Extract: The Twat Files by Dawn French

BEN

‘Yes, ladies ’n’ gennlemun, little bit o’ politics – Thatcher’s a monster . . . ’ The gor blimey accent, the sparkly jacket.

One of the big presents the Comic Strip gave me was a lifelong chum in the form of Ben Elton. You seriously can’t ask for a more loyal and loving friend. Fact.

This next example of uber twatness involves him and is a mixture of desperation, neediness and hubris – three of my very best qualities.

It’s 1990 and Ben has written his first-ever play, which is called Gasping. There’s a big buzz about it. It’s going to open in the West End . . . how exciting. We’re all wondering who he’s going to cast and I’m praying he’ll remember his ol’ mate ‘Dawnie’ (that’s what he, and he alone, calls me). The thought of being involved in a West End play is entirely thrilling. Being in ANY play, frankly. I have no idea what the nature of the play is. Gasping? Is it about choking? Or some strange sex games? I care not. I just want to be IN IT, whatever it is. I have no clue if there is even a part in it for which I am suitable. Doesn’t matter. Just want to be IN IT.

My giant thirst to be considered is overwhelming. I can’t ask him directly. I’m aware that would be massively uncool and compromising for him.

So, I mustn’t.
I really mustn’t. I so want to. Badly want to. Mustn’t.
Must NOT. NOT . . .

A few days after hearing about this play, I’m at a mutual friend’s house and Ben happens to be there. I’m trying to play it cool, so much so that I’m actively ignoring him in the way that you do when you are HYPER aware of where someone is in a crowded room. My behaviour is odd and, frankly, bordering on rude. I know him well. Why haven’t I acknowledged him? Said hello at least? Idiot.

Eventually, he approaches me . . .

Ben – Hi Dawnie. Guess what, I’ve written a play. Did you know?

Me (casual, dismissive) – Have you? No, I didn’t know that. At all. Not heard a peep about it. Nada.

Ben – Yeah, yeah. We’re going to open it in the West End in a couple of months, and I want to ask you to play the lead . . .

My breath, all of it, leaves my body, instantly. OH. MY ACTUAL. GOD!

He’s said it. He’s just gone and said it just like that. Come out with it. Bold as brass. At a party . . . !

Me (effusively) – Ben! I can’t believe it! My God. I’m so flattered. I’m ecstatic. You total dreamboat. This is WONDERFUL! Thank you, Ben, for putting all your faith in me. I promise I’ll bring my A-game for you. Seriously. I love your writing. I won’t let you down, mate, you watch. This is just the best news ever. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Ben is looking bemused. He repeats himself for clarity.

Ben – I want to ask HUGH to play the lead. Hugh. Hugh Laurie . . . ?

FLIRTING

Flirting has never ever been a skill I’ve mastered. I’m in awe when I witness people doing it with ease on dating shows, etc. For me, it’s the ultimate cringe, and a rich seam for my twatty leanings to surface.

When I was a smelly student at drama school, on a teacher-training course, I developed a crush on a beautiful boy on the acting course. It was standard practice for the actors to look down their noses at us since they believed that we were obviously people who had failed to get on the acting course. We weren’t. We were people who wanted to be teachers. Anyhoo, my penchant for this particular actor was consuming me. I would constantly fantasize about him, which dripped into actually dreaming about him, so he was all over and in and next to my thoughts day and night. I tried to place myself where he might notice me. I started to learn his timetable, so I knew when he might be posily slouching about, like actors do, in the common parts of the college. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a crazy. I didn’t want to wear his skin . . .

Well, not much.
I simply wanted the opportunity to have a conversation with him.

Call me cocky, but I genuinely believed that if he could only get to know me, he would surely fall completely in love with me. I’ve never doubted my worth (thanks, Dad), but I was having to face the fact that he simply wasn’t making himself even slightly available to fall under my seductive spell. In fact, he didn’t seem to have noticed me at all. How very odd. And unfortunate. For him.

I needed to rectify this immediately, so I made a spontaneous decision to move in on him and use my sparklin’ repartee to talk him into submission, surrender and, eventually, bed. Natch.

I took a deep breath. I would need air for this mission. I approached him. His back was to me in the foyer where he was perusing the timetables on a big noticeboard. That was to my advantage. I could arrive at his side by stealth, as he might well have fled if he’d seen me approaching.

‘Hi.’

He jumped back and turned to face me. I could see a little curl of revulsion in the corner of his eminently kissable mouth. No matter. For my ploy to work, I needed to plough on undaunted. Pretty soon, he would get the joke, laugh uncontrollably at my naughty, impish allure and spontaneously fall pretty heavily in love . . .

‘So, hey, we’ve been here at college together for nearly three years now and you’ve been too intimidated by what a Bobby Dazzler I am to approach me. Well, that stops right now, Mister, because I give you full permission to get to know me. Inside and out. Here we go, hold on to your hat (he wasn’t wearing one). So . . . my full name is Dawn Roma French, the middle name is inherited from my mother and I believe is Romany in origin, exotic, I agree. I was born in Holyhead in 1957 and, lucky for my mum, I was a baby at the time . . . ’

I wait for a laugh. None comes. This technique is floundering. I press on . . .

‘I was a chunky child, a real rusk-taker . . . ’

Nothing? These were my best gags. Sadly. I decided to drop the obvious jokes, just go for over-info . . .

‘I have a brother who is two years older than me. I have a mole in my left armpit. I have all my own teeth. I am of good stock and good reputation – as yet unsullied by rumour or gossip, although there’s plenty of me willing to do something gossip-worthy, if you get m’drift, young gentleman, m’lad . . . ’

Nothing. No response. I am a hopelessly beached whale. He looks as if he’s smelled something rancid. He has. My desperation. I persist . . .

‘No doubt you will be wanting to know about all my inoculations, swimming certificates, bank statements, brownie badges and smear tests? Yer luck’s in, matey, I got ’em all in this here pocket . . . ’

At this point, he slid along the wall and bolted for freedom.