Original subtitles

No, thank you.

All right?

My nerves are frayed.

Are you Mr Redford?

I'm deaf, I'm mute, my synapses are firing out of control,

I can't think a single clear thought.

I'm trying so hard to concentrate, but every five minutes,

someone crashes into my space.

If I don't accomplish something today,

I shall not be responsible for my actions.

Are you Mr Redford?

Mr Redford does not exist without his work.

Why can't anyone understand that?

There, a signed first edition.

You have what you came for.

Now, I beg you, leave me alone.

I beg you!

There's a spelling mistake on this.

What? Impossible! You lie.

Yeah. I just wanted you to keep the door open.

You are a... Na-na-na!

Has someone died here? Yes.

Then you're going to want to invite me in.

Ah, so you're the cleaner.

No. I am the crime scene cleaner.

Big difference. Huge.

My work starts where others pass in horror.

A tired cliche, that I'm sure you've used a thousand times.

I hate your beard.

What? Yeah, that's not a tired cliche, is it?

Now, would you like to invite me in?

Now is not a good time.

Right.

OK, well, you'll have to sign this to say you don't need my services.

And if you've got blood and human remains in there,

you might want to clean them up quickly,

or you're going to have some unwanted housemates. Bye.

Wait! what unwanted housemates?

Bacteria.

Oh, bacteria.

The rats. Rats? Yes, rats!

A real vermin house party. Enjoy.

All right, y-you may come in.

No. No, you're all right. You've signed this now.

I...think I'll go and have a lovely beer.

Please! I-I don't want a vermin house party.

I have a deadline.

Oh, dear.

£20. I'll give you £20 for beer.

I don't even like beer.

I do like beer. Go on.

Come on, then.

I shall be working in here.

Please do not enter at any point, for any reason.

There. As you can see, the blood is extensive.

I've covered it with brown paper because it's a little visceral.

It's a little...? It is triggering.

Everyone's getting triggered these days, aren't they?

Lot of triggering going on.

No?

Not a lot of him left. Her.

Oh. What, er...?

Some kind of explosion, sending shrapnel everywhere.

That wood-burner is connected to the heating system.

They think a malfunction caused a gas backdraught,

simultaneously slicing and incinerating the victim.

Essentially, she burnt to death because she was too old to escape.

Horrific.

Can't even imagine.

You're a cleaner, you're not paid to imagine.

Hey, we can imagine!

Go on, then.

A moon.

OK, well, now the heating isn't working,

and I'm writing a novel set during a Provencal summer.

I'm freezing. I'm in hell.

Right. Were you here when it happened?

Thankfully no, I was at a reading.

The idea that my friend's shit poetry saved my life...

Well, the irony is not lost.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to Provence.

I've got a question.

Yes?

Who was it? Who was what?

Who was that?

Oh. My grandmother.

Oh!

OK, well, I'll...

Good.

And, you know...

I'm sorry. What for?

For your loss.

Why are you sorry? Did you kill her?

I was just being polite, mate.

It's another worn-out cliche.

You're not sorry. You didn't know my grandmother.

Why would you be sorry that she's dead?

It's a bastardisation of the language.

You're right. I couldn't care less she's dead.

There! Now, doesn't that feel fresher?

The clean air of honesty!

I'm glad she's dead!

Why would you be glad? I got carried away, it's...

You are indifferent.

You didn't know my grandmother.

You are indifferent to her life and death.

That is proper.

Sorry.

About saying I'm glad, not about her death.

About which you are...?

Indifferent?

Dick. I can hear you.

Sorry.

But not about your dead nan.

I must have quiet.

I've got to move the paper.

Well, move it silently.

It's paper. It scrunches.

It's sort of known for its scrunchiness.

It's going to take ages to clear the area like that.

I'll scrunch it all at once. I'll speed scrunch.

I can't work next to scrunching,

regardless of the scrunch rate.

Well, I don't like tippy-tappy.

Tippy-tappy doesn't affect your work!

Scrunching affects mine.

The fact that I'm using words like "tippy-tappy"

and "scrunch rate" proves it.

You've reduced my vocabulary to yours!

Please, I beg you, I must have quiet.

Fine.

But I know words you don't know.

I very much doubt it, with the greatest of respect.

Crackletranton. What?

Yeah, you don't know that word, do you?

You've clearly made it up.

Perhaps I did make it up - but you didn't know it, did you?

Yeah, yeah, I'm here.

What's it like? It's a crackletranton.

OK, you want to dance? Let's dance!

My synapses are on fire.

I am on the verge of writer's block.

I don't suppose there's an equivalent in the world of cleaning,

so let me try and put it to you in such a way as you understand.

If I don't finish this chapter today,

I will kill myself.

Does that make you understand?

I will snuff out my life force,

then you'll have a death

that you can legitimately tell people you're sorry about,

because you caused it!

All you have to do is clean,

and all I ask of you, within that most basic of tasks,

is that you clean quietly!

Do you understand?!

Yes.

Yes, I fully understand.

This? Aw... I've got cleaner's block.

You son of a bitch!

Yeah. It's a very serious condition.

I could be here for months,

if I don't decide to use the vacuum cleaner

to hoover away my life force.

It's money, is it? That's what talks to you people, isn't it?

Hard cash.

20 not enough to guzzle away?

£50...if I don't hear a peep.

150, and I'll be like a mouse that hovers.

Yeah, a hover mouse.

You can't use that, I'm writing a children's book.

£100, cash.

The only noise you will hear from now on is the tippy-tappy

of your porky little fingers.

Le Responsable by Jacques Dutronc

Oh, f...!

Oh, hello, little fella.

You look lost.

Ruff!

Argh!

I've been trying, mate!

You're bleeding.

Yes, it's a shaving cut.

You shave your forehead?

Yes, I'm sorry, I've got a hairy forehead.

I'm sorry about my frostiness.

It's not you.

I'm burned out, on empty.

I've been trying to describe someone climbing some stairs

for nearly four days.

Four days? How big's the house?

No, I've spent four days trying to find the right word.

"Floating" is too ethereal,

"hurrying" is too urgent.

"He mastered the stairs" is too masculine,

"trudging" too subservient.

"His feet swallowed the stairs" is sexualised.

I liked "he staired up" for a while,

then I realised it's a nonsensical pun.

The other characters are waiting for him at the top of the stairs,

but I can't continue the story until I have the right word.

It's a wolf in my mind, do you understand?

A wolf that consumes my mind.

Stumble?

Graham Greene!

Stumble, yeah?

Ah, another part of the jigsaw of madness.

I should get you a beer to celebrate.

No, no, I can't drink during the week.

I've got a condition.

It means once I start, I can't stop.

Medical condition?

Yeah, it's called, er...

..being an absolute legend.

Oh.

So, you are a crime scene cleaner?

I am. And what does that involve?

It's mainly delivering patio furniture.

A joke.

Yeah. Very good. Enjoyable.

And what is this little cleaning agent?

It's sodium hydroxide. It's for dissolving flesh.

Eh!

Two jokes, two sentences.

Maybe I should become a writer.

Don't. It's mental torture.

Can I tell you something?

I actually won a little writing award at school once.

Go on.

We had to come up with an advertising slogan for a product,

and I got given cigarettes.

Shows you how long ago it was, and...

Oh...it doesn't matter.

It was stupid.

Please, I'm interested.

It was just...

"Fancy a fag?

"Have a drag."

Just simple.

You can use it, if you want.

No, I won't be using it.

No? I was thinking he could use it when he gets

to the top of the stairs.

Everyone could say, "Oh, you look stressed. Fancy a fag?"

"I'll have a drag."

It's shit.

It's the mindless utterance of a cleaner-to-be.

I'm a crime scene cleaner.

Yes, yes. "Pass in horror," etc, etc.

Look, can I ask you something? A serious question.

Quickly, please.

Why aren't you upset about your gran?

What makes you think I'm not upset?

Well, normally, people are affected by a loss.

They show it in some way.

What about your nan?

She was an extraordinary woman, and her loss, a fire in my soul.

Tell your face. Tell my face what?

Normally, people...cry?

I can't afford to cry.

Look, I could break down now, in front of you, rivers of tears,

and fall into your arms - and then, what?

Well, then you'd feel better. I'm a great cuddle.

Look, I've got lovely, big mum tits. Come on.

Oh, God! Come on.

But then, all the emotion would be used up, wasted.

My grandmother would be buried,

and I'd sit down to try and describe the pain,

and there'd be nothing left.

You can't use everything that you go through in life for a book!

Sometimes, you've just got to...be.

I think my grandmother deserves more than

a spontaneous howl of anguish.

She deserves a novella, at least.

So, I shall push it down.

I either cry, or I write.

Hm.

Well, doesn't sound very healthy to me.

It isn't, but I've been published in 28 countries, whereas you,

when you "fancy a fag, have a drag".

Well, if I have to push everything down to become a writer,

I'll stick to cleaning up blood.

One must be consumed by what one does.

Dylan Thomas makes an interesting point about it, actually.

Oh, right, well, there's no need to find it. I believe you.

No, it's an interesting passage. I'll...

Yeah, I don't want to see it.

It's relevant to our discussion. But I'm not interested.

Leave it!

I hate this book. I despise it.

Have you read it?

Yes, of course I've read it.

He's the worst writer to come out of...

Wales? Yes, Wales!

"Oh, I've got a doll with a big, tall hat

"and a house full of spoons."

Wales! Get over yourselves!

He's one of the 20th century's greatest writers.

I hate his writing.

His writing makes my balls go up inside myself.

You don't like his style?

What don't you like about it?

Well, it's so...

...pecky, isn't it?

Pecky? Yes, pecky. Isn't it?

"Oh, I'm Dylan Thomas. Oh, look at my words. Peck, peck, peck."

So, pecky in terms of the sharp...

Sharp... ..disjointed nature of the prose. ..nature of the prose.

So, you feel that by jumping from image to juxtaposed image,

we never really emotionally engage.

Exactly. The guy's a prick. Oh.

Aah!

You holding your emotions in again?

The pain I just felt will flow across the next page.

Well, as long as it doesn't peck across it, eh?

No, not like that prick Dylan Thomas.

We make a pretty good team, eh, you and me?

Meh.

Pip-yup!

Terence Redford? Yes.

We come with news. I'm very busy.

We know you must be consumed with your next masterpiece,

but we bring news of an important award.

An award? For one of my...?

Slow The Seconds To Midnight has been nominated

in the Best Novel category.

My sources have led me to believe that you are in

a very favourable position.

Goodness!

And what is the award, may I ask?

A very important one. Which one?

I am not at liberty to say.

I see.

Would you wait there?

Come here, you manky little stray.

Oi!

No!

Dickhead!

Ah!

Oh! Is that a first edition?

It is indeed.

Would it be impertinent to ask for a signature?

Not at all.

Ooh! Are you entertaining?

Yes, yes. And what are your names, please?

I am Mrs Gathernoid, and this is Miss Chant.

Barbara Chant!

"To the small woman and the big woman.

"Your lies are a disease that will eat you."

You are not from an award committee,

you are desperate groupies,

and if you waste another second of my time, I will destroy you!

Now, get back on the train to...

Gloucester. Of course, Gloucester!

A rock which, when lifted, is teeming with roaches.

That was your fault.

How dare they!

How dare they use my longing for recognition

to their own foul ends!

They know I crave the Booker,

they know the Sunday Times are blind to me.

Every week, they come,

the zombie army of lonely housewives.

Well, damn you, wretched sows.

You've just made the female protagonist get lost at sea,

never to return.

Hairy nose, as well?

Well, you didn't push your feelings down very well

with them, did you?

Because they took advantage of a writer's greatest fear.

It's about leaving a mark,

leaving evidence that you existed.

Well, the books do that, don't they?

An award will bring more people to my books.

I'll cast a longer shadow.

Don't you understand?

No, not really.

Mind you, I suppose if I do my job properly,

then I don't leave a trace behind me.

It's like I never existed.

And that doesn't bother you?

No. What do I care what people think when I'm gone?

I'll be dead.

But you could live on in people's minds.

Well, that's like someone buying a pint for me

just before I have a heart attack.

I don't get to enjoy the pint.

And if there is a Heaven,

I'll be looking down, watching someone drink my pint,

and I won't like that, I'll be jealous,

because I love a pint.

If you had one hour left to live, what would you do?

Look, we do this stuff down at the pub all the time,

and I'm not particularly proud of my answer,

but I tell the truth -

I would enjoy going round the ladies' changing room,

and I would enjoy watching them try their bras on.

What?

No, that's not "hour to live",

that's "invisible for the day", isn't it?

No, come on, you've got one hour left.

I don't know.

I suppose I'd write to my ex.

What does it matter what your ex thinks?

You'll be dead.

Not while I'm writing that letter, I won't be,

and there's a few things I'll enjoy getting off my chest.

"Oh, didn't like the way I used to load the dishwasher?

"Well, your sister's racist."

Jesus!

You writing about me?

What do you care?

Well, I don't know what you're saying!

You're happy to disappear once you've died,

so don't worry about it.

"I observed the gargantuan pot-bellied man

"going about his business."

And that's me, is it?

Well... Well, it's not going to be a best-seller, is it, mate?

The most mundane of activities can be made interesting

in the right context.

Mundane? Yes.

Tedious, inconsequential, dull.

Let me tell you some interesting stories.

No, you just carry on. Act like I'm not here.

I will capture the truth.

How many books did you sell last time?

Just shy of 100,000.

I'll get some interesting things.

There's some good stuff here, straight away.

Straight away. Ooh... Now, this is daptrozone.

That's for separating blood and plasma.

You could...

And this, the bad bin.

It's for severed body parts.

Come on, mate, it's a finger bin!

Not my genre.

I've got good stories.

Last year, I got called out to a job, I had to take away a man -

a chimp had had his legs away.

I thought you weren't bothered about being remembered.

Well, I'm not, but I'm not having those arseholes down the pub

read a book with a boring character and know it's me.

What's that?

That's my lunch.

May I? Yeah.

What is it?

It's a sausage sarnie.

Well, half of one.

And then, this?

Brown sauce.

No salad?

Who puts salad on a sausage sandwich?

What, you're writing about my sandwich?

Mm-hm.

So, I've spent all day listening to your madness,

and cleaning up your grandmother,

and you're writing about my sandwich?

It's the perfect metaphor.

It is both dead and alive simultaneously.

But have you put it's Wicky's sandwich?

No, it is a sausage sandwich lost in time.

It's MY sandwich!

You don't care if anyone remembers you.

You don't seek meaning.

It is the universe's sandwich.

Oh, yeah?

It's my sandwich.

Please!

The fog will have gone in about two hours, and so will I.

Well, thank you.

You're not welcome.

I don't want you to accuse me of using cliches, do I?

Well, goodbye.

My publisher awaits. Terence?

I haven't read anything by Dylan Thomas.

I wouldn't bother.

He's very pecky.

I know you must think me strange,

but I want you to know,

one cannot always control one's grief.

Recently, I cried for a week.

Why?

It sounds silly, but...

..my cat ran away.

I grieve for my cat, but for my grandmother...

You'll find a way.

"My grandmother was

"the most beautiful woman in the world.

"She stood in the small, wood-panelled kitchen

"of her farmhouse, cooking sausages for my sandwich.

"'What is a sausage, Gran?' I asked.

"She smiled and ruffled my hair.

"'Just eat, my love. Just eat.'"