Ability

Ever since the excellent Mum finished, television seems short of sitcoms. Fortunately, radio is here to fill the void. A show I’ve been really enjoying is Ability, written by Lee Ridley and Katherine Jakeaways. Jakeaways has previous on Radio 4, writing North by Northamptionshire back in 2011. Ridley, on the other hand, is better known as ‘Lost Voice Guy,’ the 2014 winner of BBC New Comedy Award, and recent contestant on Britain’s Got Talent.

A few months back I heard Ridley interviewed by Stuart Goldsmith on The Comedians Comedian Podcast. It wasn’t a typical interview in that Goldsmith had to send his questions over in advance. The reason for this is because Ridley has cerebral palsy, which consequently took his voice. As a result, he uses a computer program to talk. Being a stand up fan, I was interested in how this affects performance. Can you, for example, build in the necessary pauses for a joke to land? What happens say if some material isn’t flying? Is it easy to switch to a new topic? Is it possible to react off the cuff to what’s going on in the room? Other comedians don’t have to worry about such things. The train service between thought and mouth is often efficient – there when you need it. However, if you’re using a computer, isn’t there a Southern Rail chance of a joke arriving late to the station. How does a comic constrained by a computer cope with the issue of timing? A versatile thinker, Ridley has learnt to work within these restrictions. Pre-programming his material, he clicks in and out of jokes. If a joke doesn’t land, he has other topics ‘saved’ he can move on to. Therefore, the beauty of his comedy is in the writing. Some comics get away with skipping around the stage and changing their cadence to give the appearance of a joke, with Ridley his material stands and falls on the writing.

His writing has held him in good stead in Ability too- a perfectly formed sitcom. I genuinely don’t think there’s a bad line in it. The show is semi-autobiographical with Ridley playing Matt, a man with cerebral palsy whose just left home to live with his friend, Jess. Given his parents are no longer there to look after him, it falls on his carer to be his right hand man. The man in question is Bob: a loveable geezer with questionable morals. Him and Matt are inseparable, doing each other’s bidding, getting into hilarious scrapes along the way. Ability subverts the disabled stereotype as Bob is as dependent on Matt as Matt is on Bob. When it comes to playing the disabled card, both are as irascible as the other. Bob uses Matt to appear kind and caring; Matt uses Bob to get nights out and porn mags. Throughout the series, the two quite literally become partners in crime, shoplifting cereal and defrauding lonely men into believing Matt is a sex robot.

The cast at work.

The format for Ability reminds me a little of Peep Show with a ‘talking head’ device being used. Like the creator, the character has a lost voice too. Ridley therefore does Matt’s talking voice, whilst Andrew Hayden-Smith does his inner voice. As Newcastle born, Ridley’s internal monologue is Geordie inflected; however, his conversational tone is computer neutral. Hearing these two voices collide makes you appreciate how difficult it must be to talk with a sound that isn’t your own. In fact, there are hilarious incidents where the other characters don’t realise Matt is joking because his voice isn’t telegraphing the punch-line. Ridley’s voice is the anti-winky face: people have to be smart enough to realise when and if he’s joking.

You might have picked up that Ridley is something of a cheeky scamp. In his Britain’s Got Talent audition he wore a t-shirt that said, “I’m only in it for the free parking.” Another t-shirt he's wore for stand up is, “I was disabled before it was popular.” The man though doesn’t just wear good jokes; he writes them too. Each episode begins with a primer, putting the disability in context. In one he explains: “I’m slow at walking and I wouldn’t recommend taking me out to eat spaghetti. But on the bright side I’m the best passenger on the quiet coach of the train." What’s special about this comedy though is Ridley gives disabled jokes to Matt’s friends Bob and Jess. True friends say awful things to one another, and so it is here. Jess’ nickname for Matt is ‘fire hazard’ and Bob’s favourite game involves messing with Matt’s computer program (he changes "thank you" to "lick me").  In the wrong hands that would seem cruel, but Ridley and Jakeaways are skilled writers, holding a mirror up to friendship, demonstrating how true equality means taking the piss out of your mate regardless of circumstance.

Another great t-shirt.

Like all good modern sitcoms, there is pathos too. The first episode addresses Matt’s fear over talking to a girl he's got to know online (he worries she’ll go off him when she hears his voice). Also, a love triangle develops in later episodes where Matt becomes jealous of Bob’s relationship with Jess. Although society has made great strides in disability rights, we’re not there yet. Many years ago disabled people were to be pitied; recently Channel 4’s Paralympic coverage re-packaged this pity turning it into awe - disabled people became superheroes. The beauty of Ability is that it does neither: it presents a disabled person as normal. Someone who wants a drink, a shag, a laugh, a romance. Like everyone else.

Ability is a sitcom that reminds listeners how disability doesn’t handicap talent. In writing this comedy with Jakeaways, Lost Voice Guy is proving that in losing one voice he's gained another. A comic voice that sparkles with wit, charm and mischief. 

Ability is available here: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0b2nh1n

BBC Comedy Shorts

You wait for one good BBC comedy, then four come along at once.

Over the past few years the iPlayer service has showcased fresh pilots with the express intention of turning them into sustained series. From this initiative the acclaimed comedies Sunny D, Man Like Mobeen and Motherland have emerged. Although there are normally some duffers amongst the pack, the general quality is high and I always look forward to watching them.

This year the four shorts feel different. They feel less like they’re looking for a long-running commission and more like they’re passion pieces, works of comedic auteurs. The four contributors Tim Key, Spencer Jones, Sara Pascoe and Nick Helm are all from the alternative comedy circuit, boasting many Edinburgh prize nominations between them. All have a unique comic voice that isn’t necessarily tailored to the conventional sitcom, which might explain why these offerings feel more stand-alone than sitcom-bait.

The Funny Four.

Sara Pascoe Vs Monogamy

Sara Pascoe is something of a bookworm. Her stand-up hours are QI episodes put to missionary zeal. Past shows have involved her talking about evolutionary psychology, female physiology and the science of love. She is the funny lecturer you wish you had. In the short, she pitches up to what seems like a date in a wedding dress. This, however, is just a framing device for her to launch her diatribe on matrimony. Over the course of the treatise, she argues why monogamy doesn’t work, explaining: ‘If Adam and Eve couldn’t make it work in paradise, what chance have we got under a Tory Government.’ There’s references to ‘pair bonding’ and ‘copulatory vocalisation’ to elucidate why men are more likely to stray and why it's in fact women who enjoy sex more.

It’s a dizzying ten minutes of science and great lines, but too jam-packed to be my favourite.

Sara Pascoe.

Nick Helm: The Killing Machine

Nick Helm is the bastard love child of Johnny Vegas and Jack Black. His Edinburgh shows are heartaches on sleeves, where he’s liable to affect mental breakdown live on stage. In contrast, his work away for TV dials down the depression and turns the amp up on bitter-sweet melancholia. His work in the BBC3 sitcom Uncle was a triumph showing a rock-obsessed loser coming good. In this short he plays Sam, a down-at-heel story in need of a comeback. Salvation, he believes, can be found in the boxing ring. Donny his trainer isn’t so sure. Tired of the New Years Day inductee, Donny doesn’t think Sam will go the distance; in fact, he’s convinced Sam won’t last more than a session. The relationship between the pair grows, so soon they’re verbally sparring over favourite movies- remarkably, Donny hasn’t seen Rocky. The subsequent raising of eye-brows from Sam is a delight.

Much more conventional than the other three, this is the one short that could come back for a second round.

Nick Helm.

The Mind of Herbert Clunkerdunk

Without the profile of other names Spencer Jones AKA The Herbert has still been packing them out at Edinburgh. His underground status is augmented by the rooms he plays: he’s preferred Bob Slayer’s ‘Heroes of the Fringe’ rooms as opposed to Edinburgh’s main comedy venues, The Big 4. Jones is more from the variety school of comedy than today's university storytellers. Gurning like Cooper and wearing Vic and Bob surreal, the man quite simply is a lunatic. This ten minutes is a bonkers blitz of inventiveness, boasting daft songs, fake eye balls and talking letterboxes. For me, it has the visual flair of The Mighty Boosh, but with a pure, less affected, humour. Typically I like my comedy wordy and worthy, but this was a child’s ball pool of chaotic fun.

Spencer Jones.

Tim Key – Wonderdate

Tim Key is a character played by Tim Key. His Edinburgh shows are something of an event. As he has a movie-makers eye for the visual, his comic sets are often interspersed with dreamy short films, and his stage sets have contained beds and baths.

This short was my favourite – not just because it features my favourite topic: love – but because it had such confidence in the medium it's working in. Because Key is used to producing movie vignettes, he has no problem here in turning his current stage show Megadate into abridged television. The story begins with a man waving goodbye to a woman. The parting will be short-lived because the date has gone exceedingly well: you can tell because the visuals are in black and white, the music is retro-Jazz and love hangs in their faces like Lisa in the Louvre. After kissing his date away, he realises he’s lost his hat. Agonised (it’s a fucking great hat), he texts the girl in lamentation. She does not reply. He texts again. She does not reply. He texts again. She does not reply. He … The next day, Key retraces his steps from the bowling alley to the Thames to the chicken shop to the fairground, searching for the hat. Along the way he meets characters who saw him the night before, unconvinced by his assertion that this was a wonderdate. The flashback scenes are a delight as we see a white-suited Key down a bowling pitcher of ale, and a Chicken Cottage seduction scene played out to French Jazz.

No one marries high and low art better than Key. He is the clown priest addressing the faithful with his beer-sodden book of love. It, therefore, gives me great pleasure to pronounce Wonderdate brilliant.

Tim Key.

The shorts are available here: 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/group/p066t2rt

Arctic Monkeys

I just wanted to be one of The Strokes, now look at the mess you made me make, Hitchhiking with a monogrammed suitcase miles away from any half useful imaginary highway.

(Arctic Monkeys, 'Star Treatment')

In 2002 a group of lads from High Green, Sheffield, set up a band. Inspired by The Strokes, an NY 'IT' of cool, they bought some guitars and decided to give it a go. A year later, they were the coolest gang in town. Playing The Grapes in Sheffield, eschewing London, these parochial heroes soon became worldwide phenomenons. With their zeitgeist lyrics and red bull kineticism, the group were always going to go overground; however, their fans ensured it happened sooner than expected.

At those early gigs free CD’s were given to the crowd, which were then burned and uploaded. Soon a wild fire ensued, message boards lit up with glowing epithets, The Big Smoke caught on. Broadband sponsored word-of-mouth precipitated the Monkeys rise to the top; a top that would see them secure the fastest ever debut selling album by a British band. That album title (Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not) is distinctly British too, coming as it does from Alan Sillitoe’s ‘kitchen sink’ drama Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. The Monkeys debut is a 21^st century re-working of the novel, documenting the scrapes and japes of working-class life.

Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not.

From there the Artcic's went on to record Favourite Worst Nightmare. An album sonically similar to their debut, with rolling drums and propelling guitars, yet lyrically more obtuse, favouring the figurative over the literal. Humbug followed next, an apt moniker given the Scrooge-like disdain that greeted it. Recorded in the American desert, under the stewardship of Josh Homme, the Brit-rockers were caught by the scuzz. Humbug was criticised for being dark, difficult and dead-eyed. Others saw its necessity, recognising that if the band were to stay relevant then they must upgrade their sound. If they didn't, they risked being the street cornered scallywags of old.

After this came Suck It and See, a warmer sounding record, whose second half features gorgeous, chiming love songs. Then came AM, a stadium-filling behemoth, featuring spitball vocals and widescreen guitars – critics and fans loved it, many feeling it was their best offering since their trakie bottomed debut. The Arctic Monkeys had done their teething, they could now enjoy their teeth by relaxing into their sound.

That's not what's happened. 

From those bedroom days in Sheffield, dreaming of being an NME poster on the wall, Turner and the boys find themselves creating their own mythology on the lost highway of rock n’ roll. In making this new album, Turner has said that he wanted to create his own world. Like a bride on their wedding day, he's done this with something old, something new and something borrowed. Forging the ideas of The Beatles Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club and David Bowie’s 70’s records, he's made Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino. 

The concept album.

The concept: forced to leave earth because of an apocalypse, the Arctic’s find themselves playing in space at the Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino. (The Tranquility Base is the site on the moon where humans – Aldrin and Armstrong – walked on for the first time.) Some have been sniffy about the idea. The concept album, beloved in the 70’s for spawning Pink Floyd’s The Wall and David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, is largely untouched in this millennia. Hip Hop artists Kanye West and Kendrick Lamar have had success with the form, but rock bands seem to stay clear, fearing the review ‘pretentious and wanky.’ (Shouldn’t rock and roll be daft and daring?) We’re all fans of boxsets, so why can’t an album be novelistic and interconnected?

The album begins with 'Star Treatment', a devilish piece of wordplay that establishes setting: rock and roll superstars in space. It’s a woozy, floating number with Pet Sounds percussion. Up next is 'One Point Perspective,' which commences with the twinkling of Jay Z’s 'Hard Knock Life' and Amerie '1 Thing' drumming, whilst Turner fantasises about calling it quits. The third track 'American Sports' is one of the more immediate tunes, putting in juxtaposition a lilting piano and ominous guitar. Its lyrical concerns are technological with a pointed allusion to a ‘virtual reality mask ... stuck on a parliament brawl.’ I guess it's the inverse of Ready Player One: where Turner's protagonist is tuning into quarrelling, car-crash media as opposed to colourful, escapist entertainment. Even though the album is set in space, its criticism is of our planet: we don’t have to put on a headset to enter an unreal world; by allowing reality TV stars to lead us we’ve made our own fake universe.

Trump gets powerslammed again later on 'Golden Trunks.' Here, Turner channels Elvis Costello’s 'Shipbuilding' and decries a leader who "reminds you of a wrestler wearing tight golden trunks. He’s got him sen a theme tune. They play it for him as he makes his way to the ring." It’s the perfect description of Donald Trump. His straw hair is redolent of former WWF champion, the nature boy Ric Flair. The rhetoric of the man is out of the wrestling playbook too: he calls out foreign baddies with catchphrases and slogans, only getting away with it because he jingoistically invokes the red, white and blue. Vince McMahon turned wrestling into a male soap opera; Trump has done the same with politics. And everyone loves a soap opera.

Trump has turned politics into spandex wrestling.

Following this is 'Four Out Of Five', a spacey take on Petula Clark’s 'Downtown.' Again, Turner showcases the wit that made the band famous when he imagines life on the moon. He describes dating during meteor strikes and Mexican restaurants popping up on a crater. The chorus ‘four stars out of five’ is a piss-take on how people appraise everything, forcing numbered judgments on emotional experiences – maybe a dig too at how his band’s output is constantly scrutinised.

Later, Turner reflects on science-fiction in the tune 'Science Fiction', giving us the clearest indication as to why he wrote in the style. As a fan of Phillip K. Dick, Turner is clearly attracted to the dangers of technology; however, he’s also interested in how the genre pits love against modernity. Directed towards a woman he loves, Turner juxtaposes romance with the sci-fi genre, explaining ‘I tried to write a song to make you blush but I’ve a feeling that the whole thing may end up too clever for its own good. The way some science fiction does.’ Here, Turner is two-headed Janus: reflecting on his heart and predicting criticism of the album.

In some cases, Turner is too clever for his own good. In the track 'Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino' he apes David Bowie too much, so much so that it sounds inauthentic: more akin to a Flight of the Conchords track 'Bowie in Space' than a tune on its own merit. The penultimate 'Batphone' has some terrific lines, but feels too discursive to catch fire.

'Ultracheese' is the grandstanding finale that has the Sinatra croon of vocal showmanship. With piano and voice at the centre, there’s less adornment. It’s Turner raising his voice to isolation. Stuck on the moon of stardom, he laments his pictures of friends on the wall, whom he doesn’t see at all. Interspersed amongst this personal concern is a political one: there's a reference to ‘dress like a fictional character from a place they called America in the Golden Age.’ Clearly, Turner, an LA resident, does not subscribe to the idea of ‘Make America Great Again.’ Trump’s vision of America is as fictitious as the sci-fi world he's created.

In crafting Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino the Arctic Monkeys have aimed for the stars. For some it’s an act of artful condescension: they’re looking down on their fans, showing no lyrical concern for their concerns. For me it’s not a misstep, but a giant leap for musickind. One of Britain's most popular bands has released a concept album with no lead single. In an age of disposability and playlists that’s something of a marvel. 

Hand on heart, I can’t say the boys have conquered space – some tracks don't work – what they have done though is discovered a brave new world. They've taken the risk to go boldly where few have gone before. For that, I'll love them to the moon and back.

Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino is out now.

Suits

For a long time Suits was that show Dave had on at night. Scheduled on the home of witty banter, I assumed it was a glossy American sitcom akin to Entourage. Last year the nation started to take note because its actress, Meghan Markle, was marrying our Prince, he wore a soldier beret, Prince Harry. Still, I didn't pay much attention to it until our friends told us to watch.

Initially, I was reluctant. We were told it was a legal-drama, not a sitcom. Having watched The Good Wife and its spin-off, The Good Fight, I didn’t know if I wanted to watch another courtroom procedural. Even though I’m a creature of habit in my daily life (bowl of muesli for breakfast, cheese roll for lunch, Wetherspoons approach to dinner: Monday is chilli night; Friday, burger in a bun) when it comes to culture, I like to vary my diet. I try and read different authors so I experience different styles, and try where possible to watch different genres so I don’t fall in with the lo-fi indie crowd that my personality is at risk of moping into.

I like to know where I am with my meals.

So I didn’t want to watch Suits. But I’m getting married soon, so I thought I should practise compromise. The Girl wanted to watch it, so I agreed. (That’s compromise, right?)

At first I wasn’t a fan. After the first few episodes, I compared it unfavourably with The Good Wife. I said it had shine, but it didn’t have soul. I claimed it had wit, but it lacked charm. It didn’t focus on women’s brains, but their butts. Now that I’ve watched the first season I think the case for the prosecution is unfounded; many of my arguments could be thrown out as prejudicial.

A lot of my opposition towards Suits is rooted in its Pilot episode. The précis for the show is this: Mike Ross is a gifted brainiac: he's Sherlock with social skills. Early on we see him taking a university paper; he’s in disguise, hidden by a baseball cap. The reason for this is that he sits exams on people’s behalf. A cerebral gigolo: he’s a brain for hire. Not only does he supply answers, his flatmate wants him to supply drugs. Mike is less sure about this, but money is a great persuader. On playing glorified delivery boy for his friend, he runs into trouble. To all extents and purposes, he’s been set up. His friend didn’t want to deliver the drugs himself because of the risk attached. The police are onto the crew and there’s a small chance that the hotel they’re delivering to might be watched. Fortunately, Mike has the street-smarts to go with the book-smarts: he senses something is wrong and runs for cover.

It's more Mad Men than Lad Men.

In fleeing the scene, Mike runs into the law. Or lawyers to be exact. A law firm who have booked a hotel suite for interviews. Harvey Specter, a hot-shot lawyer, is there to find his protégée. Unfortunately, all the Harvard graduates have the charisma of a legal textbook. Specter doesn’t just want theory; he wants confidence too. He hears the kid’s story, enjoys its tale, and only wishes he had the legal backstory to go with it. Although Mike admits he hasn’t go the sweatshirt, he’s Harvard material through and through. So the subterfuge begins: Mike Ross will work in a law firm despite having no legal qualifications to speak of. If the pair are rumbled, Specter will be disbarred, and Mike will be – well – he’d have to be barred to be disbarred; let’s just say his grandma will be disappointed with him. All in all then, Harvey’s got more to lose than Mike. Harvey though is a gambling man, so when it comes to risk he’s all in.

I think the concern I had about the show was that it would have a frat boy mentality. Mike and Harvey are incredibly bright, swapping barbs, ventriloquizing film scenes; whereas the women take a back seat. I’m not saying beautiful women can’t have deep characters; it’s just at first the camera seems to Vic Reeves them, sticking its tongue out, rubbing its knees, whenever one comes on screen. There’s Jessica, the head of the firm; Rachael, the paralegal, and Donna, Harvey’s secretary, who appear for decoration. For fans of The Good Fight, it’s a very different feel: there, women are front and centre, admired for their brains rather than their beauty; here, it feels the other way round. Over time though, this changes and you appreciate the writers are depicting strong, complex women where their looks don’t define them. In many ways it’s like Mad Men, showing a cross-section of women and the obstacles they face in a male-dominated world.

It's quite a disturbing GIF isn't it.

Another thing Suits has going for it is a love story. I wish I could say I made this next spot, but I didn’t. In the first episode, Mike Ross is shown around the office by paralegal, Rachel Zane (Meghan Markle). After watching the Pilot I turned to The Girl all smug and went, “I know why it’s called Suits. It’s wordplay, isn’t it? Suits is a derogatory term for corporate workers; it’s also what lawyers do: they administer legal suits.”

Unimpressed, she turned to me and went, “Have you thought about the names of the characters?”

I said, “No.”

She went, “Think about the surname of Mike and the first name of the Meghan Markle character.”

The penny dropped: “Ross and Rachel!”

“Exactly.”

It’s very much a Ross and Rachel relationship with the will-they, won’t-they turning into the on-off oscillation of love and heartache. Being a romantic I approve of this part of the show.

As I approach my concluding statement, I guess it falls on me to say, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you’ve heard arguments for the defence; you’ve heard arguments for the prosecution. Both arguments are compelling (after all, I wrote them). However, I think it’s clear to see that Suits is a legal-drama worth its salt. It’s fun, but wise. Smart, yet soulful. Beautiful and substantial. I rest my case.” (Swaggers back to table, knowing he’s nailed it.)

Suits is available on Netflix. (I’m available to defend and prosecute TV shows pro bono.)