Fleabag: The Show That Punches You in the Feelings and Then Laughs About It

Every so often, television does something that makes you sit up, spill your pint, and mutter “well, bloody hell.” Fleabag is one of those things. It’s not so much a series as it is a high-speed collision between your funny bone and your nervous system.

 

On the surface, it looks like yet another “quirky London woman with problems” thing. You know the type — artisanal coffee shops, awkward dates, a bus with a slogan about mindfulness. But within five minutes, you realise Phoebe Waller-Bridge isn’t just acting; she’s practically kicking the fourth wall in the groin, staring you dead in the eye, and saying: “Yes, I did that. Now deal with it.”

And here’s the thing — you do. Because every gag, every filthy aside, every dead-on observation about family, love, or why guinea pigs make terrible business mascots, is sharper than a butcher’s knife at Christmas.

But then — and this is where it goes full speed ahead— just as you’re laughing at some brilliantly inappropriate joke, she hits the brakes, hard. Suddenly you’re drowning in grief, guilt, and the kind of emotional wallop that makes you wonder why your living room has suddenly become very dusty around the eyes.

It’s chaos, it’s genius, it’s beautifully written, and let’s be honest, it’s utterly addictive. Fleabag is basically proof that television doesn’t need dragons, car chases, or Liam Neeson with a gun. All it needs is a woman in a trench coat, swearing at the camera, and making you laugh harder than you thought possible while quietly dismantling your soul.

In short: Fleabag isn’t a series. It’s a warning shot.