Yeah. Anything else?
- The Deep Fish matter.

It's very simple.
The Feminists axe their version.

And we don't. As simple as Simon.

- I've got one suggestion.
- Don't bother.

- Give me a piece of paper and a pen.
- Erna, a piece of paper and a pen

for the writer here.

Fuckin' hell, you slow bitch!
Come on!

Back in your cage!

- What are you doing?
- Just a minute.

- Tell me when you've finished.
- Here you are.

If you get rid of Deep Fish,
you can have these lyrics.

Fuckin' hell!

How do you do that?

This is a good number.
It's a good number.

This is a mega hit.

But how do you do that?
Let's have a drink to it.

- Erna, four beers and a water.
- No, thanks. I'm off.

- Five beers and no water.
- See you in Leffinge?

- Make sure you come second.
- You too.

Hey.

- Who are you?
- This is our roadie.

Roadie? Who are you?

He's coming to Leffinge
to help with things.

- Who are you?
- I'm Dorian.

- Roadie. He's coming...
- He asked me to...

- To come so that...
- And take things down, etc.

D'you fuck him?

- No, it's just to help.
- D'you fuck him?

Yes. But that's got nothing to do
with it, as long as the work is done.

- What's all the row for?
- Will you go away, Ma Verbeek?

This is a meeting between The Feminists'
drummer, bass player and roadie.

Don't you understand Flemish?

Get out of here, Ma.
Go inside and do some cleaning.

Fuck off!
Don't stick your nose in.

- Is it OK? Can he come?
- Yes.

Is it OK? He can come?

Verbeek. Verbeek!

Two things.

Firstly,
no French-kissing the roadie in public.

- OK.
- And something else, Dorian.

Where were you when you heard
King Boudewijn had farted his last fart?

- His last fart?
- When you heard he was dead, you pansy!

- He was dead? Where was I?
- Yes. You're quick on the uptake!

You and I are gonna have
some good discussions!

I'll repeat the question,
in case you've forgotten.

Where were you
when King Boudewijn died?

- I don't really know.
- Just answer!

- That's ages ago.
- Is that hard?

- No, it's not hard but...
- Where were you? Answer me.

I heard it on the radio, I think.
Yes, on the radio.

- In my bedroom. I was in bed.
- Who were you in bed with?

- Who were you in bed with?
- Koen's not coming today.

- What's the matter with him?
- Problems. Serious ones.

- Shall I go and see him?
- Yeah, go and see him.

- Right.
- Shall I come too?

No, stay here. I'm off.
See you later.

Where were you?

- Where?
- We had a rehearsal.

- Oh. How did it go?
- Brilliantly. With no singer.

There's blood on the wall.

Yeah, so?
I hit her and made her nose bleed.

- Who?
- Who?

A filthy slut from the bar.

With dyed blonde hair.

She asked for it.
She wanted to come back to my flat.

OK, I said. Come on then.

What had she done wrong? Smoked
a cigarette? Drunk a glass of wine?

Did she phone someone? Have a hooked
nose? Remind you of your bald SS bitch?

Moronic arsehole!

- D'you want to sing at Leffinge?
- What d'you think?

So don't call me an arsehole,
you arsehole!

Fine, don't go on!

One of these days
I'm gonna give your Lio one.

Thanks.

Dries, you mentioned the King of Siam
before. Can you tell me anything else?

I'm not his biographer
but I do know a few things about him.

That he was a much-loved king. An honest
head of state. That sort of thing.

But he was also very active
in other areas.

He was also an inventor, for example.

Of all the inventions that
can definitely be attributed to him...

- The game of chess is the most important.
- Chess?

De Geyter, where were you when you heard
that King Boudewijn had died?

In bed?

That impotent postage stamp? King
Boudewijn? His Majesty? That saint?

What's so funny? Eh?

What's so funny about the death
of a decent, monogamous man?

I'll tell you something. I heard
he sometimes did it with little boys.

Verbeek, chuck that pile of shit in
a cesspit and look for another roadie.

- It was a joke.
- No, seriously. That's what I heard.

You faggots think the world is simple.

We're faggots, everyone's
a faggot. The king and the cat too.

I don't like things like that.
Another thing, Dorian.

My drum isn't right.
Are you going to see to it?

I'll see to it.

It was a joke.

Koen, we still don't know
where you were when the king died.

- Look, your sweetheart!
- You here again?

- Ivan phoned.
- Who?

Ivan. His little daughter has died.

I'll kill her! It's her fault!

- Where is she?
- What?

- Where's your wife?
- At her mother's, of course!

Things get a bit difficult and
she's off! Instead of being here!

- She does fuck all!
- Ivan, how did the kid die?

- What?
- How did she die?

Don't know.
She'd had stomach ache for three days.

The kid had been lying there crying
for three days.

But she does fuck all.
She gave her some coke.

I'm not a doctor. I don't know, man!

I have to cope all by myself.

- People like you shouldn't breed.
- What?

You shouldn't breed. I've been shouting
that for ever but no one listens.

I've got to cope all by myself.
What do I do now? Eh?

You can... Fuck!

I'm telling you, you can't do anything
about it. Don't you understand?

The kid was lying there crying
for three days. And what does she do?

- Ivan!
- She couldn't care less.

Come on, let's go to the beach.

- What?
- To the beach. Come on!

You've got to help me, Dries.

I can't help you.

I can't help you.

I don't know what to do.
I haven't...

Can't you do anything?
You're an intelligent guy.

- You could have yourself committed.
- What?

You could have yourself committed.

Mother, is Marleen here?

Where are you, slut?

- Don't start!
- Where are you?

What, don't start?
I'm gonna kill you!

- I'm gonna kill you.
- Leave me alone!

I'm gonna kill you!

Did you hear? With a kitchen knife.
You go at a slut like that with a drill!

De Geyter knows all the answers.
D'you know of a new guitarist?

- Do you?
- No.

Actually...

Dorian used to play the guitar.

Of course, Dorian is a fantastic
guitarist. We should've known!

- Yes, Dorian.
- He can have a go. Can he have a go?

Play something.

- If it's no good, it's no good.
- Right.

Careful. That's Ivan's guitar. If you
break it you'll have to pay for it.

He won't break it.
He's played the guitar before.

When and where did you learn to do that,
you amazing faggot?

That's one problem less.
But now we haven't got a roadie.

We don't really need one.

- Jimmy could do it.
- Who?

- Jimmy.
- That faggot?

- Are you gonna find someone else?
- Man! Not a faggot!

- Are you gonna find one?
- Fuckin' hell, two faggots is enough!

Jimmy then.

This is the second millennium, one
faggot more or less makes no difference.

I think it does.

- You find someone then.
- Something else.

- What?
- He's a faggot...

- But has he got any other handicap?
- Yes.

- Yes?
- Yes.

- Yes, actually.
- Here.

Shit, man, what's that? Revolting!

- That's revolting.
- D'you mind?

It's no secret that
people in rehab centres

are used for medical experiments.

They tried out some of
the latest techniques on Van Dorpe.

Contrary to what you'd expect,
these worked on Ivan.

He could hear again.

- When did you go deaf?
- Oh, is sir a doctor?

No, just out of interest.
Pals who...

Pals? Are you using the word pals?
You're a rotten baboon!

Hey, if you want to know, I'll tell you.

One day, I walked past Ma's bedroom door

and I looked through the keyhole and
saw her getting off under another guy.

- I went deaf right there, on the spot.
- Deaf? Not blind?

What are you doing here?
Fuck off, arsehole! Get out!

- Can everyone just come in?
- It's always the same.

I want some dope, man.
My dope's gone.

- I want my little girl.
- Your little girl is dead.

Why did you let her eat shit?

Maybe 'cos I was high on dope,
out of my head.

Maybe I never saw her eating it.
Maybe I thought it was chocolate.

You look at your beer.
Behave, eh? You behave!

- You too, eh? Behave.
- Got a problem?

I haven't got a problem.
Have you got a problem?

- I haven't got a problem.
- You haven't got a problem. Nor have I.

You can tell me if you have.

Here's another bunch of pansies!
The Feminists.

- Big Dick. How are you?
- How are you?

- Fine.
- Well?

Want a beer? Beers?

Four beers, five beers and a water.

- Dries, is that Big Dick?
- Yes.

- You talking about me? What d'you want?
- You're Big Dick, so...

- I'm Big Dick, so?
- Well...

I'm Big Dick. Who are you?
Little Cock?

Wanna see it, my big dick? Wanna see it?
You can see my big dick. Here you are.

Here you are, man.
Here you are.

D'you mind?

- Wow!
- Well?

- Is that a big dick or what?
- Yes.

Lick it, you filthy faggot!

- Lick it then.
- Come to the toilet with me?

Go on, get out of here.
I'll fuckin' stick it up your arse!

You're never to go with that guy, OK?

You're never to go with that guy!

- OK, OK. Drop your trousers.
- Wait, wait.

- Drop your trousers.
- Wait, darling.

I'll put it in. I'll put it in.

I'll put it in. Come on.
Give it here. Yes, there.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Yes, more. More.
Not too deep. Not too deep.

Not too deep! Not too deep! No!

- Shut up, lowlife!
- Take it out!

Fuck! Fuckin' hell!

Fuckin' hell!

With you lying there like that,
I can say what I like.

D'you want to know something?

I like sucking off cocks.

Have done for a long time.

I sucked off my first dick
when I was sixteen.

It's weird, the first time.

Like a cigarette.
Doesn't taste that good.

You have to fill it up.
Play everything as much as possible.

- I played too much.
- Too much?

- Yes. With his stiff arm.
- The drummer.

- Everything together. That's best.
- No, just over it.

- Here's Jimmy. Does it still hurt?
- Does it still hurt?

- Has it closed yet?
- I'll need a Pamper until I'm fifty!

- Fuckin' hell.
- What's that?

The poster for Leffinge.
Look, here we are.

- Take it.
- Come on!

- Harry Mulisch is playing at 8 o'clock.
- A real bunch of arseholes.

- We're playing at half past ten.
- Real arseholes!

The Fake Of Gentlemen are also on here.
One of those guys has got cancer.

- That's good for us.
- Six Million Jews.

Great name!
How come I didn't think of it?

'Cos you never think of anything, except
about fucking someone's bald mother.

Shut up about that! Shut up about my ma,
OK? Please, stop! We're here to...

- How's your pa?
- What d'you mean?

How's your pa?

Well? How's your pa?

He's not doing very well.

- I asked how your pa is.
- Not doing very well.

I'd heard he wasn't doing too well and
I'd just like to know how he is.

I'm not asking you to save
the world's economy, am I? Meathead.

How's your pa?

My pa's not doing too well.

- Can I go and see him?
- No.

I'd like to go and see him now.
Can I? I'll go now.

No, you can't go and see him.
No one's allowed in.

- Why not?
- Because not.

- Why not?
- No one's allowed in.

- Why not, Verbeek?
- My ma doesn't want people in there.

Your ma? A dead daughter is bad,
but your mother complex...

- is also serious...
- Leave him alone, man!

Have you been fucking
without splashing blood on the wall?

- See you the day after tomorrow.
- That's it, get lost.

Don't go now. We've got to...
What's your handicap?

- See you in Leffinge, poo pokers.
- What shall we do then?

How are you going to drum?
We haven't got the handicap yet.

Of course, who else would it be?
Who else would it be?

- It's nothing to do with him.
- So it's my fault?

- It always is!
- It's nothing to do with him.

Who asked you to sit down?

Who asked you to ask me in?

I'll be brief.
Your wig's crooked.

You make me want to puke.

I don't give a shit
that you're a well-known writer.

I'm doing it all for Jan.

For his band.

Why don't you get another drummer?

Because he needs someone famous.
And get your feet off that chair.

Dries? Come inside,
I want to ask you something.

- Who asked you to take a seat?
- Who asked you to ask me in?

- I'll be brief.
- Your wig is crooked.

You make me want to puke.

You may be a good writer
but you're still a piece of shit.

The only reason you're allowed
in my house is because my son needs you.

- Why doesn't he get another drummer?
- Because he needs someone famous.

And get your feet off my chair.

And stop asking all those questions.
Leave us alone.

Leave Koen alone, leave Jan alone.
Leave us all alone.

First, you want me to stop
asking questions about Pa Verbeek.

Second, you don't want me to joke
about you fucking that other baldy.

- Get lost.
- I've also got a first and a second.

First, where were you when you heard
that King Boudewijn was murdered?

Murdered? He wasn't murdered.

He died in his bed.
He was a decent man.

But shit like you hasn't got any respect
for anyone. Get out of here.

Second, when I go in somewhere I put
my feet where I feel like putting them.

You fuckin' bastard! Look at that!
My cupboard! Look at that!

You fuckin' bastard! You brainless
writer! With your filthy mouth!

Verbeek!

Verbeek!
What's that fat cow doing here?

- She's our manager.
- Manager?

Who needs a manager
for such a crap event?

She can help. Tell us
when we have to go on stage and stuff.

Bullshit!

- What can she do? She can't...
- Fine, fine.

I'd like to introduce you to Ivan Van Dorpe.
Ex-junkie, ex-father, ex-colleague.

- And today drum roadie.
- Is he?

We'd agreed I was roadie today.

- You should be glad you're still alive.
- Six Million Jews?

There's only a few left and
they breed like rabbits.

- Who are you?
- I'm Stef Vanneste.

The mayor's son, the organiser...
Get your hands off me.

- And presenter of all this.
- I'll have some coke and some grass.

- He's got a great arse.
- Who are you? Guys!

- Who d'you think? Eh?
- I don't know.

- The Feminists.
- Oh, that'll be right.

I've only got six passes.
I'll have some more made.

- Beers?
- Watch out!

The Feminists. The sausage jockey
is there too. Had it stitched yet?

- Leave Jimmy alone.
- Shut up! Want my dick in your mouth?

Stick it up my arse.
Like with Jimmy.

Fuck, you talk like a man!
Did you teach him that?

Hey, Nico, up to your tricks again?
Is that 'cos Erna's not with you?

Bring someone to fuck with you?

Yes. But she hasn't got
an exploded rat between her legs.

Arsehole.

Here you are.

- That's not right either.
- Shut your stinkin' kisser or I'll...

And don't tell my drum roadie
to shut his stinkin' kisser.

- OK, lame brain?
- Lame brain! Like it!

- Must remember that.
- What with?

What with, yeah, right.
Come on, it's going to start.

Good evening, Leffinge.
Poetry from Harry Mulisch from Ostend.

Bunch of wankers!

Now you're gonna hear some real music!

Well, well, look who it is.

Are you writing another book?

- Yes.
- I've read all your books.

- What's the title going to be?
- The 12:07 train.

Is it going to be another thick book?

Yes. In the first chapter
it's running half an hour late.

- Who is?
- Your brain tumour.

- Is it going to be a thick book?
- Yes.

Have you got a title already?

- Goodbye, I'm going.
- Oh. Good title.

Been giving someone a blow job?

Listen, ma of all managers.
Tell Stef Vanneste to announce us

as The Feminists, four handicapped
guys from Ostend. OK?

There may be women or faggots
in the jury. That helps.

Rub that red muck off your face.
People will start wondering.

Found yourself a new victim?

Fuck you!

Fuckin' hell!
My dick's caught in my zip!

Fuck! My dick's caught in it!

My dick's caught in my fuckin' zip!

Next on are Funeral Dress!

And you can all kiss my arse!

Leffinge!

Bunch of bastards!

The following band has come straight
from Ostend!

Four handicapped guys.
The Feminists.

You with the exploded mattress
on your head, you're just an arsehole!

Leffinge!
We're gonna do some damage!

That was crap music! Fuckin' crap music!

And now the jury's going to decide
who's the winner.

Meanwhile, we're going to listen to
the biggest tosser in Belgium,

the biggest tosser who thinks
he's gonna be a hit in France,

here is Aldo!

We don't need to go on and on about it.
Only one band is good enough

and that's Harry Mulisch.

I don't agree.

- Hear it once and it sticks in your head.
- Let it stick, it makes no difference.

It's rubbish. Useless.

I don't know. It's got shit potential.

The Feminists were the only ones
who were any good. They should win.

They're handicapped,
they could use some help.

- That's one argument.
- Come off it, handicapped!

Vanhegen is handicapped, yeah right!
Handicapped my arse!

- If he's handicapped, I'm a nun.
- You're a nun.

D'you know what? Heads or tails.

- I'm off.
- It's always the same.

- Heads or tails.
- Yes, heads or tails.

OK. We'll sort it out like that.
Then that's it.

Tails is The Feminists.
If I can manage it.

Up it goes.

- The Feminists have won, guys.
- It's heads. It's Mulisch.

No, it's not. I'm telling you,
The Feminists have won!

What's up with you?
I'm telling you, The Feminists have won.

Bunch of arseholes!

Stop throwing beakers!

Here comes the result of the fuckin'
rock competition here in Leffinge.

Leffinge that votes for my father.

And my father is a big fat arsehole,

who doesn't know the difference between
a right-wing cunt and a left-wing cock.

Stop that! Or d'you want me
to come and smash your face in?

Here comes the result.
In third place, Six Million Jews.

In second place, Harry Mulisch.

And in first place, The Feminists!

Come up on stage, guys. Come here.

I've got some questions for you.
Come here.

How come you're famous
with such a stupid kisser?

A few days later Verbeek phoned me
and asked me to call round.

He sounded quite official, saying The
Feminists had a meeting at 8 o'clock.

I had to laugh.

I said, Feminists? What fuckin'
Feminists? Are you off your rocker?

Have you been devoured
by your bald mother?

He just said, our manager has got
other plans. 8 o'clock. See you then.

I went. I was curious.

I knew what they were up to but I was
curious to hear how they'd put it.

Lio said I should go,
that it'd probably be embarrassing

and I could then tell her all about it.
Lio loves listening to my stories.

I went in. I could only just
stop myself from puking.

I told Ma Verbeek she was crazy.

I told them the whole thing
had been a silly joke on my part,

that had lasted a bit too long.

Everyone started shouting and screaming.

Jimmy shouted that
he would finally be a drummer.

In short, Jimmy became the new drummer
and Stef Vanneste the new singer.

Everyone seemed determined.
Ma Verbeek couldn't be budged either.

I said that they'd forgotten one thing,
one detail,

that the drum was mine and
I could do what I wanted with it.

I think they understood.

Do you wear a wig?
I didn't know that.

Later that evening I heard
Harry Mulisch's single on the radio.

And it was then
that Christine phoned me.

I told her about the King of Siam,
that his wives had left him four times.

It wasn't because he didn't show them
any love or friendship or affection.

He was the perfect husband to each wife.
The only problem was his tool.

A dick that I could only compare to one
I'd recently seen at a rock festival.

I told her the singer from Harry Mulisch
dropped his trousers.

And that at that moment all I could
think of was the King of Siam's dick.

Christine started breathing heavily
while I told her

that we then talked to Big Dick
about poetry, literature,

politics and relationships. And after
a quarter of an hour I'd forgotten

about the monster
between the guy's legs.

She asked me
if I could arrange for her to meet him.

I said I couldn't promise anything
but that I'd do my best.

- What are you doing here, man?
- It's nice and clean here again.

I had an illegal black woman yesterday.

Strange, eh? That a black woman's blood
is as red as ours?

It tastes a bit different. More sour.

- But she had a fat cunt. That was fine.
- Yeah, De Geyter.

What about Ma Verbeek? Eh?

- What?
- Still got her on your mind?

What d'you think?
Of course I've still got her on my mind.

- What's it to you?
- Fuck all.

- But there's Pa Verbeek, all locked up.
- What about the lunatic?

- What if we were to let him out?
- What?

It's a stupid idea, but I'd love to see
Ma Verbeek's face if she comes home

and he's not lying there, tied up,
but jumps out from behind the hedge

or is sitting at the kitchen table.

She'd piss herself. Great idea!
Why didn't I think of it?

- When?
- Now.

The Feminists are performing in a bar
and their manager's always with them.

That guy's lying there all alone.

Right. OK. Fine. Let's do it.

- There's one problem.
- What?

We'll have to break in.
Have you got a key?

Of course I have.
I'm having an affair with the woman.

I fuck her day and night.

We'll go separately. If it goes wrong,
we'll escape separately.

- You've prepared this, eh?
- No.

- Turn the light off.
- Put it back on, Koen.

Use your brain.
Who lives round here? No one.

Turn it on.

You're crazy, man.

Yeah, sometimes. When it suits me.

- Let me trash the place.
- Don't be stupid!

- I feel like trashing...
- OK, OK.

I've got another idea.
Where is the old geezer?

Upstairs.

Straight ahead.
Wait a minute, it's locked.

Undo him.

Show that you're a man.

- I'm thirsty.
- Let's get out of here.

- Let's a have a drink first.
- He'll be down any minute.

We've got plenty of time.

What d'you want, Dries?
Wine? Gin?

A beer.

Ma Verbeek.

She treated me like shit sometimes.

She whipped me, had a filthy mouth.

But she paid me attention,
gave me affection.

I'm satisfied with that.

From the age of twelve I cycled to
the factory every day on my little bike.

At that time
they didn't talk about child labour.

Rich children went to school
and the trash had to go to work.

Now they make a big fuss about it.

But they shouldn't forget that
our country was built on that.

I'm proud of that.

I'm HIV positive. I've got AIDS.

I've had everyone I can.

I don't want to die alone.
They can all come with me.

I've even had a woman.

I used to play football.

I enjoyed that.

Especially afterwards.

In the shower.

With all the boys from my team.

I liked them all.

But when I got older,

then...

Then it became a problem.

I always got a hard-on.

The others didn't like that.

I had to leave.

Jan.

Fifty centimetres when it's asleep.

Imagine that between your legs,
as a woman.

But they all came back.

I don't know why.
A sort of sick curiosity, maybe?

But they didn't want to fuck,
just give me a blow job.

But I got so fed up with that
after a while.

They were soon lying
on their back again.

I don't know. A big dick,
all men want that. They can have mine.

When I was six,
I often had sex with my father.

He wasn't a minister then.

And...

I can clearly remember the feeling of
that big, fat dick inside of me.

At that time
that dick seemed gigantic to me.

And...

I've carried on searching
for that feeling.

In fact, I've got him
to thank for everything.

Loser!