Some Kind of Beautiful Page #7

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Put on some tunes, guys?

Oh, look at this. This is paradise, man.

You've ended up in paradise!

You know, they must be freezing

their bollocks off in England.

Why are you really here?

Joan left me. Silly cow.

Well, I'm sorry. Truly.

Well, that makes me feel so much better.

I mean, God almighty, thank you

for those profound words of sympathy.

Well, it's a lot more than you

ever said when Kate left me.

Well, I warned you about her!

She was a rampant little Yankee trollop.

You know what, Dad?

Of course Joan left you.

You're a misanthropic, misogynistic a**hole

who doesn't give a f*** about anybody,

least of all the poor saps who you got

to marry you in the first place.

Is that it? Is that all you've got?

And you did it all in the name

of some misguided credo called fun.

Which you brainwashed me

with in the first place.

Guys, dig this song!

Bugger off.

That's it then, is it, boy wonder?

So you finally got it

off your chest, have you?

You know what, Dad?

Why don't you just bugger off for once?

For once...

why don't you be the one to bugger off?

Brian, go back to my wife.

Go on.

Go on, just... just go back.

Thank you for that wonderful sharing.

Seriously, this has been

absolutely a marvelous session.

I've learned so much.

Give yourselves a big hand. Everybody.

Wendy, I was wondering

if you could sign my form

to show that I've done the 10 sessions?

I'm sorry, Richard, I can't.

Why? I mean, I came,

I did the whole "I'm an alcoholic..."

But it's not about

just saying the words.

You have to actually mean them.

Great seeing you. Thanks so much.

Cindy, right?

I just spent the last week listening

to that drivel so some witless little ninny

won't sign a piece of paper

to say I'm an okay kind of guy.

Absolute bollocks. Sorry, excuse me.

Hey, you want to get a drink?

Actually, maybe not.

I've got a grueling lecture in an hour.

How about a joint?

Just kidding, bad joke.

I didn't want my son to find it.

I don't touch the stuff. It's my dad's.

Likes to puff.

- Good luck with your lecture.

- Thank you.

I want you all to imagine

you're at Cambridge University.

The year is 1807.

You walk across the quad

of Trinity College.

Into the lecture hall, you find

your fellow classmate, Lord Byron,

who, in defiance

of college rules about dogs,

has brought a bear to class instead.

You know what?

Forget about that.

Why are the Romantics relevant today?

Honestly...

they're not.

Stacy got it right.

And Dwight, he can't stop thinking

about home runs and fastballs

when he reads Byron and Coleridge.

Because...

we're teaching words.

Words.

But we're not teaching meaning.

I got it all wrong.

I can tell you about Byron and his bear,

Wordsworth falling in love with his cousin,

Coleridge falling in love with cocaine.

I can tell you what's behind

the words from them,

but I can't tell you what's behind

those words for you.

Because this class is about you

learning to find your own meaning.

Your own voices.

Go read the poems.

But know this, that at this moment,

you are the Romantics,

you are the relevant ones.

Let Byron, Coleridge, Wordsworth

inspire you to do your thing,

to go your own way.

Stacy, quit texting.

Call him, right now.

Dwight, go play ball.

Ignore anyone who says no, you can't.

Follow your hearts. Do good things,

be bold, and, above all else...

stick it to the man.

Well, Dad, I totally f***ed up

my audition lecture.

I stuck it to them all right.

I stuck it to myself in the process, too.

Hey, listen, you silly old sod,

you just bolted before I could apologize.

Why are you so thin-skinned these days?

All right, call me back.

$4,000 should cover it.

What?

Your Mustang, Richard, it's got Sienna Red

paint there all over the back fender.

Unmistakable.

1954 MG TFs do not come cheap,

my friend.

Absolutely not. Can I give you a check?

I would prefer cash.

Wanted to be the first

to congratulate you.

Welcome to the English department,

University of Los Angeles.

Yes!

Oh, good. Oh, thank you, boss.

I guess we'll do the other side as well.

- Let's go have a pint.

- A pint of what? Oil?

A pint of what... Witty.

I'll always laugh at your jokes.

I got the job. ULA!

Knocked it out of the ballpark.

- Congratulations!

- Home run! Fantastic!

And I feel fantastic about you

and what we did, making love.

No, listen please. Hear me out.

Kate and I have been separated

for two years.

Why should we feel bad?

We're grownups, you know.

And if Kate doesn't like it, she can

bloody well just go... Hey, you. Brian.

Okay, okay, in the vault.

Oh, Kate.

Olivia.

My best friend.

Total trust.

No secrets!

- We were going to...

- You know what? If you want him, take him.

But get out of my house.

Well, now, maybe... okay.

Thank you.

Ernesto. Sorry I'm late.

- Where's your wife?

- Not coming. Sends her regards.

Okay, strike one, she's not here.

Strike two, you failed

the recovery program.

We may be 0-2, but we're going

to swing for the fences

on the University of Los Angeles.

Morning, officer Lewis.

Why has it taken nearly three years

to schedule this interview?

Well, my client never received

all the notifications from ICE.

Is this your handwriting, Mr. Haig?

Some of it is.

Some of it's also my son's.

Working on his cursive.

Can you explain this?

Yes, well, that's not my fault.

Painkillers, dental surgery.

My client's done 10 sessions of a recovery

program to show his good character.

Where's the letter of completion?

In the mail, with "bew-locks" written on it?

It's "bollocks," actually.

Officer Armstrong!

Please describe how Mr. Haig

tried to offer you marijuana.

The other night, as I was leaving

the recovery center,

Mr. Haig asked me

if I wanted some marijuana.

Under California law, the possession

of marijuana is a felony.

That's true.

What is it you say, Mr. Haig? Cheerios?

There you have it, the whole sorry saga.

Ernesto did do one thing

to justify his exorbitant fee.

He got me this one hour with you.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Jake.

- Time's up.

- Jake, please.

I love you. Do you hear me?

I am so sorry.

"That is no country for old men.

The young in one another's arms,

birds in the trees,

those dying generations...

at their song."

So, what's Yeats saying here?

He's a 60-year-old man looking

at young people screwing and living,

blissfully unthinking

about their own mortality.

Yeats knows he's just an aged man,

but his dreams...

are of Byzantium.

- Hello?

- This is Memorial General.

We need to talk to you

about your father.

What the buggering hell

are you doing here?

You hate hospitals.

You're right.

I hate bloody hospitals.

But I love the nurses.

How's my little Jake?

He's all right, Dad.

You know, I...

I don't think I could have done

what you did.

You stuck with that boy

through all the muck and bullets.

You're a better man than I, Gunga Din.

I don't know about that, Dad.

You still shagging the...

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