Now you listen, Arthur—that woman doesn’t give a fig’s arse about you. She can fill your head with nonsense and make you think you’re gonna be a manager, but I know you inside out and all around and I’m telling you, pet, you are a sweet boy and no books are gonna prepare you for what it’s really like out there. Out there nine year olds stab their little sisters and rape old ladies and dogs rip off your face and freak lawnmower accidents decapitate people just minding their own business, and what’s so great about it that’s better than all the good things in here?

ARTY: You feel the sun on your face.

JOJO: Lie by the window! She won’t be around to pick up the pieces, you understand? You’re a job to her and that’s it. And once she’s collected her points she’ll be off to ruin the next fat boy.

ARTY: She loves me, Mum.

JOJO: For fuck’s sakes! You’re clever with words, Moon, like—

She looks down at the Scrabble board.

Plate… plate…

ARTY: Plateau.

JOJO: But you’re as thick as a donkey’s cock when it comes to anything practical!

ARTY: Mum! That’s… graphic.

JOJO: Have you forgotten? ‘Arty’s so fat, his cereal bowl comes with a lifeguard.’ ‘Arty’s so fat, when he bends over we lose an hour of daylight.’ ‘Arty’s so fat, he—’

ARTY: I’m not gonna be the fat kid anymore! I’m gonna be the person I always shoulda been!

JOJO: Moon love, my sweet little drumstick, don’t you understand? This is who you’re meant to be. There is no other person. The fat’s not separate from you, love, it is you. It’s as much you as your eyes are you, your feet, your brain, your big, beautiful heart. You are Arthur Arthur—no operation’s gonna change that.

ARTY: I hate Arthur Arthur.

JOJO: Arthur Arthur is my pride, my joy, my everything.

ARTY: He’s a joke, Mum, a disgusting, repulsive freak. Punters should be throwing peanuts at him in a zoo.

JOJO: Don’t you say that about my boy!

ARTY: And when I’m finished I want nothing of Arthur Arthur left.

JOJO: What has she done to you?

ARTY: I’m not a baby anymore!

JOJO: I know that, Moon, I—

ARTY: You don’t know what it’s like to be this. Having your mum wash you, afraid of your own refection. You don’t know how it feels to be this… lonely.

JOJO: Don’t I?

ARTY: Like all the things you go on about—the paedophiles and murders and bombs, well… how come you never talk about any of the good things? Like falling in love, and the beach, and schnoodles.

JOJO: What’s a—