In a drunken outburst, the Peruvian bear expresses his disgust at being snubbed at the BAFTAs last night.
Slouched over the table between us and trying not to be sick in his morning coffee, Paddington is clearly hung over. He’s been going heavy on the Special Brew since his new film was snubbed at the BAFTAs last night.
He hasn’t slept or washed since the ceremony. A bit of sick has dried on his iconic duffle coat and I can see that he is still wearing his tuxedo underneath. Before I can ask my first question, he verbally explodes.
“It’s a fucking disgrace. Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri wasn’t even that good. How are the entire family meant to watch a film about rape and murder and racism and homophobia? My film was much better. It had an all-star British cast, bright colourful things for the kids, and a Wes Anderson-esque level of sophistication that could be appreciated by adults.”
He throws his scalding-hot coffee at a child passing by and roars. “Seriously,” he says. “Hugh Grant was fucking mesmerising in my film. Did you see all the costumes he put on? And he really pushed me to the limit of my acting abilities in that train chase sequence. The man’s a national treasure and I will twat anyone who says otherwise. This country genuinely deserves Brexit for not giving him Best Actor in a Supporting Role.”
Paddington pulls out another can of Special Brew from his briefcase. He downs it in one, a lot of it missing his mouth and spilling onto his matted fur. “Not even Best British Film! How much more fucking British can my film be? Apart from the fact I’m from Peru. That’s probably it, actually. You’re all fucking racist.”
“The best reviewed film of all time yet not a single BAFTA to show for it. Well, if I make another film about me, it’s going to be a gruesome horror where I gather everyone who voted and mash them into human marmalade. The absolute cunts.”