I was a latecomer to Fleabag. Put off by the hype and the unappealing name, I arrived about a year late to the party, where everyone was already putting on their coats to leave, eye-rolling at my snail-paced approach to one of the most popular comedies to have graced our screens in recent times. A similar thing happened with my intense love affair with Monzo (we are still happily together but I’m getting a bit sick of the notifications).
Fleabag was delicious. From the neon-pink-edged set to the blaring Peaches song whose title I’m not allowed to print (but which is still stuck in my head), and the wall-to-wall collage of men in varying degrees of undress on the Barron back wall, I was expecting a similarly bold and brash script. And in many ways, it was.