A Tour of the South

Earlier this summer I went to the South of France on holiday. If I was to summarise the break, I would say imagine the three-minute opening of Sexy Beast played out over eight days.  With temperatures regularly hitting Gas Mark 6, I roasted until I turned a lovely golden brown. For someone who has the hairline of Alan Shearer and the waistline of the breadline, I returned reborn. I looked as good as I’m going to get. I looked my age.

Me in my tanned glory.

 Now all of that has changed.

The tan that I once knew is gone. Like a physiological retelling of Sunset Boulevard my glitter has faded. The healthy glow now a funeral pallor. Litheness has been forgotten for lank despair. With back to school around the corner, the carefree face of Mr. July replaced by careworn Mr. Late August. Work has left a missed call and there’s only so long I can go before I’m obliged to answer.  

Oh to reclaim that feeling of late July. When six weeks didn’t feel finite, but an eternal span of possibilities. I’ll learn a language. I’ll teach the language I’ve learnt. I’ll see the world. Palin did it in 80 days and that was in the late 80’s when they used penny-farthings to get places; surely we millennials can do it in 42. I’ll start a novel. I’ll finish a novel. I’ll draw up plans for a house. I’ll build a house. I’ll get Kevin McCloud round to congratulate me on it. There really is no better feeling in the world than that feeling of being free from the sound of bells and the ticking clock of deadlines.

Aware that the holidays are drawing to a close I thought another hurrah would be in order. This week away though would be in England and Wales: the return fixture on the away leg if you will. I knew this wouldn’t be a holiday for the body  – there would be no sun to glisten, no pool to rejuvenate – instead this would be one for the soul; because in Hay-on-Wye there would be books; in Bristol, friends and in Dorset and the New Forest, memories.

Friday, Hay-On-Wye

As a bibliophile I’ve wanted to go to Hay-on-Wye for a while now. Every year Hay has a literature festival that is effectively the Glastonbury of books. Hay’s love affair with books started in the 1960’s when a cupid called Richard Booth fired the first arrow. He was a local man concerned by the flight of graduates to the city, fearful that this exodus would affect the financial and cultural backbone of small rural communities. Noting that America was closing down libraries, he went with a team of men to appropriate their literature for his own bookshop. It wasn’t long before his three-floor shop was seen as the best place to buy secondhand reads. Seizing on Booth’s success, other retailers set up shop and ‘a book mile’ of thirty shops was born. Although the rise in Kindles has precipitated the closure of some, the town still has a reputation as being a world leader in literature.

Me and The Girl enjoyed our day here. It really is a wonderful town: all the best parts of Britain (tea rooms, pubs and book shops) consolidated into one affordable strip. Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t go all Supermarket Sweep and blitz around the store, leaving a trail of empty shelves in my wake. Instead I went with a list of books I desired- which was a fool’s errand really. It is no judgment on Hay that I couldn’t find a few books I wanted; after all the owners sell mainly second-hand books so it was impossible for these Genies to grant all my wishes. I should have done what my girlfriend did: read the blurb and let nature take its fancy. But I’m a creature of painstaking preparation; I’m not one for spontaneity. So I left with a few books when I could have left with more.

Look at the banner: they really hate Kindles here.

Saturday, Bristol

After a one-night stay in an ecolodge- a wooden cabin- we were on the road to Bristol. Hay-on-Wye to Bristol is as easy as going from A to B. What I mean by that is for an 80-mile route it takes a bloody long time because you have to get on every A and B road in the country. You do go through some lovely villages though so it’s not all bad.

We woke up here. Pic. by PG

We were in Bristol because that’s where I went to university, and a group of us were getting together to see our friend Phil. Phil, having lived in Spain for three years, is practically Spanish now, so I’m never insulted when he nods off during my anecdotes – I know he’s just missing his siesta. Although my girlfriend and Fi’s husband weren’t students of Bristol, we decided against sacrificing these interlopers in a Wicker Man ceremony; instead we shook the tourists hands and took them around our kingdom.

During our regular reunions, we feel it beholden to relive our vanquished youth and go on pub-crawls – this reunion was no different. In the first watering hole I had a beer that was 11%. In the week where Pep Guardialo dropped club servant Joe Hart, mine was the true statement of intent. Everyone was like, “Ryan, you’re playing with fire.” And I was like, “Yeah, but my liver is a fire blanket. You can roll me in ethanol and I’ll still come up smelling of roses, motherfuckers.” After I mistakenly chose this beer from the confusing menu, I went for weaker ales hereafter.

I drink these between, 'my usual,' absinthe to avoid headaches in the morning.

Our night ended at the Thali Café in Bristol. If you ever go West make sure you visit one of these establishments. The food is properly delicious. Thali is an Indian meal that consists of an assortment of dishes, meaning on service you’re handed the kind of plate a prisoner might receive- divided into sections- within it though are tastes antithetical of ‘doing porridge.’ Good times dudes.

Sunday, Bristol

On waking in the morning, we went to ‘The Lounge’. Jim, a fictionalised Ron Swanson made corporeal, is a fan of breakfast dining. And ‘The Lounge’ is a fan of catering for all your breakfast needs. I plumped for the full fry and told them to hold the fried egg … and crush it til it scrambled. The one blemish against this establishments name is they said, “We can’t do scrambled. We only do poached.” I would have held it against them, if it were not for the plate that came. Ron Swanson is indeed right, “There is no sadness that can’t be cured by breakfast food.” For those ten minutes of eating, I was back at the start of the holiday where everything seemed possible. Good times dudes. (I’m trying to turn this into a catchphrase).

After breakfast someone suggested we go for a walk. (I know my friends are quite behind the times, but I love them for their quaint ways. It’s not their fault. Not everyone can be born in progressive Watford. Sometimes you just have to nod, smile and go along with these olde-worlde people.) It was a fine walk that involved going across the Clifton Suspension Bridge. I was at Bristol University for three years and only went across it once on a day trip to Glastonbury. Our university tutor had organised it, alleging that it would help with our Medieval studies. We didn’t learn anything. In hindsight I think it was because he was from Dartmoor and was missing the spirits.

The 'Clifton Suspension Bridge' would be the name of my finishing move if I were a wrestler. Pic. by PG

Monday, Swanage

Early on Monday we woke up in Swanage. We did leave Bristol; we didn’t just wake up in a place a few hours away. I just didn’t think you would want all the details about the car journey. Jeez, I try to jump the narrative forward for your own benefit and you have to nitpick, picking up holes in my timeline.

Anyway, we went down to a beach hut – that my family owns. I know with the housing crisis it does seem decadent owning something with four walls and only living in it evenings and holidays, but my family have been going to that beach for generations. It’s not like we’re oligarchs moving in, erecting extra levels to compensate for our lack of penis. We have preserved the beach hut with its original 1940’s façade to ensure it’s consistent with the landscape. My uncle even lives in Swanage and is down there every night. It’s not even a fixed one: he has to take it down in the winter and store it on his mate’s farm. What I’m saying is we’re not the bad guys. We’re just a humble family with a romantic attachment to a piece of sand. We got in there before the beach hut boom as well so it’s not as if we spent thousands of pounds on it. Probably just a few grand between a group of people. I’m still part of the 99% honest.

Property tycoons.

Tuesday, Lulworth Cove and Durdle Door

As a child I went to all of these beautiful places in Dorset, but due to an increase in alcohol and birthday units I can no longer remember them. Therefore, with the girl in tow I decided to revisit the places of my youth – or visit them, given I couldn’t recall ever having been there.

These attractions really are places of wonder. However, they look even better when the sun is shining. Fortunately, this was Britain’s day to have the sun. (Blighty really got a bum deal when it came to custody rights of the old yellow ball; Australia must have got O.J.’s lawyer when it came to negotiations.) The sea looked like it sat on a diamond mine and the sky was as pure as Walt’s crystal meth. You couldn’t ask for a better picture postcard.

Better than the Wembley arch. Pic. by PG

On walking over Man of War bay, just next to Durdle Door, we sat on the pebbles and ate our packed lunch. All around us were families from all across the world, unified by sunshine and sea. Children tested their parents’ boundaries by going deeper and deeper into the water, and parents tested their vocal chords by crying louder and louder for them to come back. These mini-dramas soon dissolved into family comedies with dads splashing their returning offspring and mums photographing their approval. Good times dudes.

Wednesday, New Forest

Today was The Girl’s turn to take me to her old stomping ground. As a child, she used to camp in Brockenhurst. In tribute to her childhood I’ve vowed to go camping with her in the future under the proviso she puts the tent up and protects me from bears.

I wasn’t prepared for the New Forest to be honest. On entering Brockenhurst I saw the sign warning us of ponies. In my head I just thought small children would be out on a pony trek accompanied by an expert horse rider. What I didn’t realise was that ponies just mill about on the road discussing Brexit whilst they hold up the traffic.

I said to The Girl, “Where are their owners.”

She replied, “They don’t have owners. Not every horse has an owner.”

Jockeys, cowboys and the gypsy community came to my mind. I thought every horse had an owner. Like every dog or cat has an owner. If they can’t find an owner for it, shouldn’t they be in some kind of sanctuary?

Just roaming the streets like wild animals. An apt simile. Pic. by PG.

But that is not the case in Brockenhurst. Man and animal live alongside one another as one. Like it’s The Jungle Book or something. After having parked the car, we walked up to the corner shop where there were a couple of donkeys loitering outside, probably chewing gum and moaning about how rubbish their parents are. It is a truly bizarre sight. I’m happy that I’ve witnessed it, but I will never be like the locals and think it’s normal. I mean it’s not natural to say “excuse me” to a donkey on the pavement is it? I believe if you pass a donkey at a postbox and don't bat an eyelid, you've probably become a little jaded, not appreciating the warped magic of the world we live in.

Reflection that satirises children's TV

So there you have it: a little jaunt around Britain. I hope this travelogue taught you a lot about how historical and magical a place Britain is. Until next time kids, bye. (Presenters suffering from smilestroke wave maniacally at the screen until the director saves them from their contrived happiness by calling 'cut.')

Groundhog Day

Imagine you were given a gift: the gift to relive the best day of your life over and over again. Another chance to open the envelope of good news; another go at holding the blanketed baby; another opportunity to take that tender kiss. Well, let’s be frank: eventually the whole thing would get boring. After re-creating your wedding scene for the thousandth time, you would want to quit the picture, punch the director and run off with the girl playing the bridesmaid.

Now, imagine you were given a curse: the curse to relive the worst day of your life over and over again. Another chance to do that job you hated; another opportunity to talk to those people; another fucking Monday. Well, this would be a whole lot worse; there would be no redeeming quality to this bleak picture. You would be trapped in the cinema re-watching this selfsame shit-show in a suicidal fit of abject melancholy.

If you knew what life would bring, would it be worth waking up for?

For all of the fear unpredictability brings, it makes life worth living. If we know what is coming in life then is there any point in turning up, clocking in? With thudding predictability the order of things we may as well turn off the alarm and let existence play out. We need the coming of the new day to bring about new experiences- good or bad. It is the good encounters that enrich us, sustain us. It is the bad ones that give the good ones value. Without the yin, we can’t have the yang. Without the rough, we can’t have the smooth. As Dolly Parton says, ‘If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain.” 

Phil Connors in Groundhog Day is a man who must relive the worst day of his life. He is a weather forecaster assigned to report on small-town Punxsutawney’s annual celebration, Groundhog Day. The festival gathers the townspeople to watch its groundhog, aptly named Phil, leave his temporary home to predict the weather: if he sees his shadow and returns to his hole, it means a long winter; if he doesn’t see it, it means an early spring. Connors takes it as a personal insult that he has to relive this day once a year: why should he a sophisticated member of the metropolis be brought down to report on small-town ephemera? When Connors is told a storm has led to enforced road closures, that there is no way of getting home, he is furious: isn’t there a special lane for VIPs? Resigned, he holes himself up in a B&B and readies himself for an early morning getaway. Except when morning comes Connors can’t. Someone, somewhere has cut the pendulum on Grandfather Time, which leaves our antihero suspended in the black hole of February 2nd ... Groundhog Day.

Phil Vs The Town. Pic. Manuel Harlan

The film co-written by Danny Rubin and Harold Ramis is one of my favourites. Bill Murray in the starring role does a great job at neutralising the character’s acid-tongue with a twinkly charm. When I heard the news it was being made into a musical, I was intrigued. When I heard it was being made into a musical with Tim Minchin penning the music, I was sold. Minchin’s skill as a pianist and humorist allows him to create songs that are musically virtuous and comically potent. As a devout atheist and rationalist, his stand up skewers religion and fate. An example of this is his love song If I didn’t have you. Here, he attacks the idea that people are meant to be, opining (“If I didn’t have you, I would probably have someone else”) and goes on to list how your 'soulmate' is determined by your wealth, looks and location. The conceit sounds cruel and heartless, but it ends romantically with the line: (“But with all my heart and all my mind, I know one thing is true I have just one life and just one love and, my love, that love is you.”) Minchin was always going to be the perfect fit to help adapt Groundhog Day because he can satirise the small town mentality of worshipping false prophets, as well as celebrate the emphasis these communities put on love and friendship. The sardonic side of Minchin then is channeled in Connors spewing bile on the town’s customs and beliefs, and the sentimental side of Minchin is depicted through the communities care and compassion in the face of unwavering hostility.

The work in adapting Groundhog Day wasn’t done by Minchin alone. He is one third of the talent responsible for the endeavour. The other two are Danny Rubin, who co-wrote the original film and wanted to retell the story in a different form, and director Matthew Warchus, who worked with Minchin on the smash-hit musical Matilda. The three met four years ago on what Minchin describes as ‘like a Tinder date, trying to figure out whether we wanted to work with each other.’ Unlike a Tinder date it was a relationship that was to last the distance with the musical the end result.

Having Rubin on board means the original isn’t tampered with that much. All the jokes you enjoyed from the movie are here. The plot has largely stayed the same with just a few tiny tweaks. What is different is the scope of the piece. In the film Connors fills every scene: it is his Road to Damascus story of how he goes from being small-minded about the small town to having his mind opened by big hearts. However, in the musical we discover how Rita’s childhood (Phil’s producer) affected her love life; this feminist number has Minchin venting parental rage at the fairy stories little girls are filled with. Also Nancy, the nondescript attractive girl in the movie, is given the space to air her grievances at the beginning of Act 2. In this number, the actor comes out of character to lament a role that is based on looks rather than talent. Again, Minchin sneaks big ideas on gender into a supposedly silly comedy.

Rita (left) is given a bigger role. Pic. Manuel Harlan

Props need to go to set designer, Rob Howell, who is so inventive at turning major incidents in the movie into quirky set pieces. Phil’s bar room epiphany, that without time there are no consequences, is a gleeful highlight in the film. The dilemma for a theatre adaptation is how do you stage Phil’s drink driving and ensuing police chase? Without spoiling anything, all I will say is if the theatre doesn't allow you to go big, then go small. In fact, what makes Warchus’ Groundhog Day special is that for all its big budget chutzpah it retains an intimate smallness.

Groundhog Day is a triumph: a production that celebrates the little people that comprise the little towns; drawn by Minchin and Howell, creatives that haven’t corporatised their vision to committee, but built from their own hands a little work of genius.

Groundhog Day closes at The Old Vic on September 17th

Fleabag

fleabag

/ˈfliːˌbæɡ/

noun (slang)

1.

(Brit) a dirty or unkempt person

Last year the BBC premiered Peter Kay’s new sitcom on its iPlayer service; the decision to distribute this way was an unqualified success with 2.8 million tuning in. The word of mouth around the show meant that when it was eventually aired on BBC One there was a real desire for viewers to see what all the fuss was about. In adopting a progressive and conventional model to suit younger and older viewers the show was a huge ratings hit. The strategy to upload a programme onto its iPlayer service was probably done with the closure of BBC3 in mind. With economic cuts hitting the corporation, the BBC had little option but to downsize the channel and repackage it online. Critics of the cuts argued this move would affect viewing figures; that people wanted convenience; they didn’t want to go looking for content – the success of Car Share disproved this: if something is marketed properly, then people will find it.

Nostalgist turned progressive: Peter Kay on iPlayer.

The BBC then have done a great job in promoting its iPlayer service, but I maintain they need to do more when it comes to advertising lesser known artists. It is easier to take a horse to water and make it drink Peter Kay, however it is more challenging to take the aforesaid to water and ask if it fancies something else for a change. This is why viewers may have missed the gleefully stupid Murder in Successville and the brilliantly brazen Fleabag. Although these sitcoms are surviving off critical acclaim and social media noise, wouldn’t it be nice for those who are less tech-savvy to be made aware of them through more traditional methods, e.g. trailers, voice-over, five minute previews? 

So to try and reach the luddites and have them embrace Fleabag, a new online show I love, I’ve decided to write a blog telling them why it’s great – what an inspired idea!

Fleabag is the brainchild of Phoebe Waller-Bridge, better known for playing the journalist Abby in ITV detective drama, Broadchurch. The idea, a young woman struggling- and failing- to hold onto her feminist credentials in a sexualised society, has gestated from a one-woman Edinburgh play to the sitcom it is today. Given the acclaim the play garlanded on its run (Fringe First Award for Best New Play and an Olivier nomination too), it comes as no surprise Waller-Bridge was commissioned to extend the exercise for TV.

The one-woman show.

This transference of a play to television is never easy: many successful stage shows lose their impact when they’re taken from the boards to the box. Gone are the days when people would watch Play for Today, a limited location drama where the story was the thing; now, people require the stimulation of camera work, non-diegetic sound and quick cuts. Realising this, Waller-Bridge has meshed the best parts of the two mediums to create something that has the verisimilitude of theatre with the tricks of TV.

The first episode is the funniest of the four so far. It opens with a sexual encounter that ends in the pay off, “Do I have a big arsehole?” Yes, this is a comedy that will separate the rude from the prude. Whilst most British people keep sex locked away in a bedroom, Fleabag punches through the fourth wall and dares us to look at it. Unlike the old movies when sex was a cigarette after the act, here we watch it whilst the participant commentates. This isn’t entirely unique- Peep Show did this before- but having it come from a female voice feels groundbreaking. In sitcom-land female characters are usually comic stooges and foils, the rational centre in an off-kilter universe; here, we see women can be as cruel, foul-mouthed and funny as their brethren.

Tearing down the fourth wall: Zach Powers would be proud.

Fleabag’s (we never find out her real name) humour is in fact her saving grace. She isn’t easy to like. For example, the boyfriend that dotes on her is used only to fulfil her financial and sexual needs. In one significant scene, the two lie in bed, playing the ostensible happy couple, all the while Fleabag is busy masturbating to the news (Barack Obama delivering a speech on radicalisation: it’s the former that does it for her, I think). Her boyfriend's response of, “I'm going. Don’t turn up to my house in your underwear. It won’t work this time,” is met by a smug, “It will” to camera. Fleabag doesn’t seem able to make emotional connections in a world that promotes the physical: her relationship with her sister is strained, so too the one with her father. And in an interesting move, she appears to objectify men: her proclivity for porn means she sees them as cock and balls and no more. It isn’t until later on in the series that you begin to understand why Fleabag’s systems of beliefs are so messy and contradictory.

The happy couple.

Despite the explicit content of the show, there are wholesome laughs too. Fleabag runs a trendy coffee shop; it being London pointed digs are made at gentrification and fad diets. In a bid to keep her business afloat, Fleabag often tells her customers she has no change; instead of arguing that £20 is too much for a cheese sandwich they file their complaint with London and let our heroine off scot-free. It can be silly and satirical as well as salacious and sexual.

Fleabag is a great show. Within the first 5 minutes you'll know if you feel the same. Just don’t watch with grandma.

Fleabag is available on the BBC iPlayer