Tamara Drewe (1/2)

& Tamara: What a dump.

& Glen: ... It was called From Hearth to Heath: The Doomsday and Revelation in Victorian Verse.
    Tess: What was it about?
    Glen: Well, you know, pale poets on laudanum and dark towers and sunless seas. A little Sturm und Drang in a teacup.
    Tess: Did it sell?
    Glen: Well, of course, my kind of books aren’t about sales, that’s not why I write. So, no.

& Tess: At least you’ve been published. I’m seething with envy. I’d love to be published.
    Eustacia: I publish myself on the Internet.
    Tess: Oh, do you earn money doing that?
    Eustacia: No.
    Glen: What do you write?
    Eustacia: Lesbian crime. I’m here picking up tips from the Master.

& Andy: Marriage... Remind me never to try it.
    Zoe: Andy, you’re just a sex object. No one would have you.

& Glen: She’s very nice, Beth.
    Andy: Yeah. I owe her a lot.
    Glen: Husband’s kind of a sleazebag*, huh?
    Andy: We’d say ’prick’ here, actually. Or wanker.
    Glen: That’s good. We might even call him a fuck.
    Andy: That’s good too.

& Tamara: Look, Andy, if you want it, why don’t you just make me an offer?
    Andy: Because, sadly, I’m still prey* to the economic forces that threw the peasant classes off the land.

& Andy: Tam. What the fuck have you done to your nose?
    Tamara: Oh, come on, Andy. Aliens came and took it.

---

& Eustacia: Is that Tamara Drewe that writes a column in one of the Sundays?
    Tess: Used to. Writes for The Independent now.
    Beth Hardiment (aka Tamsin Greig who is Miss Cripslock @ Going Postal): She spent weeks going on about her nose job.
    Tess: Was her old one an awful conk*?
    Beth: Yes. She’s poured herself into those shorts. Hope they don’t give her thrush*.

& Poppy: Hi, Tamara.
    Tamara: Poppy. How are you?
    Poppy: I love your new hooter.
    Tamara: Thanks. It’s not actually new, it’s just smaller.

& Glen: You should get in there. Marry the girl. Then you could live in your ancestral home again.
    Andy: No. Not her type.
    Glen: Andy, you know, the trouble with you is that you think like a loser. I know this because I’m the loser that all other losers come to for tips. I am a loser’s loser. I’m a pedigree* loser.

& Tamara: What’s the ring saying, Ben?
    Ben Sergeant: ’Hello, I’m a ring. Will you marry me?’
    Tamara: What?!
    Ben: I didn’t know.
    Tamara: Didn’t know what? That you’re in love with me?
    Ben: The ring is saying, ’I’m platinum with a long guarantee. Will you marry me?’

& Beth: I hope he makes her happy. It’s hard for girls when their dads walk out. Gives them bad taste in men.
    Nicholas Hardiment: What’s that supposed to mean?
    Beth: Oh, just saying Tamara’s father left when she was a girl and...
    Nicholas: That is 10-pence psychology! You don’t know what you’re talking about.

& Tamara: You bought it for Fran, didn’t you?
    Ben: So? It’s yours now. She never wore it. She didn’t want it.
    Tamara: Did you ask her to marry you?
    Ben: Just as a gesture, when she started seeing Steve. That backfired. Look, it’s you I wanna marry now. The ring... The ring doesn’t matter. The ring’s just a consumerist piece of zinc. What matters is that I love you.
    Tamara: Do you?
    Ben: Yes. With my whole heart. And all the other stuff.

& Glen: If it were possible to have an orgasm from food, these mince* pies would do it.
    Beth: Golly*. Heh.

& Ben: What the fuck are we doing here?
    Tamara: It’s kind of research. I want to write about them. They’re funny.

& Tamara: We’re getting married in the summer.
    Nicholas: So I hear. My heartiest commiserations*, Tamara.
    Tamara: Merry Christmas, Nichol-arse.



-- Dict:
sleazebag — отвратительный тип
prey — добыча; жертва
conk — носище
thrush — молочница
pedigree — племенной
mince — фарш
Golly — Черт возьми
commiserations — соболезнования

2 Finish