Benny Loves You

It won't work, Ashley.

I want my present.

Your birthday's tomorrow.

I want Barella now.

There Barella, you're almost as pretty as me.

You left Todd behind the sofa.

You're special.

I don't like him any more.

That's no way to treat your old bear.

Leave me alone!

Barella wants her dream house.

I saw you wrap it.

You're special.

You're special.

Special.

Todd tried to get me, Mummy.

What have I told you about getting out of bed.

But, Mummy, Todd.

Todd what?

No, Mummy, don't.

Leave him alone.

Scream again, and you'll get a smack.

Now turn the light off.

Can I leave the light on, please?

Not another peep, I mean it.

Special.

Special!

I said, shut it!

If you want him so badly, have him.

Noooo, Mummy!

Not another word.

You're special.

Special, special, special, special, special.

Caught you, you little shit.

You're special.

I was never one of the lucky kids,

the ones locked in a cupboard under the stairs,

cigarettes stubbed out on them in the dark.

Now I know that doesn't seem very lucky.

But those kids, they had nothing to lose.

No happy family, no toys and games.

They certainly didn't have a bear like Benny.

My story begins when I turned 35,

the year Toy Box sold record units

of the state-of-the-art Rosko.

Its creator made designer of the year.

But neither were mine.

Ushering in a new era in Toy Box's future,

give it up for Richard.

That's my competition for creative director,

brown-nosing Ron, my boss, who has a stutter,

but only on F words.

These fakes pretend to like him,

but we all know he's a galactic tit.

It's Reshard, actually.

Reshard.

Tit.

Deep underground.

A new breed of machine.

Uncompromising.

Devastating.

Disco.

Dancing disco AIDS.

Yeah, okay, that's my toy,

but in fairness.

It's meant to say RAID,

Robot Artificial Intelligent Disco System.

Now I bet we're all wondering,

who wants to give their children AIDS for Christmas?

I had a date

with the stunningly bland Tara.

Just you wait, babes.

Shut up!

Babes, who was that?

Sorry, Mum.

You live with your fucking parents, babes.

Ah, I forget to mention,

I still live with my fucking parents.

Open your card, it's funny.

You laughed at ET.

Well only the ending.

I don't wanna a huge number

reminding me of how old I am.

Aww. Have a cupper, love.

40? I'm only 35.

And now you feel better about it.

Oi, how would you like to be put

on spin with dad's skid marks?

Benny loves you.

Why don't you help me put the shelf up today?

Because it's not your birthday.

You're gonna have to learn this stuff

if you're getting your own place.

Who said anything about that?

Oh I did think about getting

my only place, but, cake?

Every year, Mum and Dad

would plan a special birthday surprise party,

which by the time you're 35,

isn't much of a surprise anymore.

Ohhhh.

Mum, could I have a?

Mum?

Dad?

Mum?

Mum say something.

My 35th birthday,

the day I finally got my own place.

Jack.

The company want foreclosure on the loan,

repossess your house.

No you can't, I'll get on top of this.

Ah, ah, I managed to talk them out of that, just.

I've convinced them to restructure the loan,

into smaller payments.

Good.

This says I'll pay back three times as much.

Four.

You should be thanking me.

Your ads says the best rates in town.

Oh they are.

Just not this town.

I just need time.

That promotion-

Has nothing to do with the loan.

Listen, if I were you, I would

sell the house, problem solved.

This is my home.

Not if you don't sign.

That is my favourite pen, if you don't mind.

Scum.

Excellent, now I do have to inform you

that if we don't receive payment by the end of the week,

the company will have to start the repossession procedure.

Biscuit.

Oh yes, don't mind if I do.

I wish I could put in the hours.

But with a family, it's just not possible.

Then why are you here?

Told the wife I was working late.

Working late.

But really, I'm off to the Prince concert.

Fuck off.

No, really, Prince is back.

No, really, fuck off, I'm working.

I'm celebrating.

Come on lets bury the hatchet.

No one's going to get promoted, by being wasted Richard.

God I hate people who pronounce it Richard.

You're not even French.

So, no one calls Ralph Feinnes, Ralf.

Because he's Welsh.

God I'd hate to be Welsh.

Just go, I have to get this finished.

Lots of people are saying you're already finished.

Who's saying that?

People.

Lots of them.

Jack?

I suppose you're wondering why Ron's here so late?

He's here to tell you the good news.

Good news.

About the promotion.

No?

Mmm.

About the promotion.

Jack.

Jack?

Hmmm.

Precious!

Jack!

Sweetums.

Come to daddy.

Who's a good boy?

Jack?

Come on!

Who's a good doggy?

Doors opening.

Jesus!

Prince actually.

But close enough.

Hmmm.

Here's the thing.

I'm letting you go.

What?

I can't send my creative director

to New York in a Goonies T-shirt.

I don't have a Goonies T-shirt, I have a Gremlins one.

I don't give a fuck about the Goonies.

Me neither, you keep going on about them.

Or Gremlins!

Young people today aren't playing Simon Says

in f-f-f-fucking fingerless f-f-f-fucking gloves

and shoulder pads, it's all smart phones

and blue movie players.

Blu-Ray, sir, look, my designs...

You haven't evolved.

Richard's edgy, stands up for himself.

Okay, I am not gonna stand here...

Sit.