Kenneth Branagh: Andrew Benson

Peter's Friends

Andrew Benson

Andrew: So, how's the world of publishing?
Maggie: Fine. Very busy.
Andrew: Any news on the boyfriend front?
Maggie: I was kind of seeing someone. An author.
Andrew: And what happened?
Maggie: He committed suicide.
Andrew: Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't...
Maggie: It's alright. Honestly. Really. I didn't really like him very much. I liked him even LESS after he committed suicide.
Andrew: How did he do it?
Maggie: Threw himself off a building.
Andrew: Eek.
Maggie: Couldn't even do that properly. It was only a three-story building. He would have survived, only a car ran him over.
[Andrew chuckles]
Maggie: It's not funny.
Andrew: Oh, it is slightly funny, Maggie.

Carol: I am not angry. I am just embarrassed. Is there anyone else down there you used to sleep with?
Andrew: It was 10 years ago! Christ, 10 years ago, you were married to someone else.
Carol: That is not the point. I did not try to keep it a secret.
Andrew: I didn't try and keep it a secret. I just didn't think it was worth mentioning.
Carol: Didn't think it was worth mentioning? You were ENGAGED to that FUCK-MONSTER down there and you didn't think it was worth MENTIONING?
Andrew: No, I didn't!
Carol: So she WAS a fuck-monster.
Andrew: I did NOT say that!
Carol: You did not DENY it!

[Peter shows Andrew the play that the pair were working on before Andrew moved to the States]
Andrew: [pointing at the page] That's still a good joke.
Peter: [looking over] What is?
Andrew: [reading from the page] I've never fallen in love. I've stepped in it a few times.

Andrew: I was just sitting here trying to work out *exactly* how I ruined my life.
Sarah: You think you're in trouble? I just tried to fuck a six-year-old.
Andrew: [laughs] You know, it's like - kindergarten, school, university, Black Hole.
Sarah: It's not that bad.
Andrew: Oh, yes, it is. In fact, it's SLIGHTLY worse than that.

Andrew: [Pointing to Peter's belly] And what's all this then?
Peter: It's called a pot-belly, Andrew. We have those in England, along with culture.
Andrew: Ah!

Andrew: [Struggling with Carol's suitcase] What the fuck have you got in here? Weights?
Carol: Yes.

Sarah: We can't all have our lives figured out as well as you do.
Andrew: I didn't say I had my life figured out, I said I had YOUR life figured out, love.

Andrew: [at the height of his drunken fury] Why the fuck did you invite me eh? You know, why the fuck any of us? Why this year, not any other bloody year? Is it because all our fucking lives are in such an optimum fucking mess that it needs Peter the Saviour to send us out on the world on New Year's Day, resurrected and directed? Because I'm here to tell you if that's your aim, my old fruit, from bitter fucking experience it hasn't worked!

Andrew: I can't believe Sarah. She seems to exist on a diet of fresh air and bonking!
Carol: You should know!

Sarah: It could have been worse.
Andrew: Yes, Sarah. It could have been worse. They could have attached electrodes to our genitals.

Peter: How long have you been married now?
Andrew: Almost three years.
Peter: Quite a long time for Hollywood, isn't it?
Andrew: Yeah.
Peter: Don't you get some kind of a plaque?
Andrew: Yes. We stay together five years I get a free hair transplant and she gets a new set of breasts.
Peter: What, so she'll have four?
Andrew: Yes, but her agent gets one.

Sarah: You'll probably be stuck with that Joan Collins impersonator for the rest of your life!
Andrew: You're talking about the woman I almost love.
Sarah: God, I've never seen anyone wear more makeup! How does she take it off? With a chisel?

Peter: It's funny, with both my parents gone, I suddenly have this overwhelming urge to act maturely.
Andrew: Oh, well, I don't think anybody really matures. Adults are just children who owe money.

Andrew: It's New Year's fucking Eve! Even the pope has a drink on New Year's Eve.
Sarah: The pope doesn't get unpleasant.
Andrew: Am I unpleasant anyone?

Mary Charleston: Ben's fine.
Andrew: [In a blind, drunken stupour] Oh, can't you let one fucking hour go by without ringing the fucking baby sitter?
Roger: She's concerned about our child, Andrew! No need to be aggressive.
Andrew: [Sneers] Was that Roger the jingle writer? Did she speak?
[Snickers drunkenly]
Roger: I'd rather be Roger the jingle writer than Andrew the miserable bastard! I've never understood you. You'd like to think it was Hollywood but you were like this ten years ago.
Andrew: Like what?
Roger: Self-loathing!