Peter Kay's Car Share

This week I’ve been watching Peter Kay’s Car Share.

Stand-up comedy is my main love in life. The first stand-up I got into in a big way was Peter Kay. For me he was my gateway comedian, an entry point into the intoxicating world of mic stand and microphone. Without him, I may never have moved onto edgier, more experimental strains of funny. Indeed, Kay’s Live at the Top of the Tower DVD was one I watched over and over again as a teenager. His routines on weddings, teletext holidays and biscuits in your brew celebrated and revelled in the minutiae of British family life. Like all good observational comedy, we laughed because we saw our own lives in the material: a child does slide on their knees at a wedding; teletext wasn’t an efficient booking system; Rich Teas really are terrible for dipping. What the material lacked in ambition, it made up for in recognition.

Since achieving mainstream success, Kay has become a bête noire amongst comedians. They criticise the raw capitalism that has him commodify catchphrases onto aprons and mugs. He has also faced criticism for re-packaging old routines onto DVD and selling them as 'new' at Christmas. Comedian Richard Herring revealed Kay’s greed even extends to taking a share of the car park receipts from his arena tour. This rampant profiteering reveals an ugliness to his cuddly reputation.

"I really enjoyed that gig. Let's go to the merch stall so I can get the comic's apron."

It’s not just his ethics that have been challenged: his material has too. Perrier Award winner Daniel Kitson has derided his work as ‘racist and lazy.’ From my previous blog, you will know that Kitson is my hero. He is the anti-Kay: a cult figure too verbose for marketable catchphrases. He and Kay worked together on Phoenix Nights, a Channel 4 sitcom about the dying social club scene. Co-penned with Neil Fitzmaurice and Dave Spikey, Kay’s comedy was part- homage, part-critique to an age where variety ruled. Kitson is right to a degree: some of the material is questionable; Kay seems to think dwarves and Chinese accents are funny, but I would argue there is enough good will to make these caricatures defensible.

Kay’s Car Share is his first piece of television since Britain’s Got The Pop Factor. There, Kay lampooned the X Factor, scoring high ratings but low approval amongst viewers. Like Harry Hill learnt with his reality TV musical I Can’t Sing, it is difficult to parody something that is already parodying itself. It did however show Kay was capable of commenting on something contemporary, which marked a positive creative step, given how too often his work is rooted in reminiscence.

Reality tv: beyond parody.

In Car Share, then, has Kay found a vehicle to drive his comedy forward? Or is he reversing yet again into cosy nostalgia?

Thankfully, it’s the latter- although there are bumps along the way.

In a first for the BBC, the show was released as a whole series on iPlayer. This apparently was done at Kay’s behest with him arguing that episodes are better enjoyed back to back. The Beeb acquiesced but only for a limited time. The series has now been removed, meaning you’ll have to settle for one a week. Having seen the whole series, I urge you to make the commitment.

Kay’s comedy vehicle is so titled because it follows two supermarket workers, John and Kayleigh, who are forced to car share. John is middle management, whereas Kayleigh works on shop-floor promotion. They are both single and live alone- although Kayleigh’s brother is a sporadic presence. Their situation is redolent of Andy and Maggie in Extras in that they are both professionally and emotionally dissatisfied, longing – albeit quietly – for escape. Initially, they don’t get on. Quelle surprise! Kayleigh is too open for John: her enquires into his past have all the tact of Jeremy Paxman. Over time though John concedes to her candour and the two talk love, life and music. What is particular impressive is how the car radio is used as a catalyst for all these conversations. It is completely unaffected how the relationship between the two grows by them ridiculing ads, debating pop music and harmonising to Ebony and Ivory. These natural moments between the co-stars, probably achieved by improvisation, are perfectly judged and add an emotional depth not seen before in Kay’s work- a less caustic version of Coogan and Brydon’s The Trip springs to mind.

Peter Kay and newcomer Sian Gibson

The sitcom is not without its faults. Its earlier episodes misfire when the writers try to shoehorn set pieces. Episode one has Kayleigh accidentally pour a urine sample over John, and episode three has a misunderstanding about the term ‘dogging’ lead to hilarious consequences- both are as contrived as they sound. By episode four though this nuts and bolts approach to scriptwriting is thrown out as the interplay between the characters takes centre stage. Seeing the two lonely hearts draw closer is a delight and something even my hero and perennial romantic Daniel Kitson would applaud.

Car Share then can't be accused of being lazy like some of Kay's comedy. Instead, it is meaningful and by the end rather beautiful.

Catch Car Share's first two episodes on iPlayer now: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p02n62v4

Wadjda

I first heard about Wadjda at the tail end of 2012 when Radio 2 film critic Mark Kermode named it his film of the year. In my world Kermode’s word is gospel. I have gone to watch Danish romances and Turkish crime dramas on his say so. Being a regular attendee of his weekly radio sermons, I have even defended Twilight to friends – despite never having seen it – because I know he’s such a fan. For me, he’s the oracle of film, a divine guide who delivers us from evil corporate blockbusters. So with his recommendation, I recorded Wadjha on Film 4 last year and have only now got round to watching it.

Wadjda is a coming-of-age story about a child’s desire for a bike. Sounds shit, doesn’t it. Before you harrumph with cynicism though, let me tell you Wadjda is the best film about cycling ever. For a start, it’s directed by Haifaa al-Mansour. So? Well, al-Mansour was the first Saudi woman to ever direct a feature film. And? She directed it from a van because in Saudi Arabia men and women can’t mix in public, meaning communication with crew members had to be done via walkie-talkie. Impressive. Yes, I agree. And despite all of these obstacles, she tells a story so enchanting you’ll be smiling for days.

al-Mansour: the woman behind the camera.

Wadjda then is an eleven-year-old girl who attends a conservative, religious school. There, girls are expected to dress modestly, wear the veil and eschew beautification – varnish, make-up and colours are banned. Also, they are ordered to keep their voices down so as not to alert the men outside: ‘a woman’s voice is her nakedness,’ reasons their headteacher. Wadjda doesn’t take well to any of this. Her character is at odds with the black she wears. She is the colourful schemer, running get rich schemes to obtain the bike of her dreams; a terror to the patriarchy, chastising taxi drivers stupid enough to challenge her mum; a rebel who doesn’t know she’s kicking against the system.

Wadjda played by Waad Mohammed.

The bike she craves represents more than a toy. It is a symbol of freedom and progress: two things currently denied to Saudi women.

Remember: in Saudi Arabia women still aren’t allowed to drive.

When Wadjda asks her mum to help her buy the bike, the response is: “Girls don’t ride bikes. How will you have children if you ride a bike?’ Wadjda’s mother is a fascinating character: what she preaches is conservatism; what she feels is liberalism. Her marriage to Wadjda’s father is loving but her inability to provide a son leaves him considering another wife. The pressure to provide an heir is felt by him too, showing both sexes are trapped by cultural dogma. Her plan to use her feminine wiles to win him round demonstrates the double standard we see throughout the film: men only want female modesty when it suits them.

Wadjda too walks a tightrope of conformity and individualism when she signs up to a Koran reading competition. Her primary motive for participating in the austere tournament is to secure the prize money to buy a bike. The underdog’s quest to win a school competition is a well-worn movie trope, but it’s never been done with such finesse. Seeing this little girl struggle to fulfil her simple dream is wonderfully moving.

So come on, my week was better for having Wadjda in it. So now make sure yours is too.

The trailer for Wadjda can be seen by clicking here:

Kendrick Lamar

In 2008 America's dream of racial equality felt possible. Barack Hussein Obama's presidential election victory marked an end to colour prejudice. Change had come to America.

Two weeks ago Walter Scott, an unarmed black man, was shot whilst attempting to evade the police. It followed analogous incidents involving black teenagers, Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown. Recently, Obama conceded that America hasn’t gone far enough in shifting racial attitudes, begging the question: if America’s first black president can’t accelerate change then who can?

The Audacity of Hope

Compton-born, Kendrick Lamar tackles this quandary on his album, Pimp a Butterfly, the follow-up to his smash hit, good kid, m.A.A.d city. The past album, a verbose trawl through his early autobiography, poeticised the incidents that shaped him. This record, however, marks the chrysalis of Lamar from neighbourhood bawler to inspirational scholar. This personal evolution is the inspiration behind the album title: the caterpillar is Compton, a mad city that leaves men dead on their belly; the butterfly is creativity: the thoughts, ideas and talents that can take you out of there. The success of good kid’s street level reportage took Lamar out into the world, with this experience he has seen how the other half live, allowing him to question fame, consumerism and inequality.

A lot of people put hip-hop on trial for being amoral, egocentric and avaricious. The same charge can’t be levelled against Lamar. Take the single ‘u,’ a vicious self-examination of his flaws. In a fast, frenzied, stream of consciousness bawl he scoffs at his ‘voice of a generation’ tag, arguing there is little point in reaching a huge audience when he can’t stop his teenage sister from falling into pregnancy. Only on King Kunta does Lamar dabble in braggadocio, the swaggering boastfulness that typifies hip-hop, and even then the track provides a lesson in black American history; as Kunta Kinthe, a punished rebel slave, is used to symbolise Lamar's own strength and conviction. Perhaps the most dazzling lyricism on the album is ‘These Walls.’ Just as Jay Z’s 99 Problems used the word ‘bitch’ in different contexts, Lamar does the same with the word ‘walls.’ ‘Walls’ is a revenge tragedy about a character who takes vengeance on the man who killed his friend by sleeping with his girl. The song inhabits the vaginal walls of the woman, the internal walls of the speaker and the prison walls of the convict. If you look past the profanity, the track highlights a virtuosic grasp of language.

‘Blacker The Berry’ shows the young rapper’s manipulation of narrative, informing the listener early on that by the end of the track they will find him a hypocrite. Through the song he attacks the police’s racial profiling and bloodthirsty attacks on blacks – ‘the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice.’ By the end though he admits that he too has betrayed his people by being involved in black on black shootings. Whether this is a frank admission to an event that happened in his childhood or him speaking in the guise of a hip-hop character, it does challenge the rap industry's paradoxical promotion of solidarity and violence.

Admittedly, the album isn’t as easy a listen as its predecessor. It takes time to appreciate the depth and dexterity at work. One track that does have immediacy is ‘i.’ ‘The track is the redemptive realisation of coming through the challenges of fame through finding solace in home. The sprawling funk guitar, propulsive drum beats and the refrain of ‘I love myself’ is the serotonin hit on an otherwise brooding album.

Things return to reflection though in the album's coda when a simulated interview is staged with dead rapper, 2Pac. Lamar cuts his hero's 90's interview answers and pastes them to make it appear like the two are in conversation. Hearing the two discuss art, enterprise and politics is a rejoinder to the accusation hip-hop is thoughtless bullshit. 

Ultimately, if you aren't a hip-hop fan and want your pre-conceptions challenged, then Lamar is your man; if you're a fan then you'll love his fresh take on old skool hip-hop.

Pimp a Butterfly is out in all good record shops now.

Punk Movements

This week I’ve been watching Selma and Pride, and reading Viv Albertine’s Clothes, Music, Boys.

“Punk rock is just another word for freedom.”
– Patti Smith

Given we’re currently in the throes of an election campaign, there’s never been a better time to watch Selma: dealing as it does with the vote, and how far you would go to secure it. In 1870 the 15^th amendment in the United States Constitution stipulated that colour would no longer be a barrier to vote. Black men were free to use their constitutional right. With female enfranchisement following in 1920, black African-Americans had finally achieved democratic parity with their white ‘superiors.’ However what was enshrined in history wasn’t realised in reality. 

Essentially, the American Constitution was not worth the paper it was written on. Racist legislators gazumped black men and women by introducing a poll tax, a levy that took voting from being a right to being a commodity; a commodity that blacks couldn't afford. Along with this, literacy tests were introduced to stop the uneducated from voting. With few having accessed education it was made impossible to pass. Without the vote, white politicians felt no need to write black concerns, black hopes and black dreams into their manifestos. Equality was a lie. No vote meant no say. 

Fast-forward to 1965. 
Selma, Alabama is under the jurisdiction of Governor George Wallace, a bloodthirsty racist with an IQ problem. In this man Martin Luther King sees an opportunity. 

In Albany two years prior, King had led a campaign to get black people voting; he lost. Given his tactical acumen, this came as a surprise. You see, King was not just a master orator in the classical tradition; he was a media manipulator in the modern one too. He knew if his ideology of non-violent protest was met with violence then the people of America would rise up against injustice. Albany's Chief of Police, Laurie Pritchett never took the bait though, arresting black protestors calmly and orderly. King had been out-manoeuvred. Pritchett had taught him a valuable lesson. Thankfully, Wallace wasn't watching.

King arrives in Selma then, hoping to goad Wallace into a reaction. He plans to march his movement from Selma across Edmund Pettus Bridge to Montgomery and claim the vote. Wallace, the angry troll, has no interest in letting them pass. The game of chess that ensues between them is truly mesmerising. This is in no small thanks to David Oyelowo, who in playing Martin Luther King perfectly captures the rhythm, cadence and intensity of those famous speeches. The Oscar Academy's failure to recognise his performance remains a travesty. I urge you not to make the same mistake.

Pride was a film I re-watched with my mum this week. I have to say it was my favourite film of 2014. Its ideas of community, solidarity and hope really spoke to me. The backdrop is the 1984 miners' strike, an industrial dispute over pit closures between the Tory Government and the National Union of Miners. Having read David Peace’s brilliant, 1984, I knew how cataclysmic the event was. A victory for the miners would mean embarrassment for the political classes – this could not happen. As the miners withdrew their labour, Thatcher’s government increased theirs, sending huge police numbers to suppress strikes and deliver victory to the government.

This is the context for Pride then. Although in the story of miners versus government, there was another significant faction: lesbians and gays.

The 1980’s was not a good time to be gay. With ignorance over AIDS, homosexuality wasn't seen as a sub-culture, it was seen as a threat. Fear over catching the ‘gay virus’ was epidemic in Britain. For gays though, the ire of homophobia proved equally frightening. Vilified by government, attacked by the press and abused by the police, they saw miners as kindred spirits. This led to a group of lesbians and gays coming out in support for striking families. News of this fundraising reaches the remote Welsh village, which creates friction as some of the locals aren't happy about where the money has come from - nor are they thrilled about plans to invite the group to personally thank them. This coming together of dyed-in-the-wool heterosexuals and dyed-in-the-hair homosexuals is the catalyst for this brilliant comedy.

Watching the sides go from suspicion to trust shows how possible diversity can be. The fact that this is shown with such sleight of hand is a credit to scriptwriter Stephen Beresford, who manages to make a film about class and sexual prejudice without sounding preachy. It really is a wonderful film, very much in the tradition of Billy Elliot and The Full Monty, but instead of enlightening you about one issue it informs you on two.

I now must talk about Viv Albertine’s book. I first remember hearing about it on The Culture Shows: Girls Will Be Girls. The programme documented the role women played in the 70’s punk movement, focusing on Chrissie Hynde, X-Ray Spex and The Slits. I was vaguely familiar with The Slits as I was once given a mix-tape with their cover of ‘I Heard It Through The Grapevine.’ What I didn’t know was how hard girls had to fight to have their voices heard in a genre of music designed to promote self-expression.

Albertine’s book is a must-read for anyone interested in punk (she was friends with Sid Vicious, dated Mick Jones of The Clash and regularly frequented the Kings Road shop, ‘Sex’- the fashion playground of Vivienne Westwood). Forget her connections though, Albertine is punk in her own right. Drugged on records from a young age, Albertine’s musical addiction took her from being unable to play an instrument at 18 to playing John Peel’s show at 19. The autobiography is sentimental about music but unsentimental about life, documenting the biological, verbal and physical abuses she went through to be a musician and mother. 

In experiencing these films and books, I'm reminded that punk didn't die in 1977; it endures in anyone who fights to be free.

Old Beginnings

This week I got a new job. After 18 months away from classroom teaching I have decided to return to it. 

Over the last 18 months I’ve made a living from education without doing any classroom teaching. I made this change to free up more time and energy to pursue stand-up comedy. I thought it was what I wanted. Prior to doing this, I would only gig in the school holidays, meaning over seven years I amassed just 50 gigs. I’ve now taken that number to over 300. So why am I giving up on my dream? My line-manager asked me this week if it was my girlfriend’s doing. Like she was Yoko Ono. The sub-text being: had she grown tired of our meals out being subsidized by Groupon? I would love to say that I’m sacrificing my dream to offer a concrete future to the woman I love, but that’s not the case. In fact, she’s been the one who has urged me to continue as long as I’m happy doing it. The truth is stand-up doesn’t make me happy. At least not performing it with the regularity I have.

I’ve had amazing experiences doing comedy. There have been gigs where I’ve experienced true transcendence: highs so high I’ve felt in danger of never coming down. I’m reminded of a gig in Luton where a heckler, Esmeralda, threatened to derail the whole night by talking loudly and persistently through the opening acts. It was only 8 o’clock and she was already hammered. She was only going to get worse, so I wasn’t in any way looking forward to going on. But then the MC challenged her discourtesy to which the audience, instead of sitting and saying nothing, applauded him; thus making her aware she was not wanted. Embarrassed, Esmeralda upped and left, returning to whatever fairytale kingdom her stupid name came from. The gig from that point on was wonderful. The other acts were brilliant, stripping the audience of any inhibitions. By the time I went on the crowd's reserve lay like knickers on the floor, all I had to do was jump on and ride those lungs to laughter town. Which I did over and over again. It was the most incredible feeling. Elated, I barely slept that night.

I've done this to people.

However, there have been time when I’ve failed completely to elicit any joy from an audience. Like a limp dick at an orgy, I’ve disappointed every fucker in the room. It is times like this when the stage feels a very lonely place. The trouble with my material, other than its questionable quality, is that it's narrative-driven. If the audience isn’t on board at the beginning, then it’s very unlikely they’re going to be on the train come the end. Consequently, a poor start usually means a 5-minute set can feel interminable. It’s not just the failure I find difficult to deal with; it’s the nerves. I always feel nervous before I go on stage, particularly when I do new material. Instead of recognising comedy is a process where failure begets success, I beat myself up and think the only thing I'm succeeding in is failing. This clearly isn't healthy.

I've done this to people.

The truth is I feel I’ve pushed my confidence as far as it can go. I know this isn’t what you would read in self-help books but there you go. Just over ten years ago, I left school with no confidence at all. I had gone through secondary education without saying a thing in class. I had confused my Catholic school for a monastery and thought it requisite to take a vow of silence. At university I fared little better: intimidated by students from the debating school classes, I said less. Leaving university I knew that I had to turn myself around; as a result I enrolled on a comedy course. This in turn led me to have the confidence to be a teacher. Comedy gave me the belief that I could stand in front of a group of apathetic teenagers and imbue in them a passion, an enthusiasm, at the very least, a begrudging respect for literature. Without that first foray into comedy, I would never have had the belief that I could lead, motivate and – dare I say - inspire.  I’ll always be grateful to comedy; it has taken me further as a person than the schoolboy me would ever have dreamed.

So yes, I’m returning to my old job, but I don’t see it as a step back; I see it as a return. Better to be a successful teacher than an unsuccessful comedian. If you want to be successful in something, then you have to have a passion for it. I love watching stand-up comedy but I haven’t enjoyed performing it of late. I have huge respect for the people who have the strength of character, dedication and natural charisma to make it; I have neither of those things. What I do have is a burning passion for language and I will do my utmost to impart this on young people. I’ve even been asked to start a stand-up group at my new school so maybe I’ll be responsible for helping inspire a new wave of comedians. 

Comedians who want it more than me.

Ryan is an honorable man of art so will fulfil his contractual obligations to promoters by appearing at their nights up until his last gig in June. If you want to see him unshackled from comedy as a career plan, then dates will follow soon on Facebook.