Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

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Fuck, fuck, fuck! So late!

Mabel's put a scarf on the cat.

He's not a cat. He's my husband.

Where is he?

-Will he bring the ladies with the big boobies? -"Ladies"?

Last time, he brushed my hair with a fork.

There were three ladies, and they had an epic pillow fight.

-The fork had maple syrup on it. -Out of the way, darling.

- -Well,

it's obvious he's not coming, so I'll just stay home.

You said this was the one thing you had to leave the house for this year.

You're right. I'm going.

Move, please, Mabes.

Fuck-- caccia.

Did we eat the focaccia?

Well, we haven't got any vegetables.

But lucky you, you get to have frozen peas. Mmm.

All right. Come to the table.

Come on.

One, two...

What am I going to do when I get to three?

- -

Please enter alarm code.

Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck!

-Please enter alarm code. -No! Don't put the flames out.

-We can toast marshmallows. -Please enter alarm code.

Please--

The tension of our bodies,

-the scars of-- -

Hello, Moto.

...in-- in our longing.

Bridget Jones, always exciting.

-How's the skirt? -Daniel, hi.

Just checking you have indeed forgotten about tonight.

That is hurtful, Jones. I have absolutely not forgotten.

- -No.

I'm so sorry. It's my mother.

-She's in the hospital. - Oh.

-Primordial sweat. -I will be there

quicker than it took me to bring you to earth-shattering orgasm,

you filthy little harlot.

Love you, Mummy.

"Mummy"?

Darling, clever Geminita.

I'm gonna have to rush. It's a family emergency.

But I am loving this one.

I think-- I think we all are, aren't we?

Call me later, yeah?

Oh, yeah.

I am imminent, Jones. Imminent.

Un-bunch those giant panties.

Bloody zip manufacturers should be

cancelled for sociological bias.

It is actually impossible to do this on your own.

Help.

-Ooh. Thank you, monkeys. -

Uncle Daniel!

Miniature Darcy, what's the news?

Where are the ladies with the big--

Hair? They couldn't make it, sadly.

They're, um... They're washing their hair.

All three?

Yeah, well, they wash each other's, you see.

I thought you said no more models.

Geminita is not a model, Jones.

She is a poet and a healer,

and a model.

Come here.

Hell of a night for you.

Ugh, I can't go. The children need me.

Uncle Daniel!

You. Right.

Get a fork and some syrup. I'm gonna style you.

- I found the cards. - Very good. Excellent.

Now then, we need to work on your bluffing and your cheating.

Life has its white notes...

and life has its black notes.

You look very beautiful tonight, Mrs Darcy.

Not looking so bad yourself, Mr Darcy.

Bridget.

Very black notes.

Jolly good. Come in. Weather's been a bit shitty, hasn't it?

-Though the cricket this year has been... -Jeremy.

...absolutely phenomenal.

This is what happened.

Mark Darcy, my husband,

father to Billy and Mabel,

died.

Or rather, was killed

in the Sudan on a humanitarian mission.

-Everybody's just upstairs. -Thanks.

And that was four years ago. Today, actually.

Brace yourself. It's a total fucking shit show.

And even though there might be 600,000 words in the human language,

the world still struggles to find the right ones

when someone you love is gone.

Bridget, how are the children?

- Mmm. -Are they--

Are they all right without you there?

- -No. It's fine.

Left them some crystal meth in the kitchen.

Maybe not.

Well, we don't make a thing about it.

We celebrate Mark's birthday instead.

Oh.

So, Bridget, still on your own?

It's been four years now.

You're still in pretty good nick. Why no chap?

Now, now. It's not Bridget's fault. Very hard, being a middle-aged woman

-and finding yourself single. - Mmm.

Better if you're a bloke. Look at Binko Carruthers.

He's no oil painting,

but the second Rosemary died, he was inundated.

Of course, they were all of a certain age, though, weren't they?

Sorry, do you realise you said that out loud?

- -Hmm?

"A certain age"? What, do you mean our age?

-That is the most... - Shazzer now hosts

a podcast calledFed Up,

in which she has dinner with minor celebrities

while basically getting furious about everything.

...sexist fucking universe we, unbelievably,

still continue to fucking inhabit.

I need to go to the toilet.

Oh.

Oh, dear.

Yeah, Jude. Yeah, I'm with her now.

Well, Shaz, tell her to come to The Golden Cock.

No, no, no. The party. It's for Mark.

That's not a party. That's a fucking bin fire.

And you think that Mark would want you to stay here and be insulted

in the fucking sexism Olympics?

To Mark.

-And to Bridget... - Aw.

...and the rare pleasure of seeing you

-in something not made of terry towelling.

- - Tom, still living

handsomely off his one hit single

which had a comeback recently in a 30-second video of a dog doing maths.

Now, of all things, a life coach.

Honestly, I'd say it was a bit of a breakthrough,

speaking as your psychologist.

You're not my psychologist.

Well, I should be, yes.

According to the classic model,

you've actually made it to the fourth stage

-of the five stages of grief. -Wait. Isn't it seven stages?

What are you talking about, Jude? No, it isn't. It's five stages.

-Isn't it five? -Well, I always thought it was four.

It's definitely seven.

Jude, now CEO or COO

or CTO, definitely a C-something-O,

still regularly calling, in tears, from executive bathroom.

So, um, only one stage to go now, Bridge.

- Oh. - Stage five.

It's acceptance, which basically means

-you just have to get laid. -Oh, my God. Shazzer's right.

Yes. I mean, honestly, darling, look at yourself.

You've become a born-again virgin.

If you don't get laid soon, your vagina will literally reseal itself.

Yeah, and that is a thing.

It's called labial adhesion.

Oh, my God!

I knew leaving the kitchen was a mistake.

I don't want anyone else.

And even if I did, which I don't,

I'm non-viable, completely asexual,

and nobody will ever fancy me again.

-Ever, ever, ever. -No. No, no, no.

And I'm going to the toilet.

Crash and burn. That was a disaster.

Well, that was a fucking disaster.

Crikey. Have we been burgled?

We have not been burgled, Jones. No.

We have been marvellous. Now, tell me this.

For Tonya, do we think a kitten heel or a chunky wedge?

She's going to Wimbledon.

Wedge, obviously.

You may be right.

How was it? Any fun? Any tongue?

Ugh. God. No tongue. I have hung up my tongue.

How were they?

Well, the girl is you.

Lawless, romantic, irresistibly drawn to me.

Asked me if I was going to be her new daddy.

She does that.

Yeah. Wouldn't go to bed until I'd married her rabbit.

-Hmm. - Which I was very happy to do.

That rabbit is not at all unfanciable.

Hmm. And Billy?

Well, Billy is Darcy, isn't he?

Still waters and all that.

As it happens, Jones, your son

and I have a number of shared interests.

Oh, God. Like what?

Models.

He showed me his, I showed him mine.

-Hmm. -And then we-- we talked about death.