All language subtitles for Queers - 01x03 - More Anger.WEB.h264-TASTETV.English.C.orig.Addic7ed.com

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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...

"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.

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?

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?

- Synced and corrected by chamallow -
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