Bridget Jones's Diary

Bridget Jones, want on sex goddes with a very bad man between her thighs... Mum, hi.

— Friends of yours?
— No. I've never seen them before in my life.

It's the truth universally acknowledged that the moment one area of your life starts going OK, another part of it falls spectacularly to pieces.

You try to make me feel like a complete idiot every time I see you, and you really needn't bother. I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway with or without you.

Equally important will find nice sensible boyfriend to go out with and not continue to form romantic attachments to any of the following alcoholics, workaholics, commitment-phobics, peepingtoms, megalomaniacs, emotional fuck wits, or perverts. And especially will not fantasize about a particular person who embodies all this things.

— Why do you want to work in television?
— Because I'm passionately commited to communicating with children. They are the future.
— Do you have any children of your own?
— Oh, Christ, no. Yuck!

— How do you know Arsey Darcy?
— Apparently, I used to run around naked in his paddling pool.
— I bet you did, you dirty bitch.
— What about you?
— Same.

Well, I better dash. I've got another party to get to. Loads of single people. Mainly poofs. Bye.

Great, I was wearing a carpet.

You'll never get a boyfriend if you look like you've wandered out of Auschwitz.

I suddenly realized that unless something changed soon I was going to live a life where my major relationship was with a bottle of wine, and I'd finally die fat and alone and be found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsatians.

Now these are very silly little boots, Jones. And this is a very silly little dress. And these are... fuck me, absolutely enormous panties!

Mr. Fitzherbert — Tits Pervert, more like, who staays freely at my breasts with no idea who I am. <...> Perpetua — slightly senior and therefore she's in charge of me. most of the time I just want to staple things to her head. <...> Daily call from Jude. Best friend. Head of investment at Brightlings Bank who spends most of her time trapped in the lady's toilet, crying over fuck wit boyfriend. <...> Shazzer — journalist. Likes to say "fuck" a lot. <...> Tom — Eighties pop icon who only wrote one hit record and then retired because he found that one record was quite enough to get him laid for the whole of the Nineties.

Have been seduced by informality of messaging medium into flirting with office scoundrel. Will persevere with resolution to find a nice sensible man. Will put a stop to flirting... first thing tomorrow. Good plan!

I have two choices. To give up and accept permanent state of sprinster hood and eventual eating by dogs... or not. And this time, I choose not. I will not be defeated by a bad man and an American stick insect. Instead, I chose vodka... and ChakaKhan.

— Daniel, that thing you just did is actually illegal in several countries.
— Well, that is, of course, the major reason I'm so thrilled to be living in Britain today.