Love

I’m a romantic. I’ve always wanted to find love and have love find me. While other boys in primary school in primary school answered the question, ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ with careers as unlikely as ‘astronaut’ and anachronistic as ‘cowboy,’ I would answer ‘in love.’

As a teacher, this message resonates with me.

In my teenage years my favourite book was The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 3/4. Adrian is the pseudo-intellectual from the suburbs, a romantic for whom ‘unrequited love’ is a specialist subject. He loves Pandora Braithwaite but is too scared to make an advance; instead he watches her from afar, writing lamentable odes to her that strain the parameters of rhyme (Pandora!/ I adore ya/ I implore ye/Don’t ignore me). At school I was very much like Adrian: I would create Pandora Braithwaite’s to mope over because it was easier to play thwarted than it was to risk rejection. Love was what happened to lesser beings. The true romantics were ones that thought about it day and night. Love for me wasn’t a participatory sport, but an academic subject. I had studied it through literature, movies and music. I knew about its ability to embolden, to diminish, to harm and to save. I knew that it could render a clever man stupid and a weak man strong. If there was a test on it, I would pass it – as long as the exam weighted theory over practical. Love was an abstract noun, not a verb.

I wrote worse poetry than Adrian.

Creating a fantasy of love is a mistake that many of us make. For years, I sat in an the audience, observing it played out on stage: initially, I thought, “This is very interesting. I like the complexity of the piece. There’s pathos and comedy. There’s strength and insecurity. It seems to contain the whole gamut of human emotions.” Then, I thought, “I’ve been sitting here for twenty years, which is too long for any performance. Three hours should be the cut-off. Four hours tops if it’s Hamlet. This is just ridiculous. I’m not even down the front. I’m back in the cheap seats. My arse has gone numb. My legs feel like they’ve been in a car accident. It’s not even a very good play. Everyone is very melodramatic. I can’t stand the way the actor’s lip curls when he says, ‘heartache.’ This is bullshit!”

So on passing my theory test, I put in for a practical.

There have been major faults along the way. Times when I’ve felt like my heart has been torn, chucked and run over by a heavy moving vehicle. Crashing failures where I’ve lay at the side of the road wondering how I’m ever going to move again. Then, there are the experiences of elation. To be loved is an incomparable feeling. It’s all very well your mum loving you, but they are contractually obliged to, in terms spelt out in your mother’s stretch marks. If I’m going to put my body through this much, I might as well love the thing. Through no one’s fault but my own, I went a long time without the love of a good woman. And I can now say is that experiencing love first-hand is so much better than experiencing it vicariously through the movies.

This clash between fiction and reality is what the characters in Netflix comedy-drama Love have to contend with. Written by real-life couple Paul Rust and Lesley Arfin, alongside Judd Apatow (40 Year Old Virgin and Knocked Up), Love is a realistic portrait of romance.

Gus, a Midwestern, and Mickey, a New Jerseyan, are thirty-somethings lost in LA. Neither have the emotional capacity to maintain a relationship: Gus because he believes too much in love and Mickey because she doesn’t believe enough in it. Episode one manifests this through the breakdown of the pair’s respective relationships. Gus is dumped because he doesn’t read the signs; he is too in love with the idea of love to appreciate that his partner isn’t a concept that might not feel the same. Whereas Mickey pulls the plug on her dying relationship when her boyfriend skips sex to go clothes shopping with his mum. Both are treated poorly by their ex’s, but neither are model citizens. Gus tends to play the nice card to imprison girls in relationships, and Mickey gorges on men in the same way she does alcohol and drugs. If each wants to find love, they will have to find the intersection where romanticism and sex meets, otherwise they’re on the slow lane to lonely town.

Mickey (Gillian Jacobs) and Gus (Paul Rust)

The two meet at a gas station at the end of episode one (Mickey has forgotten her wallet so Gus offers to pay for her groceries: coffee and cigarettes), and the episode that follows is a doozy. The two walk and drive the City of Angels with the tentativeness of a new friendship. This isn’t the hyper-articulacy of Linklater’s Before series where on meeting the two discuss the great existential questions; rather it is the uncomfortable silences and mistimed jokes that arise from creating rapport out of anonymity.

Mickey: My mum always says I should date a Midwestern because they’re really sweet and honest

Gus: Oh really, well tell your mum to go fuck herself. (Worried at the impact of his mock-insult) I’m sorry that was … a .. joke.

Mickey: (finding the humour) I got it

Over the episodes the relationship of the two develops, albeit at a casual pace. Much of the series has the two characters apart, exploring Gus’ travails as an on-set tutor for precocious twonks and Mickey’s inability to keep a lid on her wild impulses. I read an article the other week about how the romcom is dying at the multiplex but thriving on television – with shows like this it’s easy to see why. Given the limited running time, a movie has to bring a couple together quickly and apart even quicker before they can be re-united at the end. This is hardly conducive to providing a realistic view of love. In a long-running series, you can focus on the intimate intricacies of love with the mistakes and missteps that make a relationship examined. For example, much of an episode is devoted to Gus’ paranoia over a text message he sends to Mickey. Some people will feel that this naval gazing is a mark of the Indie genre’s bloated obsession with extraneous details over plot; I would argue that it perfectly represents a society where too much emphasis is put on thought over action. Instead of going over to ask someone out, we now do it via text. Rather than leaving a message on someone’s house phone and expecting to wait a day for a response, we now agonise over how many minutes they’ve taken to reply to a text. Technology has over-complicated courtship and made screen-chained idiots of us – why shouldn’t a programme reflect this?

Gus composing the initiating text.

Apatow’s recent films have been criticised for being over-long, perhaps with TV he’s found the right medium to fully explore and stretch his ideas. Whatever his next move, Love is a shambling triumph. Like Catastrophe and Girls, it makes a virtue of its profanity, capturing the ugliness of a beautiful emotion. 

Love is on Netflix now.

Watford FC

Over the last year I’ve been writing about something I’ve enjoyed in my week from a TV show to a holiday abroad. What’s been remiss of me is I haven’t once mentioned the thing that's brought me so much joy: Watford FC.

My first Watford game was as a six year-old boy; I believe we were playing Notts County and won 4-0. (This memory isn’t true. I think it is but chances are it isn't. The only thing I can remember with any degree of accuracy from my childhood was sitting down on a bean bag in Miss Packham’s class reading Old Bear. In researching this blog, I’ve since looked online at what the plot entails and it seems to evoke the story of Toy Story 3. Old Bear was written in the 1980’s, whereas Toy Story 3 only came out a few years ago, begging the question are Pixar creative geniuses, vanguards of emotionally literate storytelling or plot-line plunderers, sending emissaries to schools to swipe material from book racks? All I know is I don't trust that cute dancing desk lamp.) Anyway, whatever the scoreline, whomever we played, I enjoyed it enough to want to go back. And back is where I’ve continued heading for the past 25 years.

It hasn’t always been easy being a Watford fan. Given we operate under a sport branded ‘the beautiful game,’ we have a history of playing ugly. Until Gianfranco Zola became our manager, Watford were synonymous for going direct.  In years past it was chiropractors- not betting shops- that lined the high street, attending to the ailing necks of supporters. The ball was played long from defence to attack with the express intention of a tall, lumbering centre forward getting a flick on for a shorter, nippier forward to bundle home into the net. The midfield position was largely symbolic until Watford’s new owners brought in a more continental style of play in 2012.

Since the Pozzo family’s takeover of Watford in June 2012, Watford FC’s fortunes have changed dramatically. There is always suspicion and unnerve whenever foreign millionaires come to town. Supporters anticipate the arrival with a combination of anticipation and fear. For every Roman Abramovich, there is a Vincent Tan. (Vincent Tan is the Cardiff City chairman and a man who makes Kim Jong-Un look like a Union Shop Steward. On taking over at Cardiff City, he changed the clubs badge, nickname and colours. Essentially, the club became Trigger’s broom: it alleged to be the old one despite being clear it was not.) Watford’s owners, on the other hand, came with a good footballing pedigree: owning Italian side Udinese and Spanish team Granada, they took both teams into the top flight. It wasn't long before they did the same in England.

Through triangulating the three teams they own, Watford have benefitted from acquiring bright talents from Italy and Spain. Previously, Almen Abdi and Idion Ighalo were languishing at Udinese and Granada respectively, but since being seconded to Watford they’ve enjoyed a new lease of life. In the same way employees at Home Counties accountancy firms look to relocate to the companies New York offices, I hope- given Watford’s meteoric rise- footballers at Pozzo Inc are similarly excited about moving to us. “I mean I like overlooking the royal palaces from the Nasrid dynasty, but I’ve seen the redevelopments at the top of Watford town centre and I just think it’s a town that’s really going places. I mean an outside ice rink – it’s like The Rink at the Rockerfeller.’

Players actually leave Granada to come to Watford.

Last year Watford achieved promotion to the Premier League for the third time. On previous occasions we finished bottom in our first season and returned straight back down to the Championship. At the start of the season it seemed likely we would be in for the same. By the end of August we hadn’t won a game and only scored two goals – it seemed that erudite new manager Quique Sanchez Flores didn't have the wherewithal to turn philosophy into victory. But then summer passed and September came, and with it the winds of change. Suddenly, our group of disparate nationalities clicked into a unified body called Watford. We were scoring more readily whilst maintaining our assuredness at the back. Former manager Slavsa Jokanovic did a great job in getting Watford to the Premier League but responsibility for our defence must have been subcontracted to the Environmental Agency such was the propensity of its collapse. Under Flores there is now a meanness to the back line, one that rarely looks like shipping goals. This strong foundation has given the team a surer footing in which to build and climb the league.

Quique Sanchez Flores

Along with the defence, Watford have one the strongest strike partnerships in the league. Troy Deeney, a brummie by birth, has been adopted by Watford fans as one of their own. Sentenced for affray in 2012, the striker nearly lost everything. Out of loss came profit though with Deeney benefitting from life inside. In jail he learnt that the luxury he acquired was ill-deserved: he was an average player at a team that had seen better days. On a personal level, he noticed he had surrounded himself with hanger-ons, people happy to enjoy his wealth but unwilling to share in its consequences. Since his release, he has become an ambassador for team and town, having an exemplary disciplinary record and leading the club as captain. He has now earned his GCSE’s in English, Science and Maths – qualifications he missed out on in school. If he continues his form, there is a real chance he will one day represent England. It is this transformation in character that means, despite scoring fewer times than strike partner Ighalo, he is the terrace hero.

Troy Deeney

Yesterday I went to Vicarage Road and reflected on the club's ongoing professionalisation. The brickwork to the stadium has been sheen-shined into something more becoming of a Premier League outfit. Inside the concourse, impressive black and white pictures form a potted history of Watford under Graham Taylor and Sir Elton John. Opposite my seat, I see the culmination of the new Sir Elton John Stand, an area that lay desolate for a decade. The stadia has been updated with the club’s folk tradition preserved. What more could you want for a club then owners who give you a future to dream in and a past to remember? With Watford 9th in the league and through to the quarter finals of the Cup, the club are on the up. 

Unlike my first game, I have a feeling these are the days I won't forget.

Elton at the FA Cup final 1984

I'm Alan Partridge

In school there are two camps of men: the ones who are literate in women, and the ones who are literate in comedy. Me and my friends were very much part of the second camp. Each lunchtime in the Common Room we would pitch up our tents, gather round the campfire and share sitcom quotes until the teachers called lights out on our badinage. Our ‘Kumbaya My Lord’ was Steve Coogan’s I’m Alan Partridge. Everyone in the group knew it. Favourite moments from the show would be sung back and forth at one another, evoking fits of laughter. The anti-cool character of Alan Partridge made us feel cool. This sad loner brought us together. To recognise Partridge’s delusion made us feel aware.  We did not yet understand what it meant to have ‘classic intercourse’ but we got irony, satire and bathos.

'Knowing me, Knowing you. A-Ha!'

This last week I’ve been revisiting Alan Partridge with my girlfriend that is two years younger than me. (Back of the net!) At the same time, I’ve been reading Steve Coogan’s autobiography, Easily Distracted. Coogan’s career by his own admission has had a series of peak and troughs. Surprisingly, he reveals that sometimes the two have gone hand in hand. In the beginning of his memoir, he reveals how during the second season of I’m Alan Partridge that he was so whacked on cocaine that he would often fall asleep between takes. Moreover, his life choices were insensible and in some cases cruel: cheating on his girlfriend while she was pregnant being the worst. What is refreshing about Coogan though is the honesty in which he recounts these failings. He doesn’t look for excuses, nor does he offer pious confession, with brevity he simply tells us that he hurt the people around him and it is for those people who know him to judge him – not us and certainly not the press.

Coogan takes on the press at the Leveson Inquiry.

Coincidentally, Coogan’s standing in the press has improved since he took them on. In the early 2000’s the press got some mileage out of the disjuncture between the character of Alan Partridge and the personality of Steve Coogan. The man of the world Coogan was at odds with the provincial Partridge. So when Steve Coogan slept with Hole frontwoman Courtney Love, a headline might read ‘Local Norwich DJ sleeps with Hollywood Rock Star.’ Or when Steve Coogan was ‘caught’ frequenting a lap-dancing club - ‘Partridge sees bird’s tits.’ For the tabloid vultures he was easy fodder. So easy a target that papers like The News of the World dispensed with journalistic integrity and started tapping his phone. In listening to people’s private messages, Fleet Street took its morals down a sewage hatch and played monkey tennis with its own shit stink. Hearing of how Coogan risked financial ruin to take on Murdoch’s press is illuminating – as he puts it, he just wanted ‘to remind News International with power comes responsibility.’ Winning his libel battle gave Coogan his self-esteem back, making him more brave, more bold; this shedding of risk led to Philomena, his most feted work. No longer fearing the press, he has come to be respected by them.

Despite Philomena’s Oscar nomination, Coogan knows Partridge is what he will be remembered for. Fittingly, he even lets Alan have the last word in Easily Distracted- a coda that reflects Coogan’s new found confidence: with people now recognising him as a serious artist, he can finally embrace his populism.  Partridge is no longer an albatross that haunts then, but a loyal friend to turn to.

For those unfamiliar, Partridge started on Radio 4’s On The Hour, a satirical current affairs show produced by Chris Morris. Alan began life as a sports reporter, lampooning the earnest coverage of what is essentially a trivial obsession. Unaware he was onto a good thing, he was eventually persuaded by friend Patrick Marber to evolve the character into the idiot we now know and love. Part of the character’s growth came from moving him away from the cadence of the football commentator and positioning him instead as a Norfolkian – a decision that proved to be a masterstroke. Partridge now had a sense of place: he was narrow-minded in outlook, unequipped to deal with the values of the metropolises, but to his service he was honest without artifice.

His spoof radio chat show Knowing Me, Knowing You was an instant success, ensuring its quick transfer to television. Knowing Me, Knowing You’s humour came through pitting Alan’s parochialism against his more urbane guests. Instead of fulfilling the duties of a chat show host (make convivial small talk, listen respectfully), Alan turned light entertainment into talk radio, regularly interrupting guests to proffer insults and conspiracy theories.

The series ended with Alan accidentally shooting a guest.

Alan the self-confessed King of chat.

I’m Alan Partridge begins with Alan back on radio – an environment more suited to inane motor mouths, but one that Alan is still ill-suited to. A local radio DJ is supposed to be inoffensive vanilla, easing people through the drudgery of work and congestion- Alan is none of these things: unprofessional incidents include, making scurrilous comments about farmers; telling listeners about a rival DJ’s drink problem; swearing live on air during a discussion show – all this whilst running inane features like ‘Fact of the Day’ (Crabsticks do not actually contain any crab, and from 1993 manufacturers have been legally obliged to label them ‘crab-flavoured’ sticks.’ Another one tomorrow.) It’s not just Alan’s professional life that’s on the slide; his personal life is on the skids too. He’s now living in a local Travel Tavern – a stay that the staff would describe as more of an occupation. His ex-wife is seeing a new man and his children won’t see him. These details give Alan a humanity that is otherwise missing from his behaviour. It is why we ultimately root for him: we deplore his behaviour to others – particularly PA Lynn – but we recognise that he’s losing his dignity fast.

Up with the Partridge.

When the second series begins Alan has bounced back, following his breakdown where he drove bare-footed to Dundee (hilariously recounted in a series of flashbacks over the episodes). He is now on a better radio slot (10pm, not 4am) and hosts Skirmish, a military game show watched by 30,000 people. Wanting to inspire other people to bounce back, Alan has written a book that you can buy from all good local petrol forecourts (as long as your local petrol forecourt is on the A146 near Trowse Newton). Despite Alan being happier with a girlfriend fourteen years younger than him, he still experiences the frustration of feeling thwarted. In Steve Coogan’s autobiography he says his comedy hero was John Cleese and it’s easy to see the Basil Fawlty in Alan. Both men believe they should occupy better positions (societal for Fawlty; entertainment for Alan) and yet neither have the networking skills to obtain them. This is why we love sitcom characters: they brazenly wear the insecurities we hide in the closet, making them simultaneously monstrous and human.

Partridge is back this Tuesday on Sky Atlantic, no longer broadcasting on Radio Norwich but minor subsidiary North Norfolk Digital. Partridge then continues to fall professionally- but as for the comedy, well that improves exponentially. Jurassic Park!

I'm Alan Partridge is available to gorge like Toblerone on Netlix.

Dickensian

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail. 

This is the classic opening paragraph to Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Akin to this, is the beginning to Tony Jordan’s portmanteau drama, Dickensian. Beginning over the festive period, Dickensian is a work of breathtaking ingenuity that brings together the literature's much-loved characters into a brand new story. Just as The Avengers films brought the Marvel world into one arena, Eastenders creator Jordan has tied characters from different strands into a wonderfully rich tapestry.

Creator Tony Jordan

Being a fan of Dickens from a young age, I’m familiar with about half of Dickens’ stories. My girlfriend, less a fan of Victorian tomes, was only really aware of Oliver before coming to watch the show. Both of us have been enjoying the show equally. In fact, navigating the first few episodes might be easier if you’re unfamiliar with Dickens’ world: as you won’t be footnoting dialogue with such asides as “that’s Mr Venus from Old Curiousity Shop talking to Inspector Bucket from Bleak House about the murder of a character from A Christmas Carol.” My girlfriend does not enjoy this Wikipedia referencing when we watch TV shows and I’ve vowed to play dumb in the future.

So, the story begins like all detective stories with a body on the ground. The body belongs to Jacob Marley, the creditor and business partner of Scrooge. Hated for his avarice, the number of suspects is as long as Bill Sikes' criminal convictions. As the landlord of ‘The Three Criples’ tells Inspector Bucket, “it will be easier to find who didn’t have a grudge against Jacob Marley, then did.” In the style of a classic whodunit then, the game is afoot. This murder mystery is the central plot of the Dickensian story, but it is not the only one.

We join Miss Havisham before she became the embittered bride. In Great Expectations the name Havisham is the dissonant albatross that hangs around her jilted neck, a reminder that in a society where marriage is King, she is pauper. Here, we see the decorous woman before she became the enraged monster. She is Amelia Havisham, the elegant lady of manners, whose father has died and left her the business. Her half-brother, the illegitimate Arthur, incensed by his share in the will enlists the debonair Meriwether Compeyson to seduce Amelia so as to sign over the business to him. Fans of Great Expectations will know how the subterfuge will unravel, but this prior knowledge is part of the charm: if you know the stories, you’re as interested in how the events unfold as you’re by what unfolds.

Havisham before 'that' dress.

In some ways, Dickensian works like today’s superhero movies as origin stories for the characters we know and love. Take Honoria Barbary. Honoria in Bleak House is married to Sir Leicester, a thick jowled gent who took her to be his lawfully wedded trophy wife. In Dickensian, we watch in horror at how a once delicate mouse is caught in Leicester’s money trap. In another precursor, last week’s episode introduced us to the pitiful figure of Oliver Twist. Trafficked into the city by Fagin, our sunken-eyed boy is found by the gentle Inspector Bucket. Powerless to the fate of the orphan, Bucket delivers the boy to Mr and Mrs Bumble, advising Oliver: "Manners are important, and so is standing up for yourself." Fans of Oliver Twist will understand the significance of these words.

For fans of Dickens there is much to enjoy in these allusions to the novel, but again it must be stated that even a basic awareness of his works is not necessary. I mean, I haven’t read Our Mutual Friend or Martin Chuzzlewit yet I love the boozy back and forth between the respective Silas Wegg and Mrs Gamp. These two provide the story its comic relief against its backdrop of suspicion and intrigue. Gamp, the resident nurse, is a Nightingale with a drink problem; her kind deeds are usually followed by the catchphrase, “You can pay me in a large gin – or two if you like.” Wegg as pub proprietor has enough gin to bathe in, so it is no surprise that he Gamp tries to use her feminine wiles to get her feet under the table – Wegg and his libido would rather those feet go under the covers. Another hilarious sub-plot features the aspirational Bumbles trying to get themselves into a situ more befitting their ego. Mrs Bumble is hilarious as the Lady Macbeth puppet-master using her boundless cleavage to get her husband to do her bidding.

The Dickensian characters.

Like I said, Dickensian is a show for purists and newcomers. Aficionados can enjoy the fan fiction backstories and latecomers can be introduced to a master’s riot of characters. I appreciate 13 episodes in that there’ll be some that have missed the boat. But for those of you on board, I’m sure you’ll agree that experiencing this tribute makes for the very best of times.

Dickensian is available on BBC iPlayer and on BBC One Thursday and Friday, 8pm.