Fleabag is a hilarious and poignant window into the mind of a dry-witted, sexual, angry, porn-watching, grief-riddled woman trying to make sense of the world.
As she hurls herself headlong at modern living, Fleabag is thrown roughly up against the walls of contemporary London, with all its frenetic energy, late nights and bright lights, in this very modern mix of fatalism and hedonism, sustaining a merry-go-round of broken dreamers.
Unfettered and unfiltered, Fleabag tears through the series sleeping with anyone who dares to stand too close, squeezing money from any orifice, rejecting anyone who tries to help her and keeping up the bravado all along. Because that’s just the kind of messed-up, normal person she is.
By turns hilarious and heartbreaking, this is the thoroughly disarming confessional of a woman so totally detached she’s utterly lost, and ultimately wondering what the hell she ought to be doing in life. Much like the rest of us.