Bridget Jones's Diary

It all began on New Year's Day...

in my 32nd year of being single.

Once again I found myself on my own and going to my mother's...

annual turkey curry buffet.

Every year she tries to fix me up...

with some bushy-haired, middle-aged bore,

and I feared this year would be no exception.

There you are, dumpling.

My mum, a strange creature...

from a time when pickles on toothpicks was still the height of sophistication.

Doilies, Pam? Hello, Bridget.

Third drawer from the top, Una, under the minigherkins.

By the way, the Darcys are here.

They brought Mark with them.

- Ah, here we go. - You remember Mark.

You used to play in his paddling pool.

- He's a barrister. Very well-off. - No, I don't remember.

He's divorced, apparently.

His wife was Japanese. Very cruel race. Now, what are you going to put on?

This. Oh, don't be silly, Bridget.

You'll never get a boyfriend if you look like you've wandered out of Auschwitz.

Now, run upstairs. Laid out something lovely on your bed.

Great. I was wearing a carpet.

Here she is.

My little Bridget.

Mmm. Hi, Uncle Geoffrey.

Hmm. Had a drink? No.

No? Come on, then. Actually, not my uncle.

Someone who insists I call him "Uncle" while he gropes my ass...

and asks me the question dreaded by all singletons.

So, how's your love life?

Super. Thanks, Uncle G.

Still no fellow, then, eh? All right, then.

You career girls can't put it off forever, you know.

Ticktock, ticktock.

Hello, Dad. Hello, darling.

How's it going? Torture.

Mother's trying to fix you up with some divorcé.

Human rights barrister. Pretty nasty beast, apparently.

Ooh. Dingdong.

Maybe this time Mum had got it right.

Come on. Why don't we see if Mark fancies a gherkin.

Good luck.

- Mark? - Maybe this was...

the mysterious Mr. Right I'd been waiting my whole life to meet.

You remember Bridget.

Maybe not.

She used to run around your lawn with no clothes on, remember?

Uh, no, not as such.

Come and look at your gravy, Pam. I think it's going to need sieving.

Of course it doesn't need sieving. Just stir it, Una.

Uh... Yes, of course. I'll be right there.

Sorry. Lumpy gravy calls.

- So. - So.

Are you staying at your parents' for New Year?

Yes. You? Hmm. Oh, no, no, no, no.

I was in London at a party last night,

so I'm afraid I'm a bit hung over.

Wish I could by lying with my head in a toilet like all normal people.

New Year's resolution: Drink less.

Oh, and quit smoking.

Yeah. Oh...

And keep New Year's resolutions.

Oh. And, uh,

Stop talking total nonsense to strangers.

In fact, stop talking full stop.

Yes, well, perhaps it's time to eat.

Mmm.

Apparently she lives just around the corner from you.

Mother, I do not need a blind date.

Particularly not with some verbally incontinent spinster...

who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and dresses like her mother.

Yummy. Turkey curry.

My favorite.

And that was it. Right there.

Right there. That was the moment.

I suddenly realized that unless something changed soon,

I was going to live a life where my major relationship...

was with a bottle of wine,

and I'd finally die fat and alone...

and be found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs.

Or I was about to turn into Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction.

You have no messages.

And so I made a major decision.

I had to make sure that next year I wouldn't end up shit-faced...

and listening to sad FM, easy listening for the over-thirties.

I decided to take control of my life and start a diary...

to tell the truth about Bridget Jones.

The whole truth.

Resolution number one: Obviously we'll lose 20pounds. Oh.

Number two: Always put last night's pants in the laundry basket.

Equally important, will find nice, sensible boyfriend to go out with...

and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following:

Alcoholics, workaholics, commitment phobics,

Peeping Toms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuckwits or perverts.

And especially will not fantasize about a particular person...

who embodies all these things.

editor in chief Daniel Cleaver,

and for various slightly unfair reasons relating to this year's Christmas party,

I suspect he does not fantasize about me.

Or maybe I'm wrong.

Ah.

Happy New Year, Mr. Fitzherbert.

Happy New Year, Brenda. Mr. Fitzherbert. "Titspervert," more like.

Daniel's boss who stares freely at my breasts with no idea who I am or what I do.

Morning. I need that Kafka's Motorbike release by 11:00. Perpetua.

Ah. Slightly senior and therefore thinks she's in charge of me.

Most of the time I just want to staple things to her head.

Publicity.

All I asked...

I only asked if he wanted to come on a minibreak to Paris.

Daily call from Jude. Best friend.

Head of investment at Brightlings Bank...

who spends most of her time trapped in the ladies' toilet...

crying over her fuckwit boyfriend.

I'm too needy. Am I codependent?

No, you're not. It's not you.

You're lovely. It's vile Richard.

Ugh, he's just a big knobhead with no knob.

Is some people's opinion of Kafka,

but they couldn't be more wrong.

This book is a searing vision of the wounds our century has inflicted...

on traditional masculinity.

It's positively Vonnegutesque.

Thank you for calling, Professor Leavis.

Guest list for launch party. Ah.

F.R. Leavis?

Mm-hmm. Wow!

Wow. Wha... The F.R. Leavis who wrote Mass Civilization and Minority Culture?

Mm-hmm.

The F.R. Leavis who died in 1978?

Amazing.

Emergency summit with urban family...

for coherent discussion of career crisis.

Fuck them. Fuck the lot of them.

Tell them they can stick fucking Leavis up their fucking arses.

Good, good. That's very useful.

Shazza, journalist. Likes to say fuck, or not.

Jude, what would you do if one of your assistants made...

a harmless little mistake like that?

- I'd fire you, Bridge. - Excellent.

Is that Cleaver chap still as cute as ever? Oh, God, yes.

Then I think a well-timed blowjob is probably the best answer.

Oh, you love it.

Are you that chap that sang that song? Yes. Yes, I am.

Tom, '80s pop icon who only wrote one hit record...

then retired because he found that one record was quite enough...

to get him laid for the whole of the '90s.

Well, great song. Thank you. Thank you so much.

Total poof, of course. More vodka?

No! Yes! Fill her up, goddamn it!

At least now I'm in my thirties, I can hold my drink.

Oops! Mind the step.

She's fine. Drive on.

Apparently F.R. Leavis is coming.

Afternoon, Bridget.

What do you mean you're going on holiday?

What about Julia?

We've got a problem with the Teddy Knows Best campaign.

The only problem is the kitchen.

Frankly, there isn't room to swing a cat.

Message Mr. Cleaver. Am appalled by message.

Skirt is demonstrably neither sick nor absent.

Appalled by management's blatantly size-ist attitude to skirt.

Suggest management sick, not skirt!

Right. Yeah.

No, I understand that. I understand that perfectly.

Very bad start to the year.

Have been seduced by informality of messaging medium...

into flirting with office scoundrel.

Will persevere with resolution to find a nice, sensible man.

Will put a stop to flirting first thing tomorrow. Good plan.

was attempt to demonstrate presence of skirt,

can only say that it has failed parlously... Cleave.

Shut up, please. I am very busy and important.

P.S. How dare you sexually harass me in this impertinent manner.

Message Jones. Mortified to have caused offense.

Will avoid all non-P.C. overtones in future. Deeply apologetic.