The discomfort and delight of having people who knows you absolutely. It’s wincingly sweet- like the ringing of a finger on the rim of a glass.
Gasping grief. Slapstick hilarity. Excruciating disappointment. It’s a feast of feelings and each one twangs somewhere deep in a memory.
Something like television-something as everyday and mundane as telly-has done something new and invigorating. All the mega budgets and well-trod tropes and sets and sex of Hollywood haven’t managed do anything as triumphant and perfect as Fleabag.
It’s not ‘brave’ or ‘clever’ in its portrayal of people: it’s just unflinchingly insightful. It should be recorded and sent in to space because it captures everything human. But without being pretentious or self-consciously deep.
The characters are charged with sex, emanating anger, repression, disappointment, power and fear. It is as rich and sexual as a hot chocolate pudding. And when he says ‘Kneel’. Holy. Hell. The series and I both peaked.