It takes all sorts to make the world.
Tall, short, fat, skinny, ugly, beautiful, black, white, Canadian.
People use what they've been given to get on in life.
They turn their disadvantages into advantages.
But just because Stephen Hawking, a famously disabled spastic,
wrote his theories of black holes and the boundary condition of the universe
while sitting in his wheelchair,
it does not mean that you...
will be able to.
You do realise it's only a broken fucking ankle.
'Oops.
'To be fair, that weird mongy face is a bit confusing.
'But sometimes I have to make judgments in the blink of an eye,
'and if that eye is pointing all over the shop, I may misjudge someone.
'Still, I have to make that call.'
For I am Jonty de Wolfe, Vice Chancellor of Kirke University.
Grace, would you bring me a peppermint tea, please?
And shave.
It's like the best vending machine imaginable.
Every September, another bumper crop of gorgeous, impressionable girls
drops into the drawer at the bottom.
I don't even have to press "D6"
or reach in through a Perspex flap to grab them.
They're just there. There for the taking.
When you've written a best-selling book,
going anywhere seems to take twice as long.
Well, it's hard to avoid all the admiring fans,
as well as people who think
they should have been mentioned in the thank-you section.
Fat chance.
There is no room at the inn. That's what they said to Mary and Joseph.
And they didn't let them stop them. And she was heavily with child, so...
Sorry to... Sorry to interrupt,
but are you suggesting he sleeps in a manger?
No. Duh!
I'm suggesting that he squats.
You're bonkers.
You're bonkers, actually.
Watch her. Bonkers.
Lydia Tennant, tape 16, the shaping of a genius.
We all had nicknames at school.
cos I was a big shit and also I do big shits.
Five, four,
three, two, one.
Excellent.
Frothy coffee at half the price.
Get up.
Yesterday I was down in the dumps,
wading through rubbish, trying to find my old fridge,
but today...
I am back in the office and I am tingling with excitement,
all because of our mousy mathematician
spinning her sums into a shit-lit sensation.
I had a dream!
And not the bullshit one about Negroes holding hands.
A dream that came to me late last night whilst I was deep inside my wife.
I reared up like a porpoise about to leap out of the ocean.
Later my wife told me that I swelled to a size that she had never felt before.
Publication, publication, publication!
That is how we will make this place gleam,
like a bleached anus in a line-up of dirty arses.
Grace?
Bring me the laziest shit we have.
The Lyric Impulse. Colin Foley.
Good essay. I thought he developed his argument with some genuine flair.
Fair enough. It's all down to you, though.
2:1. You've done well by the lad.
Amy Gratowski?
Terrible. Downloaded straight off the internet.
That's a serious allegation. She's a moon-face slapper.
First.
Oh, no, that's... that's a travesty.
I'm as sorry as you are but if we ignore the rules, we're left with mere anarchy.
Whassup? Oh, hi.
What you doin'? Money, money, money.
What did you do just then?
I just filled in that box,
then that box, then clicked there, then pressed return like that.
You're so quick. Ah, it's just numbers.
You're a whizz kid.
Well, I don't know about that. I think you're too modest.
I bet you're cleverer than most of the maths professors here.
Mm, well, no.
But, er... I do have quite a high level of authority.
I was only able to make all that actually happen by filling in the password.
Ooh. Like this. Don't look.
Not looking. There we go.
Now, I know it's not quite having the code to a nuclear weapon but...
That's how I make the salary papers.
So that just sent out all the money? No, no, I'd have to press return.
Like that?
Yeah, like that. Yay!
I sent out all the money. Yes.
Yes, you did. I...
It's just that I'd already done that. I was... just showing you what I'd just done.
Sort of hoping to press cancel. Have you had lunch today?
Sorry, I can't really deal with this now.
I'm still hungry even though... Sorry. Please!
I've eaten my sandwiches. Just go.
Right, I'll...
Is this a new shredder?
Oh, it's her - mousy and gauche.
Oh, it's him - seedy and louche.
Fluked a successful book, though. Can't take that away from her.
Although I imagine it's a steaming cock of excrement.
Not entirely sure what "louche" means. Maybe it's French for slimeball.
Ah, Miss Moffatt! Oh! Loved the book!
Er... thanks, thanks.
Um... love your... English department.
He loves my book. He knows my name.
That is so louche... probably.
She loves my entire English department.
She looked like a startled grouse.
I woke up this morning with my head sticking out of a cat flap.
Really? No. But it could happen is my point.
Right.
It's a metaphor, Matt.
Is it? What for? For your life.
One of these days you'll wake up with your head out in the cold
to find an angry ginger tom urinating on you.
Do you want that? No.
Good. So get up! Wake up! Jump on the gravy train!
OK!
Do you know what I would do if I was in your position?
Enjoy being tall?
Get some fresh young students with low-slung jeans filled with cash...
who can come and learn with you.
Your department needs to increase its popularity dramatically.
What do you suggest? The Literature Factor? Poet Idol?
English Department's Got Talent.
We have got a little maths girl
whose first book has gone best-selling bat-shit crazy.
Yeah, and you've promoted her for that.
Because her book will bring the foreigns in.
Rupees, riyals, dinar and the leke.
Their grubby Gandhi jockstraps are weighed down with foreign currency.
Now, they may not be able to speaka the good Engrish,
but when they see celebrity...
Celebrity! They are keen as custard.
What are they? Keen as custard.
Good. Publish something glittery and start earning your keep here, Beer.
Absolutely no problem.
I do have a few irons near if not actually in the fire, so...
You have got 24 hours to come up with a title.
Right. Thing is, I've got a tummy ache.
Get the foreigns in. Stop fucking anything that moves.
What kind of life is that?
And if you go anywhere near my mathematical Cheryl Cole...
You'll liquidise my ball bag. Looking forward to it.
Ooh, lovely man.
Oh, what did the VC want?
He wants me to lighten your research workload
so you can spend more time training.
Really? No.
If I lightened your workload any more,
you'd have to tie it round your wrist when you went outside.
Oh, look, you got an A again. Well done.
Really? Yes.
Even though I wrote about the wrong book?
Well, you haven't read the right book, have you?
Well, no. Or indeed any books.
I've read some books. None of the books on the syllabus.
No. Well, there we are, then.
Thanks, Matt. Professor Beer.
And don't thank me, thank the gods of athletic ability
who made you strangely indispensable to this university.
In return, you can take my year two revision group for me.
Welcome to Kirke. We welcome all of you with open arms.
To each and every foreign student,
we say welcome, but please, please, pick up your complimentary mints.
That is essential.
You have to talk to British students.
It's essential you have your mints with you. Thank you.
My father once told me that my vagina would hold me back in life.
My mother told me the prejudices of men would hold me back in life.
My grandmother said my mother and father were cunts. Who do you believe?
The best part of having a best-selling book
is that everybody wants to share in your success.
Hey, Mrs Big Book Promotion! Well done, you!
Oh, thanks. Are you writing anything this term?
Oh, no, I don't but into all that shit. It's vain.
Makes you look like a total cock-pot. No, I'm here to teach.
Yeah, well, I guess I get to do both.
Your breath smells of meat. Her breath smells of meat.
I'm a vegetarian, you big sausage-shitter!
Perhaps I should abandon maths altogether and write a murder story.
Hypothesis - publishing success makes women's breasts look bigger.
Investigate.
A-ha! The JK Rowling of maths. Oh, hello.
Tea? Thanks very much. That would be lovely. English breakfast, please.
Don't mean to sound discriminatory but I don't think they do a maths breakfast.
What do you want?
Well, I'm not a regular visitor to Maths World but I thought I'd drop by,
sniff your cave. Hm.
Fat kid.
Go away. I'm integrating.
Then there's the small matter of my follow-up book to get on with so please...
Now, now, maths girl, you mustn't beat yourself up, being a one-hit wonder.
Who says I'm a one-hit wonder?
One book about literally nothing and you're done.
It wasn't about nothing, it was about zero, actually,
which is very different. It's a toilet read.
And what was your last publication? The Big Hooters Of Mary Shelley?
No. Mary Shelley didn't have big bangers.
Actually, maybe I could shut His Vice Tubbiness up with that.
Call it Literary Hooters. I bet one of the Brontes had decent norks.
Do you mind if I google it? Yes, I do, actually.
All right, you're obviously overwrought, under pressure, lacking direction.
You need a more experienced hand resting on your tiller.
My tiller? It's not a part of your body.
Unless you want it to be. Do you want it to be a part of your body?
I can operate my own tiller, thank you. What I'm offering is inspiration.
If you want to borrow some big words, or punctuation, footnotes, rhymes.
Shoe, poo, hope, grope, key ring...
No, thank you. I want to make maths appealing.
You in just your bra would be appealing. My teashop is now closed.
I could get you a publisher for that, definitely - you in just your bra.
Seriously, you could call it Alge-bra.
I can see your crack through the door.
I can still... I can still sort of sideways see your crack.
Yeah, I can still smell it.
Thursday 23rd of September. I interview a young man
about a non-existent post at the University,
and leave him in tears.
The feeling of making a man cry about a make-believe job is not unpleasant,
and I leave my office with a modest erection.
You don't really look like your photo.
Don't I?
I suppose I have a bit more make-up on there.
And more hair.
I'd say it was bigger, I wouldn't say there was more hair.
I would.
Is your next book also going to be about maths?
Well, yes. That's sort of my thing.
I had an idea for a book once. You could have it if you like. We could go halvsies.
Well, I could see how that might work for you.
It's about lizards planning to take over the entire world.
Oooh, I quite like a bit of science fiction.
Oh, it's not science fiction, is it?
When I say "lizards", I mean "Jews".
And how are we spelling our name?
P...
Isn't she a picture?!
Oh, hello, Vice Chancellor! Lovely to see a familiar face!
Would you mind?
Who shall I sign it to?
Margaret. Is that your wife?
My concubine.
Oh, gosh. Sorry, I didn't know.
Don't be startled, Imogen. Mrs de Wolfe suggested it...
she knows I require more than one sturdy-vaginered outlet.
Then that's just ideal!
Isn't it...?
Er, who's this one for?
"My darling Edith."
And how's her vagina, Vice Chancellor?
From what I remember, tremendously cosy. Edith is my mother.
Oh, exactly... Is that OK?
Fandabidozy! Don't be afraid to use vaginal discourse in front of me.
You'll soon learn that nothing shocks me,
my Golden Goose.
Ah, Cussons Imperial.
Clap! Clap!
'What is so wrong with being a one-hit wonder?
'Look at the Bible, it's done OK.'
'Hypothesis. Only I exist and I've made everything else up to save myself from primal loneliness.
'No. No, no. He definitely seems to exist.'
Got some expense forms - where's the oddly pretty one?
Not sure who you mean.
The only one of you who isn't spotty, lonely and autistic.
She's out.
When will she be back?
Can't tell.
Can't tell because you don't know or can't tell because it's a secret?
Secret.
What if I had the magic key?
Then I'd have to tell you.
Where would I find the magic key?
In my vagina.
Maybe I'll just wait.
Well, it won't be soon.
You said you didn't know.
Did I...?
Maybe I'll just wait it out.
Maybe you will.
Maybe I am.
How long have we been colleagues?
13 years.
You're one of only five female staff I haven't slept with.
You have.
Really?
Yep.
Really. Were you any good?
I was magnificent.
Why can't I remember?
I drugged you.
That's quite brazen.
Well, I'm not actually much of a catch, to be fair.
No... I should probably press charges,
but there's a sort of grudging admiration. Well done.
Well done.
Oh, Professor Beer!
Who are you?
I'm one of your students.
Why don't I recognise you?
I guess cos you never teach us.
What do you want from me?
I need help on the Frontier Fiction essay.
What's your name, little man?
Conrad.
Right, Conrad - is this something you can Google?
I don't think I should.
All right, well, then here's our dilemma, Conrad,
If you can't Google it, then I can't Google it.
If me no Google and you no Google, we're fucked.
Next time, be a girl.
I think maybe some of the themes are similar to those of the French existentialists,
don't you think?
Yeah. I think there are similarities.
How can you say that?
I'm joking!
God... ROFL.
"Rolling on the floor laughing."
No, there aren't any similarities.
What?
Well, you see...
Right, sometimes in life, you get... things that seem... as if they're similar... um...
And then they turn out not to be.
You see?
And what is... similarity anyway?
Perhaps that's something we should have a little look at.
Um... maybe we should have a little look at the financial crisis in UK athletics.
Can we talk about the book first?
The book... the book. Yeah, of course, the book.
Jesus, haven't you had enough?
Right, I know why your book's a toilet read. It's because numbers are essentially problematic.
I'm not listening.
No, listen - it's a serious dilemma, because when it comes down to it,
who knows exactly how much a thousand is?
What?
Well, it sounds impressive, but here's my theory...
no-one has ever counted up to a thousand, no-one really knows it's there. Might be something else.
What?
But words... words mean something.
And mathematics doesn't?
Guesswork.
And physics? Fairy tales.
Chemistry? Lies we tell children.
Thanks for that. I'm trying prepare for a lecture, so...
All right... all I'm saying it'll feel very lonely when I've gone,
it'll be just you and your fast-crumbling theories,
you little 17th-century thing, you.
Please go.
Is the wankpot annoying you?
He was just leaving.
Not now things are getting interesting. Know what you are?
A little bit Clooney, a little bit Basil Brush?
Little bit sexist, deluded infant with a mouth where an A-hole should be.
I suppose a collaboration is out of the question?
I'd rather be raped by a pig.
And that's speaking from experience.
What about you? It's all right, you don't have to say.
I know. I know what you want. Deep down in your heart of hearts...
is for you and me to work together - slaving into the night,
thrashing out the pros and cons of various theories.
Experiencing the highs, the lows, the trials and tribulations.
The eureka moment where we hug and we nearly kiss.
The moment where I catch you staring at me when you think I'm not looking.
The getting drunk because it's just not coming together the way we hoped.
And then the inevitable complicated, sweaty love scene,
where you experience an orgasm that makes your body ache
like you've been shot?
Well, I'm going to have to let you down,
I'm playing squash tonight and then I've got a fumble with a big-breasted post-grad.
Well, so have I! Not a big-breasted one,
a normal post-grad, a male one, a fumble with a male post-grad...
Oh, he's gone.
Boo.
Why do you think the main character commits suicide?
Mmmm...
Oh, me? Ah, well, um...
I think it's just because he's a bit...
You know, a bit... She.
Yeah, she...
I was going to say that! You took it out my mouth.
Um... You've got a really nice... really nice dress on.
It's a skirt.
The skirt plays a profound function in the story, because...
I'm glad you brought the skirt up, because skirts...
are very prevalent in the book.
Am I wrong?
It's a dress.
Skirt.
Hang on, so you're wearing a... Skirt.
That's definitely a skirt?
So why have you material above the waist?
What's that got to do with the book?
Is that... Is that a dress?
Kind of.
A dress, then, is... a reverse...
From the ankles upwards?
So, we've learnt something today. Skirts.
Is that right? No.
A skirt can go down to the ankles, but...
a dress is from here.
And this is what? That's definitely a long ankle skirt?
No, it's a kind of dress.
I was going to say, because otherwise your ankles would be near your...
Hi. It's me.
You're right, it is.
You know the incident with the payroll?
Oh, yeah - when you goofed up the payments?
When there was... a misunderstanding, in fact, yes.
So, anyway, the thing is, one or two people, including you,
have actually been paid twice.
Oh, no. How many are there?
394.
And no-one seems to want to pay the money back.
What? That's terrible.
I know. The money's not morally theirs, but they won't give it back,
the big... bastards.
Some people, eh?
But you will, won't you?
Of course!
If I hadn't already spent it.
No, you can't have done. On what?
A bodyguard. Just for a day. I've always wanted one.
No, no, no. Nicole, this isn't right at all.
He protects me wherever I go.
Sorry, this is a mistake. The money wasn't actually hers.
Can you return the money and go away now, please?
Return the money and go away now, please.
I said, can you go away now, please?
Have you even got a pass? Has he got a pass? Where's your lanyard?
I'm coming back, this isn't finished.
I've got a new shredder!
Pink dress, red shoes, blonde hair...
there is a degree in arseology waiting for you in my office at midday, thank you.
Matthew Beer is a queer,
if he don't publish soon his end is near.
Electing a new pope?
Excuse me?
The white smoke. Smoking is not allowed in here.
Neither are women - I use the term loosely.
The smoking issue is more important.
I have a medical condition - I need nicotine in order to shit.
Then shit outside with the other smokers.
You have the soul of a petty bureaucrat, you know that? Sometimes I really...
Eat the cigarette. Brilliant.
Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit,
oh shit, oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,
shit, shit, shit, SHIT!
You OK?
No. I've just overpaid 395 members of staff. I'm up shit creek.
Shit.
Yeah. How's your day been going?
A bit better than yours. For some reason, I got paid twice. Wiping my arse with fifties.
That was a twenty. Actually, it was just a ten. I've been using the fives for kindling.
Right, yeah. It's a paper towel. Of course it's a paper towel. It's a joke, Jason.
I'm not wearing pants. It's not a sexual thing. It's about transgression.
Flouting society's norms by going commando. Also, I have acute cystitis.
Not the honeymoon variety, sadly. I... savour the cooling breeze.
Everyone should air their bunty from time to time.
Giving myself a wide-on.
You see, what the Vice Chancellor
doesn't understand is that I can't publish just like that.
You can't wind me up and make me perform like some mechanical monkey with clapping cymbals.
I'm just not like that.
True, they're rather cute.
In you go!
Ah, Professor Beer! Lazy fucker - are the creative juices flowing yet?
Or just the procreative ones?
You can't just turn it on like a little fountain in a bidet.
The girl can.
A watched kettle never boils.
Now, that's not strictly true, is it? GCSE chemistry.
To quote one of the great, late 20th century poets...
"I don't need this pressure on, I don't need this pressure on,
"I don't need this pressure o-ooon."
If you think quoting the Ballet at me will soften me up,
you may well be right. But the fact remains, a girl did it. A girl.
She had girl's luck.
Would you take your left shoe off, please?
Why, is this how "the girl" did it?
And now the sock.
The girl is a success. I think we all know what you is.
Unique, dishevelled, sexy, dirty,
clever in a wicked way - with a naughty twinkle in the eye that
makes women catch their breath. Masterful, womanising cad,
often likened to a character from literature that women can masturbate over
late at night when their husbands are snoring. I've thought about what I am at some length.
Would you now look in the sock, please?
All right. That is quite impressive.
'I'm lucky. Some people get second-book syndrome before they've written their first.'
'Once upon a time, there was a dashing, well-endowed young prince
'who was searching for an essay title,
'and one day, the idea ran away and hid.'
'The joy of sums. Sums and chums.
'Sums and bums. Numbers, humbers, thumbers.
'Idea for a second book. Idea for an essay title.
'The Big Book Of Bumbers.'
'Ees open!
Do you know why you're here?
The accounts thing.
No, I want to discuss some new curtains for your office.
Oh.
Well, to be honest, I thought...
It is the accounts thing, isn't it?
Yes, it's the accounts fiasco. The accounts absolute bloody disaster.
What's the damage?
The adjusted figure is Â£862,000.
And how much have we recovered?
823. That's all right.
Pounds. Fuckers won't pay it back.
Not a prayer. I... I've been spat at.
Look, my feeling is, I think we should be rational about this.
The auditors are going to shit themselves.
What I was thinking... OK, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!
We had an admin error, but we caught it before it went out.
Yeah, but we didn't.
But we lie and say we did. And the missing money?
We spent it on the... sculpture.
Sorry, what... what sculpture?
The giant white horse, the huge rusty angel,
the massive pair of sky-tits, I don't know, whatever!
So we pretend we've spent the money on an as-yet non-existent sculpture?
And claim a matching grant from Central Government.
But we don't have anything to show for the money...
Jesus Christ, accounts bum-boy! Do I have to think of everything?
Now this is your problem. And that, my friend, is how we run a university.
Oh, good luck.
Ah, Beer!
Trying... Trying to beat me?
Try harder, try harder, try harder, try harder.
Ah, Grace! Just the woman, or something.
Would you know anything about how we could get hold of a large,
but really good, outdoor sculpture?
But not necessarily pay anything for it. Well, not pay anything for it.
You know the sort of thing, Gormley...
Gormley. Well, Gormley, basically.
Gormley-type thing. School of Gormley.
I'm trying to collaborate, throw ideas out there and I don't feel you're jumping at them.
Is there a... It's not working.
So, what you're thinking is, "Was the first time just a fluke?"
Like you're going to repeat yourself, or your idea's crap?
No, that was...
Voices saying saying that you're ugly, boring, uncreative, nobody likes you.
Not all those things, but...
You're the girl in the twinset
being led into the deep dark woods by the bad man, who it turns out is your father.
No?
Maybe I'll just go for a lie-down. Need to walk with a stick.
Do you fancy going for a pint?
Or we could get off with each other.
Right, I want you all to think of a book that you don't have,
but that you would find useful or indispensable to your work.
Is it, like, in the library?
No, no, it does not exist. It has yet to be written.
Fleeting Love In Renaissance Poetry.
Well, that sounds excellent, probably because it does exist
and I asked you all to read it by the end of next week.
Oh, yeah. Yeah.
You can't just tell us to think of a brilliant idea,
just so you can write it up and get all the credit.
What's the point of having you lot here?
Perhaps if you tell us what you're interested in?
What I'm interested in?
Well, I'm interested in getting the VC off my back,
so I can go back to life as usual, which, God knows, is bad enough,
before I set fire to myself on the main lawn
as a mute howl against the appalling futility of this whole empty charade.
Right. You get back to your Arthur Miller.
I'm going to take a quick... boredom break.
I'll be back in...
April.
Ah, Fahim.
It's Ahir, actually.
Look.
Oh. Ahir.
Am... Am I in trouble?
Oh, no, no, no. No, no, not... not unless you've done something naughty.
Done anything naughty? No.
Damn. Then I should cut to the chase.
There has been an almighty cock-up here at the University
and unless we get half a million pounds within seven days,
we are all going down the shitter.
Right. And, um...
Yeah?
You know, your dad. He's a bit loaded, isn't he?
Yes, but...
Would you just give him a call? No.
Do it. No.
Send him a text. No.
An e-mail? A tweet? No. No.
Go on iChat. No.
Put a posting on his blog. No.
I could just phone him and tell him about the prostitutes.
What prostitutes?
Oh, I suppose you haven't been using prostitutes.
Of course not!
Ladies of the night. Soiled doves. No. No.
Thrupenny uprights. Not even 18th-century prostitutes, no.
Jesus Christ, boy! What have you been doing with your life?
Trying to get a solid engineering degree.
To build bridges. Ultimately, yes.
And I wonder what gather under bridges.
Whores?
I would have said trolls.
Whores? How very interesting.
Vice Chancellor, can I leave now?
I'm... I'm from Sussex,
I've never been to India in my life.
I'll send Fahim in.
What was that? A post-coital high-five.
When did you have sex with Miriam? About 11am.
What, and she didn't even want to talk? Why?
Cos you sexed her this morning. It was just sex.
What's this?
My Byron essay.
But don't you want to spend time with her?
You know, the little sideways glances and lovely shared jokes.
No, I think about having sex with them.
It's just sex?
With all women?
Well, that's a bit optimistic, but as many as possible, certainly.
Look, I offer to put it in, they want me to put it in.
Yeah. I put it in, we jiggle about a bit.
I take it out, wipe it on a sock, job done.
Don't ask.
I just use my sweatband.
You're lurking, what are you after?
What makes you think I'm after something?
Before today, you only ever said one thing to me.
"Why's a squirrel teaching mathematics?" Yet here you are again.
That was back in the day when you hadn't published a mathsbuster.
Now, you're a freakish phenomenon. Thanks.
So what's your secret? Hard work.
Hard what? Look, there's no shortcut, OK?
Come on, you must have some formula for success.
That's what you maths people do.
What the point of you otherwise?
Since you ask so beautifully, first it's a nice, hot bath. Bubbles?
No. Then I put on my thinking cap and I think of something wonderful.
Dogging? Like joy.
Which I combine with something mathsy, and... bingo! Whoo-hoo! The Joy Of Zero.
Kebab Tangent. A bit niche.
Lemon Meringue Pi. OK, you can go now.
Yeah, all right. I will. I'm starving.
Sorry.
If, um... someone had inadvertently been paid their salary twice,
morally, do you think they should just give it back or keep it?
Is this person you? Well, yes.
Pay it back. But it's also you.
Keep it.
Give it back.
No can do. My bank account, like my fanny, works like a lobster pot.
Once something trapped in there, it won't come out again till I say so.
Oh, cocks!
45, 46, 47, 48, 49.
49 times she's written the word "block" in different shapes and sizes.
Tells us all we need to know about her new book, I think.
Er... yes. It's obviously about a block of some sort.
An office block, maybe. Yeah, possibly.
I'm more inclined to focus on the complete absence of any proper notes
and the many, many hours of intricate, largely insane doodling.
I like this one. Look, it's of a pig saying, "English is cool, maths is stupid,
"Oink, oink, grunt!"
What is that about? Can I have it back?
Oh, my God. And also it's wearing a cardigan and it's got a massive cock.
If I can just clarify one thing.
Now, when you say...
That you are thinking of chucking it all in,
you are talking about actually killing yourself?
Not just dropping out of the course?
Because that doesn't work for me.
Whereas you actually killing yourself...
Well, that is... That is something that I can deal with.
That kind of gives me some options to play with.
Shouldn't I talk to a counsellor?
Normally, yes. But the University has just given away
a million pounds in a big accident.
So, here's the deal.
You are going to take the blame, posthumously,
and I am going to give you a cracking grade. A really good one.
I... I don't understand.
Well, you would be helping me out. You'd help out the whole university.
And...
I will write a lovely letter to your parents.
Actually, I'm not sure about this.
Or you could be found in some auto-erotic asphyxiation-type scenario.
Belt, tangerine, copy of ELLE Decoration, the whole works.
No, I mean, I don't think I want to kill myself.
I'm not sure I care.
I don't want to die now.
I went too far.
I have always wanted to know how far I would go to protect this university,
this... this silly old pile of bricks and mortar,
and now I know that I...
Well, I was prepared to kill for it.
Can... Can I go now?
Oh!
You've seen too much.
I'm afraid that... ironically enough, now...
you have to die.
Bugger! Do... Do you know,
I distinctly remember ordering some sort of hidden trap door.
Young man, you are free to live again.
You embrace this second chance.
You write the novel that you've always wanted to,
find the woman that you have fancied from afar and tell her that you love her.
I'm gay.
All right, I am really sorry about that ELLE Decoration thing.
That was not a dig, all right?
Friends? Good, off you go.
Cry baby.
What I'm asking is, am I allowed a Â£2 million mortgage?
The mortgage would be on a university.
No, not entirely mine, no.
But I'm an... employee.
A fairly high-ranking employee.
Yeah. Um... right, yes, timescale.
Mm, the thing is, I sort of need this tomorrow if...
Hello? Hello?
OK.
Come in if you're under 25 and female.
All right, come in if you're under 35 and female.
Not interested.
Hello, there. Um... I'm... I'm looking for a mortgage.
Yeah. Yeah, it's...
Hello, Dad.
Jason.
Close!
You don't have any ideas, do you, man?
Um... actually, I do, actually.
Really?
And, um... I do, actually, and it's...
incredibly exciting.
It is called...
Mm?
The Lesbian...
Continuum. Really?
Because that sounds very intriguing. So, what is the general... thrust?
Right, well, taking its sources from modern literature,
its central theme is the fact that, if you are a woman,
the answer to the question, "Are you a lesbian?" cannot be known.
There are only degrees of lesbianism,
so hence the continuum of the title. Continuum, yes.
So, all women are lesbians, to a certain extent?
Yeah, it's a continuum.
Ooh!
Right, you thieving little bloody little thieving little bloody man.
What's he done? Not him you!
What a sad little man you are.
Just... Just lay off him, OK?
Vice Chancellor, this man is a... irresponsible,
thieving, arrogant, meany tosser brute.
Couldn't agree more,
but, rather atypically, Professor Queer has just pleasured me,
though not fellatiously.
He - hallelujah - has just had an original idea for a book.
Yeah, well, you may well snort, lady. It was so strange.
I was just lying in a nice bubbly bath, I put on my thinking cap,
thought of something wonderful.
Lesbians. And mathsy.
Continuum. And bingo.
How dare you? That's my bath! That's me, that's my me-ness!
Really? That is extraordinary. We have exactly the same process.
Unless you're just pretending to be like me to suck up to our VC.
What? I told you how I came up with my book and now you're...
It's clearly not working for you, with your blockage.
Blockage? What blockage? It's in her... in her U-bend.
Oh, a faecal impediment!
Writing a book about these things often helps.
This is a barefaced, perfidious, shameless, fat sack of untruths.
I can't speak. I beg to differ.
Ha!
I'm taking this bloody rubber. Please do.
I'm taking this too. What is it? A box of latex finger sheaths for inserting anal pessaries.
You are quite repulsive.
You.
Bloody good work.
I will see you tomorrow morning, 9am, my office, where we will talk...
Continuum. I'll bring cake.
I bid you farewell.
This isn't the 19th century.
More's the pity, back then I'd have had the lanky shit garrotted.
He's a lovely man. Articulate, witty, gracefully lazy.
All characteristics which, if he were my lover, I might be secretly jealous of.
But as his Vice Chancellor,
I feel professionally compelled to ram my Oxford English down his gullet
until he shits out something with an ISBN number.
Now, if you'll excuse me...
Come on. Think, think, think.
Have you thought about being a rent boy?
I would, but I have an odd-shaped anal cavity.
And with that, I am gone.
I couldn't, it's a medical thing.
It means I tend to do an odd-shaped stool.
Oi, you! Oh, hello.
Have you come to give me back my rubber? You stole my method.
I'll steal anything that's not screwed down.
And why did you tell the VC that I'm blocked?
Thanks! That's really spectacularly helpful.
And now he thinks I've got some big, unladylike bowel problem.
I know what you're thinking. How could you possibly know?
You're thinking I'm an appalling, shameful, gutless toad of a betrayer.
Oh, really? Really? Well, yes, that was pretty much what I was thinking.
Only a higher-pitched voice and quite a lot bloody angrier.
Better? No.
Know what the best thing to do is when you're really angry with someone?
What? Sit on their lap and stroke their hair.
There you go again. There I go what?
Making me want to punch you.
Punch in the Old English sense of the word, meaning to fondle?
'Mental note.
'Never been slapped in the face before, and it's actually quite embarrassing.
'Been slapped on the cock, but never the face.
'Footnote. Never slapped someone in the face before. Actually...
'feeling quite giddy.'
Hear this, men in the urinals and toilets.
You will all pay back the money!
You have a moral obligation. I warn you, I will show no mercy.
I will break limbs and cripple you.
Unless you're already crippled... disabled,
and then, obviously, I won't disable you further.
But be warned, men in wheelchairs, I can make things very difficult for you too.
I'll stab you with a compass. I've got a big stapler and am not afraid to use it.
Just pay back the money. I'm not messing about.
All of you.
Pay back the money. You too.
Where are you going? Hey, he's gone in your one!