We Might Regret This: The Filthy, Honest Gem You’ll Actually Remember

We Might Regret This is the sort of series the BBC normally commissions only after a three-year workshop on feelings, four diversity taskforces and a stern email from HR. Instead, someone clearly slipped through a script that’s filthy, sharp and actually funny – and then had the nerve to put a tetraplegic woman front and centre without turning her into a walking, talking charity appeal.  

Freya, a thirty‑something Canadian artist who can’t move her arms or legs, moves to London for love and ends up in a flat that feels like a cross between a romcom and a care rota spreadsheet. She shacks up with Abe, a straight‑laced bankruptcy lawyer in midlife crisis mode, whose idea of danger is buying non‑refundable train tickets and dating someone half his age who uses a wheelchair.  

Because life is cruel and social care budgets are apparently written on the back of a napkin, Freya needs a full‑time personal assistant and can’t find one who isn’t useless, deranged or both. So she does the only sane insane thing: she hires Jo, her chaotic best mate. That single decision turns a friendship into a job, a job into emotional warfare, and a modern London flat into a high‑voltage three‑way between love, labour and who’s emptying the catheter tonight.  

In most TV drama, disability means slow violins, wet eyes and the sort of dialogue that sounds like it was tested on a focus group made entirely of scented candles. Here, Freya isn’t “bravely overcoming” anything; she’s trying not to murder her PA, navigating intrusive modelling gigs, and weaponising sarcasm like a guided missile. The show literally opens with a bowel‑care scene on the toilet and then escalates into a deranged “solidarity” moment involving gloves, lube and a gesture of equality that would make a broadcaster spontaneously combust. It’s not tastefully inspirational. It’s properly obscene, uncomfortable and human.  

Kyla Harris, who actually uses a wheelchair and co‑writes the thing, spends half the series firebombing the shallow “representation” circus. At one point she muses on disability “having a moment” while considering doing body‑positivity modelling just to pay the rent. You can almost hear a thousand diversity officers dropping their clipboards as the show skewers tokenistic inclusion with more precision than a Top Gear power lap.  

Orbiting this gloriously toxic duo is a supporting cast of beautiful disasters. Abe, the older lawyer, is visibly in love with Freya but permanently looks like a man who bought an electric car and just discovered there are no chargers in his postcode. Jane, the ex‑wife, delivers weapon‑grade one‑liners while coolly assessing her husband’s new partner as “half my age, in a wheelchair,” like she’s reviewing a badly specced company car. Their son Levi is 28 going on 12, claiming “twenty‑eight is a notoriously hard age for a little boy” while failing at adulthood like it’s an Olympic event.  

Then there’s Ty, the “well‑meaning but incompetent” PA who manages to be both invaluable and completely wrong for the job at the same time – imagine giving a golden retriever the keys to a hospital. Guest stars drift in for PA training workshops that look like a cross between army boot camp, HR onboarding and a hostage negotiation; you laugh, then feel slightly guilty, then laugh again, which is exactly the point.  

While lesser comedies pratfall around with canned laughter and safe jokes, We Might Regret This quietly builds a full, messy world in tight episodes and then doubles down with a second run that actually has something to say about care, dependence and how utterly stupid we are with the people we love. It’s not as gag‑dense as Catastrophe or Motherland, but what it loses in sheer joke volume it wins back in brutal honesty, filth and the kind of detail that feels nicked from real life rather than a BBC workshop whiteboard.  

If most disability stories are a beige hybrid stuck in eco‑mode, this is a slightly battered V8 with hand controls and no traction control, piloted by someone who’s decided that, wheelchair or not, she’s overtaking. Will you regret watching it? Not a chance. You’ll regret all the other safe, soft, focus‑grouped wallpaper that calls itself television while this lot is out there throwing gloves, lube and hard truths at the screen.