Mrs. Wilkinson: She must've been a very special woman, your mother.
Billy: No she was just me mam.
[Billy is dancing while walking]
Dad: Is that absolutely necessary? Walk normal!
Billy: I don't want a childhood. I want to be a ballet dancer.
Billy: So, what's it like, like?
Dad: What's what like?
Billy: London.
Dad: I don't know, son. I never made it past Durham.
Billy: Have you never been?
Dad: Why would I want to go to London?
Billy: It's the capital city!
Dad: Well, there are no mines in London.
Billy: Jesus Christ, is that all you think about?
Grandma: I used to go to ballet.
Billy: See?
Dad: All right for your Nana, for girls. No, not for lads, Billy. Lads do football... or boxing... or wrestling. Not friggin' ballet.
Michael: Oi! Dancing boy!
Dad: [Billy turns around and starts running to him] We'll miss the bus, Billy!
Tony: Can you stop being an old fucking woman?
Billy: [approaches Michael, then after a moment, kisses him on the cheek] See you then.
[smiles and runs off]
Michael: So you're going to ballet every week?
Billy: Aye, but don't say owt.
Michael: Do you get to wear a tutu?
Billy: Fuck off, they're only for lasses. I wear me shorts.
Michael: You ought to ask for a tutu?
Billy: I'd look a right dickhead.
Michael: I think you'd look wicked.
Billy: My hands are freezing.
Michael: 'Gizzem here.
Billy: [Michael takes his hands and puts them in his jacket] What are you doing?
Michael: Nothin'. Just warmin' your hands up.
Billy: [pause] You're not a poof or owt?
Michael: [deadpan] What gave you that
impression?
Billy: Aren't me hands cold?
Michael: I quite like it.
[kisses Billy on the cheek; they stare at each other]
Billy: Just because I like ballet, doesn't mean I'm a poof, you know.
Michael: You won't tell anyone, will you?
Billy: [pauses, then grins] Come on.
Michael: [stares after him longingly]
Mrs. Wilkinson: Right, Mr. Braithwaite, "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow".
[to herself]
Mrs. Wilkinson: Fat chance!