Will You Please Fuck Off?—the movie

The one thing the world will never have enough of is the outrageous.—Salvador Dalí 

Toby travels with a woman who pays. He's got it made, except that her nine-year-old daughter is smarter than he is.  Based on the novella:
Lazy, good-for-nothing, pleasure-loving Toby, in flight from his creditors in America, has tried it as an English-teacher in Paris ("know-your-words sort of thing") and as a tour guide in Italy and Greece ("I've always regarded Europe as more or less of a restaurant.")—

Proposed cast: Jason Connery (Toby)
—and has now relaxed into the good life, traveling with rich bubblehead Marcie,
to Bali, Hydra, Puerto Vallerta, wherever he can avoid cold weather and alarm clocks.  Marcie is the widow of a scientific genius, now dead in some wacko experiment, and her nine-year-old daughter by him, Andrea, thinks in megabytes.
And there's the rub: "Marcie is no smarter than anybody else; the child is smarter than anybody else"—including Toby, who she treats as her yo-yo.  She'd have got rid of him long ago but her mommy loves him, so she keeps him around to, what, play with. 

Proposed cast: John Goodman (Haze)
Marcie’s father-in-law, billionaire Hazelton Turnbull “Hard Turd” Harding IV, loathes Toby, and loathes giving Marcie her allowance to feed him.  But he loves his little granddaughter, and there lies the control.
Now Haze has summoned Marcie and Andrea to London, so they can pose as a family while he pretends to buy and old house, but in fact wants to marry Marcie to Lord Michael, and pass the title on to Andrea.

Proposed cast: Scott Hinds (Lord Michael)

They distract Toby with Dr Lu, a hooker posing as a psychiatrist,
who lures him into compromising situations; one of which involves dropping his dry goods in front of the Queen.  

Proposed cast: Mary Reynolds (HRH) 
And as if he didn't have enough trouble, the house is haunted by a gay ghost who's in love with Toby.  

Proposed cast: Mat Baynton (Oliphant)


  Will You Please Fuck Off? is part of the Toby series:

 Pretentious Pictures presents a London comedy. 

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Nifty quotes from Will You Please Fuck Off?


“The Fat Girls Contest”
The problem as I see it is to negotiate the busy canal of life from the gondola of one’s passivity. I like the little things. Lunch. The nap. The haircut. Looking in the mirror all that time puts me in such a good mood.

It was otherwise with Toad. He was always looking for women with whom to excite himself. I’d rather just lie here and await ravishment.

He wanted to soak himself in flesh, drown in it, extinguish for a moment his Toadness—and who can blame him?—in it.

Consider the luxury of encountering in the object of desire a maximum surface, of finding the object of desire if not limitless at least global. Planetary. The woman as world, if you will. Habitable. Not just the image of what is bigger than oneself, of what threatens, nay promises, to engulf one, but the very thing. I mean he’d done everything else.

"All women," he said, addressing the applicants as if handing down the tablets, "see themselves as fat. It is a condition of femaleness that it is incapable of distinguishing between itself and obesity. They will see nothing but what they feel to be the truth projected before them."

“And,” said Toad, “there will be a bonus for anyone whose partner tops the hundred-kilo mark! We got thirty entrance fees here, that’s five hundred extra to be shared by all contestants with ladies over two hundred and twenty pounds! I,” he added with a flourish, “will pay the caterers myself.” That’s the kind of dog biscuit the rich can throw you.

She weighed two hundred and seventy-five pounds, I clocked her. You didn’t want to give her any mouth. A single backhand could affect your dental work for decades.

“Attack of the Giant Feminists”

Naked, zombie-eyed, they loom over the landscape, advancing slowly, almost aimlessly, arms limp. We fall to our knees in wonder, rabbits in the headlights of a final revelation. Their gaze excludes us.

We jump into our Porsches and race back to the city.

What has happened transcends our understanding, a thing we are used to.

Someone has to be first. I steal forward. The seam is a pucker of delicate elephant skin, so tall I must arch my head back to see the summit. I pat it with both hands, gentle it, put my ear to it for oracular rumbles. Pulling nervously at my pants I glance up at the crests of her thighs. If they close I am done for. Holding it, as it were, by the lapels, I engage. It is a potential cavity! I press my cheek to it and give it my best stuff, pry at it with my tongue, surrender to its warmth.

“Certainly Something”

"You can’t be serious."  "No, but I can ball-room dance."  She restrained a smile and cocked an eyebrow. Funny how you can hear the old ball drop into the pocket.

"I’ll bet my mother’s uglier than your mother," I said.
He lit right up. "That’s a fool’s bet," he said. "I’ve got pictures right here."
"Art," said Barb, and he cooled it.
So we all just sat there.

"I’m not even sure I’m all that interested in having a good time!"  What was one to say? We carry a special burden, those of us who dare to love the world. I shrugged. "Somebody’s got to do it."

“The Great Detective”

"Joe-John! You fat! You stink de beer! You never get op de bed! You balls hang outa you shorts! How come I love you so much?” She fanned flies off him.

“Will You Please F Off?”

Whether or not to be a gentleman. Always a tough call. It depends.

"You are eating dead flesh," she observed. My mouth was already full. "I like mine with a cream sauce," I managed to say.

"Toby," the child turned around and said, "do we turn here?"  "No," I said. I had no idea whether we turned there or not but I like saying no to the child.

"How did you find me?"  "Not bad. A little skinny."  "No, how did you locate me? The room."  "Oh. The cabby. He was polite enough not to abandon me on the sidewalk." "Smart-ass."  "You are not," I said, opening my coat, "unright." I let it fall and struggled with my belt. "My brains must be somewhere."

I didn’t care. I just wanted to lie there and be thrown around by my feelings.

The Book:

Giant Feminists 
Toby for Streaming,
And a Comments Can. Toss one in.

Robert MacLean is a bad poet and an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi, Scanbox, and YouTube, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a screamingly funny novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a reviewer of films, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains, but an intellectual snob.

I-could-not-love-thee-dear-so-much-loved-I-not-moi-même-more sort of thing.

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Nifty quotes from The Cad

He-who-is-tired-of-fooling-around-in-Mediterranean-countries-is-tired-of-life sort of thing.

"Would you say Dee was beautiful?"  "I would if I were you."

"If you’re not making a fool of yourself," I said, "you’re not alive." I was on surer ground here. Speaking from experience.

"Chinese-wise I’m a pig," I admitted. She was something of an oinker herself.

I felt a kind of responsibility for it but it was the kind of responsibility God feels. Sympathetic but so what.

"There’s something noble about you. You make promises in the dark and it never occurs to you that they’re meaningless. You’ll walk away without a backward thought."  "Noble," I said, "It means stupid, I looked it up."

Marriage qua marriage was out, of course, I could see that now. Sex, money and the law in one cocktail, I mean that’s crazy.

"There’s a difference between being charming and being respectable—that’s what scares me about you."

Some women like you with a little stubble but she has you scraping your face every day and incurring ingrown hairs so you won’t burn her inner thighs when you’re paying the rent.

Her look said I’d tricked her into trapping me. "I think naivety is a form of cynicism, don’t you?"  "Men are such fools," I agreed.  "Oh, don’t be such a B-movie chimpanzee. You haven’t got the brains to be glib."

Now, don’t worry. It happens. Relax. Don’t boss your body around, it’s got its own timetable. Lay off.

"He sleeps nude! Guy’s a priest! He sleeps nude!"

Would you let me hurt you if I promise not to get carried away, watch out for that one. So the kid is screaming for the police, the neighbors, anybody...

Do I have to go through life weighed down by a character?

"What’s frightening about women?"  "I don’t know, I don’t understand them. Even when you’re intimate with them they come out of the bathroom wearing towels. They worry about how food looks. They iron underwear."

You have seen certain movies, you regard tenderness as the final fact. Is this just the reflection of your self-pity?

"Just think about something for a minute." Which when I had it translated meant shut up.

I simply couldn’t allow anybody that good-looking to suffer.

Yes but are you in love? Do you have the equipment to measure depth, is what I think I’m saying. Or does it depend what kind of music is playing in the taxi?

It doesn’t seem to matter what kind of fool you make of yourself, when they love you they love you.

I’m a guy, feels an opinion coming on, bangs his head on the wall till it goes away.

"You don’t think much of me, do you."  "I don’t think much at all," I said. "It wears me out."

Sleep is me, sort of thing.  I get my teeth cleaned, I want a total anesthetic.

"Great sermon, man, I told him. I think I’ll get drunk and fuck somebody."

It was dark. Life was bad. Not uniformly bad. Even in the abyss you make distinctions. But bad.

I took a bottle of gin out and drank off a few capfuls. You want to relax before a flight? Gin.

"Maybe there’s just—nothing. Darkness and—nothing." He edged out and peered over his knees. Kind of belief system you pick up in a cold climate.

"A whole life here and I never did find out how to do anything."

Meanwhile I was just going to lie there and be passive. Try to be a little more economical with my energy. When it’s a matter of faith or works I rely on the former.

It doesn’t really matter what actually happened, if they think they’ve had a good time it’s the same thing. Reality escapes us just as we escape it sort of thing. I pretty well deal in illusion.


Robert MacLean is a bad poet and an independent filmmaker. His The Light Touch is on Amazon Prime, Tubi, Scanbox, and YouTube, and his 7-minute comedy is an out-loud laugh. He is also a screamingly funny novelist, a playwright, a blogger, a YouTuber, a reviewer of films, a literary critic, and a stand-up comic poet. Born Toronto, PhD McGill, taught at Canadian universities, too cold, live Greece, Irish citizen. Committed to making movies that don't matter. No brains, but an intellectual snob.
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