# Ah-ah
# Don't let them go, don't let them go
# Take a beautiful dream and let it show
# Don't let them go, don't let them go
# Take a beautiful dream and let it grow, grow, grow, grow, grow
# Na-na-na-na-na-na, na, na-na-na
# Let it grow, grow, grow, grow, grow #
(Simon) It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am spectacularly easy on the eye.
(Gypsy) You are stunning. Cheekbones like wing mirrors.
But those lucky enough to get up close and personal with this particular work of art
will sometimes notice a flaw in the canvas.
From this angle you have, curiously, an ever so slightly...
broken nose.
(Sighs)
All my life, I'd wanted to be on the stage.
# Another opening, another show
# In Philly, Boston to Baltimo'
# A chance for stage folks to say hello
- (Banging) - Pack it in, Simon!
- Trying to sleep here! - Simon, shut up!
- Shut up, Simon! - (Dog howls)
(Quietly) # Another opening of another show
That boy came out of the womb wearing tap shoes and a top hat.
- No wonder you needed stitches. - (Laughs)
And then, when I was 13,
the chance to be the next Bonnie Langford came a-tapping at my cat flap.
Oh, bollocks.
They've opened a theatre school in Reading? What's it called?
Madame Darcy's school
for burgeoning theatricals.
(Applause)
- Why can't I go? - Because we can't fecking afford it, that's why.
Language, Andy.
Simon, you're blocking my view.
Just because you two can't be bothered
to go out and get decent Jobs, I have to be denied my destiny?
- Simon! - We have got decent Jobs.
Er, plumber, barmaid.
I wonder if that's what Huge Grant's folks did for a living.
It's Hugh Grant, Simon. Stop showing off. And, anyway, there's no such thing as a destiny.
- Er, Joan of Arc had a destiny. - To be burnt at the stake? Big deal.
Imagine if her parents had turned round and said,
"Guess what, Joan? We can't afford the matches."
- What's this rubbish? - Wash your mouth out, Simon Doonan.
This is Carrie, a seminal horror flick about an isolated girl with strange, telekinetic powers.
Sissy Spacek was nominated for an Oscar for it.
They turned it into a musical in the '80s.
- Was it fabulous? - Nah. It was shite.
Your ma and I left at the overture.
Aw, look, Simon. Two sissies in one room.
Ashlene.
God, I hate my life.
I hate that none of you have got any imagination but, most of all,
I hate that, of all the places you chose to run away to, you chose bloody Reading!
- Ooh, sorry. - Look where you're going!
- Has she been covered in pig's blood yet? - Oi!
- Sorry. - God.
As they would say years later on The X Factor,
nothing was going to get in the way of following my dream.
I bet they do nonstop shuffle ball change...
- even in maths. - (Door closes)
Right, there's money on the bar for chips.
I'm going to a fancy-dress party, innit?
What as, a prostitute?
I'm the lady in red and your Uncle Clint's Chris de Burgh.
- Come, on, sweetheart. - Uh. More like Chris de Burger.
It's always hard being a parent. Ask Britney Spears.
Are we doing the right thing?
Big Mick across the road, I mean, he's an actor.
He never went to no drama school.
He's a kids' entertainer, Andy. He makes bicycles out of balloons.
Well, he tries. He only ever gets as far as the handle bars, then pop.
No, he's better off getting a decent education.
He's 63 and borderline schizophrenic, Andy.
I wonder what my destiny is?
Mine obviously isn't to finish Flowers In The Attic.
You think about things too much.
Should I be like every other Stepford Wife on the street?
One topic of conversation. EastEnders.
The only one I really like's Roly the poodle and even he's mildly annoying.
Are you not happy with your lot?
Are you?
Well, I'm married to a gorgeous woman,
I've got two brilliant kids,
we've a roof over our heads, booze on tap.
If that's destiny, well, fair play to it.
Destiny rocks.
Destiny sucks.
You think of all the old people in this country, sitting around in rest homes, dribbling.
If that's destiny, you can stick it in a bag and file it under FI. Forget it.
- Well, your mum does all right. - With wooden teeth?
You sure these aren't too long?
Nah.
What's more important, yeah, is purpose. And you've found yours.
- Have I? - You're a wife and mother, you lucky old cow.
Who's gonna wanna bang a blind bird?
- Debbie, what you doing? - Thinking.
- Well don't. That's my knuckle. - Sorry.
(Gasps) Uh. Who needs an epidermis anyway?
What happens when the kids leave home, though, Hayley? Cos one day they will.
Simon'll be a big West End star.
Ashlene'll be married to a drug dealer in Penge.
What's my purpose then?
Who knows, babe?
It's as Hattie McDaniel once said, "It's Just sometin' de angels done plan."
- Did she? - I might have made that up.
- (Taps finger nails) - Oh.
Fortunately, my mother was saved from her existential angst by the bell.
- Mr Bell? - Our drama teacher.
- Never heard of him. - Does he have one eye bigger than the other,
- huge sideboards and a Mallen streak? - Yep.
Nah, don't know him. I'm thinking of Dickie Davis.
He's our drama teacher and he handed these out today.
- Not condoms, are they? - Leaflets. Don't get excited.
Mr Bell's a pervert, man. He's always in the girls' changing rooms after PE.
- I thought you liked PE? - Who said I was complaining?
- Hayley. - What?
This year's school play is Joseph And The Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat.
Oh, I love that. Come on, Ands. # Ease on down, ease on down the road #
Hayley, any eeJit knows that's from the seminal blaxploitation hitfest The Wiz.
Music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, book by God.
See. You don't have to go to no Madame Darcy's to prove your prowess on the stage.
- When are the auditions, lover? - After school tomorrow
- in the Terry Waite annex. - That reminds me, that radiator's playing up.
- Ooh, and listen to this... - Could all girls please wear short skirts
- and see-through bras? - (Laughs)
No. Please could plenty of boys attend. We don't want a repeat of last year.
- What did they do last year? - Seven Brides For Seven Brides.
Oh, yeah? It was like fecking do-si-do night
- at Greenham Common. - Hey, Ands, don't knock the sisterhood.
- We did a lot of good work in them tents. - Hayley, you grew a beard.
Mm. I only have to sniff a dungaree and I'm back there.
# Only women bleed
(Taps finger nails) # Only women bleed
Hayley, I'm trying to think. And can you stop strumming?
Now, come on, how are we gonna give Simon the edge over all the other auditionees?
(# Instrumental: Any Dream Will Do)
Debbie, what you doing under my skirt?
# I close my eyes
# Drew back the curtains
# Ah-ah, to... Ow.
- Oh! - For now it would appear
that my mother's purpose in life...
- Help. ...was to be the ultimate showbiz mum.
Gate, Ashlene.
Walk on, Simon.
But what she hadn't bargained for was all the other kids in our street auditioning as well.
# The sun'll come out tomorrow
# Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow
- # There'll be sun - Here, batty boy, d'you want your gym bag?
# Just thinking about tomorrow
# Clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow
# Till there's none
# When I'm stuck in a day that's grey and lonely
# I Just stick out my chin
# And grin and say...
- Come on, Simon, practise. - # Oh
- # Take that look off your face... - Join in, Ashlene.
- Piss of. - # I can see through your smile
# I can see through your smile
# You would love to be right I bet you didn't sleep good last night
# Couldn't wait to bring all of that bad news # I love ya tomorrow
# To my door, well I've got news for you # You're only a day away
- # Tomorrow - I'm not with you.
# Don't tell me not to live, Just sit and putter
# Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter
# Don't bring around a cloud to rain on my parade
Sing out, Imelda.
# Don't tell me not to fly, I've simply got to # Tomorrow
# If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you
- # Who told you you're allowed - Sandy.
# To rain on my parade # Take that look off your face
# Only women bleed # I can see through your smile
# Only women bleed, only women bleed
# I simply gotta march, my heart's a drummer # Take that look off your face
# To rain on my parade # I can see through your smile
# Tomorrow there'll be sun # Don't tell me not to live, Just sit and putter
# Ease on down, ease on down the road
Fuck me. All we need's the yellow taxi. It'd be like the kids from frigging Fame.
#... down the road
# Ease on down, ease on down the road
Mr Bell, the drama teacher was light years ahead of his time.
So, who's got through?
Who's going to be... my Joseph?
Jasbinda Sahota, step forward.
Useless waste of space, get out of my face, you talentless piece of shit!
(Door slams)
Pastel Blue Cummings, step forward.
See, I think my Kyle's gonna play Joseph
on account of he's actually a direct descendent of Old Man River himself, Paul Robeson.
Ain't never even heard of Paul Robeson, Debbie?
You is either hignarant or a racist.
Well, I ain't no racist, Reba.
Well, I guess that makes you a hignarant.
Oh, I ain't a hignarant, Reba. You're the one who's a hignarant.
- Is that a-right? - Yeah. You ever heard of a-Hattie Jacques?
Course I have, Debbie. You is wearing one of her dresses, innit?
- Here they come! - How d'you get on?
- Are you Joseph? - No.
- Well who is, then? - # I close my eyes #
(Screeches)
You wanna suck on a Trebor, love.
- A girl's playing Joseph? - Who does this Mr Bell think he is?
Does he not know that you stayed up half the night, ripping up my old gypsy skirt
to make a, by all accounts, stunning coat of many colours?
Simon's playing one of Potiphar's servants.
- I lost my virginity in that skirt. - A glorified extra.
- Back of a Ford Capri. - I feel like putting a gun to my head.
Well, he said it was a Ford Capri. I think it had a whiff of Fiat Panda.
- Nice furry dice, though. Big... - Shut up, Hayley.
Uh, it's like that film the other day.
When we're older, we're gonna move where?
- Ah. London. - And move amongst what?
The beautiful people.
And we'll be top West End stars
in our own top West End show,
that we've written, showing off all of our talents,
called, called...
(Gasps) Ab Fab, The Musical.
I'll be Joanna Lumley, shweetie.
And you can be June Whitfield.
And Imelda will be bottom of the bill.
And while we were realising that being usurped by a diva
was going to be our destiny...
Hurry up, Mother. You are making me late.
... Mum was having a mid-life crisis.
- Sorry, baby. - Should she be a charity worker?
You know, low lights would really bring out the shape of your face.
An intellectual? Or maybe even a food critic.
Mr Popodopolis's latest endeavour certainly gets the taste buds tingling.
But those of sensitive aesthetic tendencies may mourn the absence of a shiny banquette.
And those with false nails may struggle with the cutlery.
I told you they were too long.
- Oh, that girl's wearing sunglasses indoors. - God, that is so pretentious.
Or is she blind?
Nah. She's pretentious.
- Oh, it's her. - Who?
(Whispers) Joseph.
(Debbie gasps)
"If you can read this, thank a teacher."
Are you taking the piss?
I didn't know Imelda's dad was a teacher. Didn't know she had a dad.
She hasn't. He died of diphtheria in the Dordogne.
She says it's what makes her an artiste.
She was with a bloke. He had a sticker on his bag. "If you can read this, thank a teacher."
Mr Bell's got one of those.
On his bag?
- He was probably giving her notes. - Notes?
On her performance. - He was giving her more than bloody notes,
He was giving her a kiss.
...up straighter, point towards the gods. OK. Up, up, I want palm trees quivering...
Finally, my mother had found her purpose in life.
Did they have inhalers in Joseph's day, hm? No. It looks ridiculous.
Method, method, method. Come on.
To be an interventionist social worker.
Or, in other words, a common or garden fish wife.
Oh, so it is you.
You and your bloody briefcase. I've seen you.
- And you are? - Doonan. Debbie Doonan.
Mother of one of Potiphar's servants.
I've been demoted to quivering palm tree.
Yes, and how can I help you, mother of quivering palm tree?
I know exactly why you cast that talentless Jailbait as Joseph.
- Because she's good? - Because you're grooming her.
- For stardom? - Don't get funny with me, Roger De Courcey.
I've got your number and I'll be onto Social Services about you.
- What are you on about, Mrs Doonan. - That poor, innocent child.
Mrs Doonan, I have no idea what you're talking about.
- I saw you. - Saw me what?
Kissing her, touching her up the greasy spoon. What kind of man are you?
Oh, how does your sordid mind work?
You can't fool me. I've put a note through her door.
Her mother'll know what's going on when she gets back from her macramé convention.
- I beg your pardon? - A macramé convention in Slough. Don't ask.
My relationship with Imelda is not inappropriate, Mrs Doonan.
You think it's normal? I'm sorry but I'm gonna heave. My daughter warned me about you.
Imelda is my goddaughter.
- Beg pardon? - My goddaughter.
Her father, Colin, was my best friend at University
until he died of pancreatitis in the Pyrenees.
I thought it was diphtheria in the Dordogne?
- Sorry? - Nothing.
I don't even know why I'm telling you this. Suffice it to say what you saw
in the greasy spoon was completely innocent and above board.
- A hug and a kiss? - It was the anniversary of her father's death
- and she was upset. - Oh, yeah?
Yes. You ask her mother if you don't believe me.
I'll see myself out.
As you were.
And the next time you wish to make slanderous accusations about me,
I suggest you consult a lawyer and the facts first.
Oh, well, at least we got to the bottom of why you cast her in the role of Joseph.
Nepotism is alive and well and living in Reading.
I cast her because she's the best person for the Job.
What's wrong with my son?
He's too effeminate.
So he called your son effeminate?
- Yes. - And is he?
- Effeminate schmeminate. - (# Violin)
I always thought my mother was Jewish.
# Papa, can you hear me?
# Papa, can you see me?
# Papa, can you find me in the night? #
Calling him that in front of the other kids, what sort of example's that?
And the example you set?
Bit of an old hand at this, aren't you, Mrs Doonan?
- You tell me, Julian Bravo. - Quite a lot of notes on your file.
I'm a fine, outstanding member of the community.
Which one? The Mafia?
Says here you were involved in an incident a few years back, at the Oracle shopping centre.
- Oracle schmoracle. - (# Violin)
Stop that. We know you're not Jewish.
You're anti-semantic. You'll be saying there was no holocaust next.
Shame on you, PC Plod.
Care to recall what happened at the Oracle schmoracle shopping centre?
I threw an egg at Margaret Thatcher. Big deal.
But you missed, didn't you, and hit a policeman?
You win some, you lose some.
- This policeman. - Thought I recognised that dandruff.
And it wasn't any old egg, was it?
It was a Cadbury's Cream Egg
and they're quite hard.
- And his eye came up like a football. - A golf ball, the Judge said.
Kinda like a... satsuma.
- You gonna charge me or not? - That's kind of up to Mr Bell.
I'll sort it. I'm very close with all my neighbours. First name terms.
Abigail Jo.
- It's Kathy, Brenda. - I'm Debbie.
I know.
Anyway, Kelly, can I have a word?
You know what they're calling you, don't you?
Mike Tyson in a skirt.
It's a skort, actually.
A cross between a skirt and shorts.
Functional yet forgiving.
Mitzi-Lou, I Just wanna say I'm sorry.
I was completely out of order thumping your friend and I, I got you this, actually.
Thought you might be interested. It's called Making Friends With Macramé.
Only problem is, it is a library book so I will need it back.
But if it's any good, I thought I could buy you a copy.
I've already got it, actually.
I got the wrong end of the schtick, Donna Marie.
I'm sorry. I thought he was abusing her.
Oh, well, I suppose I should appreciate your concern, Magda Jane,
although you do have a bit of a roundabout way of expressing it.
(Sighs) I'll have a word with Tristram.
Great. Who's Tristram?
- Mr Bell. - Oh.
It's weird when you find out teachers' first names, innit?
Yeah. We had this once, Miss MaJaksi.
And we found out her first name was Pat.
Pat MaJaksi.
Which is weird cos she did actually once pat my Jacksie after netball.
Anyway, Cherish Anita.
(Whispers) I'll see you.
Oh, Sapphire Griselda,
you always look so fabulous. Never a hair out of place.
Got that right, babes.
I might be a bit more inclined to have a word with Tristram
if you gave me a make-over in time for the first night?
Oh, OK. Then maybe we could all go and see Joseph together.
Oh, didn't you hear? Joseph's off. He's quite highly strung, old Tristram.
Right. That's it! As of now, the show is off.
Screw you and your sodding parents. Screw the lot of you. I quit.
So there's no school play,
Jemima... (Deep voice) Anoushka?
Got it in one, Frogmella Umbonga.
It's all right, though, because the new PE teacher's come up with this idea
of putting on a talent evening, so my baby will have her moment in the sun.
- Oh. - You might know her, actually,
this new PE teacher.
Older lady. Quite Asian.
Miss MaJaksi.
Imelda.
I'm sorry... about my mum and that.
(Scoffs) I'm sorry you've got a mum like that.
What are you going to do for talent night?
The Magic Of The Musicals. A Journey through the West End.
If you're going to do something from Joseph...
- do you want this? - It couture.
I'd rather eat my own body weight
in razor blades.
And, in case you were wondering,
yes, that did hurt.
- I'm sure she didn't do it on purpose. - This is all my fault for smacking that teacher.
Let's see?
(Panting, squealing)
- Oh, my God. Oh, my God. - Can't look that bad, surely?
Put it this way, I don't think you're gonna be making opening night.
(Sighs) Fetch me a looking glass.
- What? - He means mirror. Hurry up.
- Oh, my beautiful baby boy. - He's 13, Tabitha. Don't infantalise him.
God, you lot don't half overreact.
Right.
Take a deep breath, kidder.
And in that moment, I discovered what it's actually like...
to be sick at the sight of yourself.
I can't get up on stage in front of people like this, Kylie.
Oh, you can.
You make sure you can.
The show must go on, girlfriend.
And we'll make sure bitch face gets her Just deserts.
Thanks to Imelda's mum, my mum had finally found her true purpose in life,
to look fabulous at all times and inspire others with her unique sense of style.
And Aunty Hayley discovered that, if you wear six inch nails, you can't read Braille.
(Groans)
(# Aqua: Barbie Girl)
Kylie and I, on the other hand, discovered our inner Barbie.
# I'm a Barbie girl
# In a Barbie world
# Life in plastic
# It's fantastic
# Come on, Barbie, let's go party
# Ha ha ha yeah
# Come on, Barbie, let's go party
# Oh-woh, oh-woh #
- Tss! - (Whistle, applause)
(Debbie screeches)
- You must be so proud, Libby Labilia. - Ha.
# May I return
# To the beginning
# The light is dimming
# And the dream is too
# The world and I... #
- Y'all right, Miss MaJaksi? - # We are still waiting
# Still hesitating
# Any dream will do... #
- I also discovered Kylie was a true friend. - # Give me my coloured coat
# My amazing coloured coat
# Give me my coloured coat
# My amazing
# Coloured coat #
(Screams)
Extra strong mint, Sammy Fan?
You traumatised her.
She's had to change school's cos of you.
Oh, lucky bitch.
We all, of course, learnt that everything comes to those who grate.
My face soon cleared up and my nose was fine.
It was years later I got it broken, when I was a set dresser on Live With Loretta...
(Loretta) Hiya and welcome back.
In a few minutes, we're gonna meet the actress who this year won the Olivier Award
for her portrayal as president's wife, Laura Bush, in the brand-new musical,
Your America, My Bush. That's Imelda Brownlow.
... when a blast from the past came back to slap me in my hitherto flawless face...
(Whispers) Oi, Barbie girl.
Imelda.
Have you had some work?
... literally.
# Ah-ah
# Don't let them go, don't let them go
# Take a beautiful dream and let it grow, grow, grow, grow, grow
# Na-na-na-na-na-na, na, na-na-na
# Let it grow, grow, grow, grow, grow
# Na-na-na-na-na-na, na, na-na-na #