Coupling

Coupling



Year:
2000
7,841 Views

Steve:
What is this?

Susan:
It's a cushion.

Steve:
Right. Yes. Thank you for that. Very informative. [to Jeff] You got any of these?

Jeff:
No.

Steve:
Of course you haven't. [to shop assistant] You - are you married? Living with anyone?

Junior Shop Assistant:
No.

Steve:
Got any of these?

Junior Shop Assistant:
No.

Steve:
Of course not. Okay! [to the women] You bring these things into our homes. They sit on our chairs. They watch our televisions. Now, I just need to know, on behalf of all men everywhere, I just need to ask, please... What are they for? I mean, look at them! Look at the chubby little bastards! Just sitting around everywhere! What are they, pets for chairs? [to shop assistants] Come on, you sell them. What are they for?

Junior Shop Assistant:
Well...

Senior Shop Assistant:
You sit on them.

Steve:
Ah! Ha ha ha! You see, that's where you're wrong! Nobody sits on them. Okay, watch this. Here's the cushion. I'm putting it on the sofa. Now watch me. I'm stting down. And what do I do on my final approach? I - oh! - move the cushion! You see? It's not involved! It's not part of the whole sitting process. It just lies there. It's fat litter! It's a sofa parasite!

Jane:
It's, you know... padding.

Steve:
Oh, padding! Now, that's interesting, Jane. See, I like padding. If I was, say, an American Football player, and all those big bastards running at me, I would say "give me some of that padding and be quick about it." If my job involved bouncing down jagged rocks I would say "in view of those jagged rocks down there, I'll have some of that padding, thank you very much." But Susan, Sally, Jane, this is a sofa. It is designed by clever scientists in such a way as to shield the unprotected user from the risk of skin abrasions, serious head trauma, and, of course... [drops behind sofa, then sticks head out] Daleks. Trust me girls, trust me on this one: you do not need padding to tackle upholstery. So please - once and for all, tell me why on Earth you would want me to sit on one of these?

Susan:
Because, if you pressed it firmly against your bottom, it might stop you talking!

Steve:
You bring these things into our homes! They sit on our chairs! They WATCH our televisions! I-I just need to know, on behalf of all men everywhere, I just need to ask, please - WHAT are they FOR? I mean, look at them! Look at the chubby little bastards sitting around everywhere! I mean, what are they? Pets for chairs? [to salesman] Come on - you sell them - what are they for?

Senior Shop Assistant:
Well... you sit on them.

Steve:
Ah! Hahahaha. Y'see, that's where you're wrong! Nobody sits on them. Watch this. Here's the cushion. I'm putting it on the sofa. Now, watch me - I'm sitting down and what do I do on my final approach? I - ooh! - move the cushion! See? It's not involved! It's not... PART of the whole... sitting process. It just... lies there! It's fat litter! It's a sofa parasite!

Jane:
It's... y'know... padding.

Steve:
Padding? Oh now, that's interesting. I like padding. Y'know, if I was, say, uh, an American Football player, y'know, all those big bastards running at me, I would say "Give me some of that padding and be quick about it!". Y'know, if my job involved bouncing down jagged rocks, I would say "In view of those jagged rocks down there, I'll have some of that padding, thank you very much". Susan, Sally, Jane, THIS... is a sofa! It is designed by clever scientists in such a way so as to shield the unprotected user from the risk of skin abrasions, serious head trauma, and, of course... DALEKS. You do not, trust me girls, trust me on this one, you do not need padding to tackle upholstery. So, please, once and for all, tell me WHY on earth you would want me to sit on one of these?

Susan:
BECAUSE... if you pressed it firmly against your bottom, it might stop you TALKING!

Susan Walker:
[Asked by Sally if she wants to talk about her break-up with Steve] Okay... you know what's really getting me mad? My boyfriend... my fiance... the man who, against all my better judgment I actually love... chatted up a woman in a bar. And on the very same day - the VERY SAME DAY - I chatted up a man. Do you see? Do you get it? I'm equally at fault. How can I ever forgive him for that? But, of course, I'm not going to forgive him because... because men - and I don't mean to generalize - are CRAP! They're the human race's only failed gender! Who needs them? And why are they so difficult to keep hold of? Do you think they realize that, were it not for the genetic imperative to populate the earth, they wouldn't get a date? That's one hell of an inducement! "No pressure, girls, but shag one of these or it's curtains for all humankind!" That's harrassment! But you know what? Do you know what's even more crap than men? WE are more crap than men! All those stupid books you guys had and... and these magazines! A hundred pages of "Men are useless bastards" and an article on why you should wake them up with a blow job! Am I alone on spotting the inconsistency here? And these places [beauty parlors]... 'cause, for God's sake, don't let them see what we really look like! Just let them enjoy the results - don't let them see how it all happens.

Jane Christie:
You know... I went out with Steve for six years...

Susan Walker:
Non, you didn't. You went out with him for four years. I checked.

Jane Christie:
Oh... well it seemed longer.

Susan Walker:
Yeah! Yeah! Of course it seemed longer. I, myself, have been going out with him since the 12th century. Or possibly since last week - it's hard to keep track. Because how are you supposed to measure time with the man that you want to spend the rest of your life with? What would make sense? Centuries? Nanoseconds?

Sally:
Eggs.

[Susan has removed the lock from the bathroom door, and doesn't understand why Steve is so upset about it]

Susan:
Men and toilets, the love that dare not speak its name. What's that about?

Steve:
[slams hand down] We are men! Throughout history, we have always needed, in times of difficulty, to retreat to our caves. It so happens that in this modern age, our caves are fully plumbed. The toilet is, for us, the last bastion, the final refuge, the last few square feet of man-space left to us! Somewhere to sit, something to read, something to do, and who gives a damn about the smell? Because that, for us, is happiness. Because we are *men.* We are different. We have only one word for soap. We do not own candles. We have never seen anything of any value in a craft shop. We do not own magazines fill of pictures of celebrities with all their clothes *on*. When we have conversations, we actually take it in turns to talk! But we have not yet reached that level of earth-shattering boredom and inhuman despair that we would have a haircut *recreationally*. We don't know how to get excited about... really, *really* boring things, like ornaments, bath oil, the countryside, vases, small churches. I mean, we do not even know what, *what* in the name of God's *ass* is the purpose of pot-pourri! Looks like breakfast, smells like your auntie! Why do we need that? So please, in this strange and frightening world, allow us one last place to call our own. This toilet, this blessed pot, this... fortress of solitude. You girls, you may go to the bathroom in groups of two or more. Yet we do not pass comment. We do not make judgment. That is your choice. But we men will always walk the toilet mile... alone.

[audience applauds]

Susan:
Would you like me to put the lock back on the toilet door, dear?

Steve:
Would you mind?

Susan:
You should have asked.


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