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   

Sing Street

“Rock 'n' roll is a risk. You risk being ridiculed.”

(Brendan, Sing Street)

In a previous blog I wrote about my musical awakening coming later than most, at university as opposed to school. How I wished Morrissey and Cocker were there in adolescence, spirit guides to carry me through those turbulent days. It would have been succour to come back from nightclubs, empty-kissed once more and play ‘How Soon is Now.’ It would have been comforting to have ‘Misshapes’ tell me that my time would come. Music then is a salvation, a life raft to survive life’s choppy waters. But it so much more: it is the rudder steering you towards unknown lands, to people and experiences you’ve hitherto encountered. In listening to The Smiths I discovered the literature of the Kitchen Sink; Cocker made me pick up Educating Rita; Alex Turner introduced me to John Cooper Clarke. In meeting these friends I found others and my life is all the better for it.

Where was the spindly songsmith when I needed him.

John Carney, the writer and director of Sing Street, is enthral to rock 'n’ roll. He was a bassist in a mildly successful band and directed music videos early on his career. His past three films have all used songs as a part of their narrative. Once, that has since been translated into a smash-hit musical, follows the burgeoning relationship between an Irish busker and Czech single mum. Its success meant Carney could attract Mark Ruffalo and Keira Knightley to the lead roles of faded record producer and aspiring singer respectively. Begin Again received good reviews but Carney recently expressed reservations about it’s quality, blaming Keira Knightley for being too guarded with her performance. He has subsequently apologised for these comments, admitting that he was circumventing personal failings by blaming her. Perhaps aware that the bigger budget of a New York setting with Hollywood actors was not for him, Carney has returned to Dublin with Sing Street, a film that combines the indie of his first film with the sheen of his second.

Something tells me that Knightley isn't going to be to Carney what Depp is for Burton.

Sing Street is a film about escape. The Lalor family that our protagonist Conor belongs to is in ruins. His parents marriage is on the rock, so too their personal finances. With the Celtic Tiger yet to roar, this is a depressed Ireland where families must adopt their own austerity budget or face sinking into depression. A victim of the cuts is Conor, who is 'downgraded' from private school to Catholic state school. Fans of The Inbetweeners will recognise how difficult the early transition is for a private schoolboy attending a comprehensive, so it proves for Conor. He longs to escape the bullying and torment of the school's iron rule.

Step forward Conor’s brother, Brendan. Brendan (Jack Raynor) is the living, breathing embodiment of rock n’ roll. He has the tall, lumbering presence, the long hair, the cut jeans, a disdain for bullshit and a willingness to stand up to their domineering father. The only thing stopping this great oak from being an axe man in a band is his predilection for hash, which fells him at every turn. Aware his brother needs saving, he takes it upon himself to be the High Priest of Rock N Roll, delivering sermons on Duran Duran’s musicianship and video artistry whilst the two watch Top of The Pops. Enraptured by his brother’s passion, Conor accepts the word and internally agrees to join the flock. On leaving school one day he sees a girl on an opposite stairwell. He enquires to a friend about her backstory and is told that she’s a closed book and won’t open for the lads of this school. Conor still carrying the confidence of private education saunters over and uncovers that she’s a model with aspirations to go to London. With all the blarney of the Irish, he manages to persuade her to be in his music video – the problem? he doesn’t have a band, a song or a camera to create said video. Conor’s response: recruit a group of soldiers to spearhead a musical assault on Raphina’s fortified heart.

Where there's a song there's a girl.

People familiar with HBO’s Flight of the Concords will find much to enjoy about the band’s approach to video production. They do not have the finances to create the visual high gloss of Rio, but they do have the fearless imagination of children, which allows them to shine against the shit of their dreary locations. Carney’s direction of these pop videos is so charming and could only be done by someone who knows the conventions of them. The reason these videos are so perfect is because Carney revels in the imperfection: the band are shown knocking into mic stands, putting them too far away, fighting over them - all mistakes people would make if they were recording for the first time. Despite the humour inherent in this amateurism, the song sounds great with the band channeling Siouxsie & The Banshees and Dead or Alive to exhilarating effect.

I guess what I’m saying is however ridiculous Conor’s band Sing Street look, he never ridicules them. They are heroes because they refuse to conform. When the Catholic brother throws the book at Conor’s appearance, he throws it back; he will not be kowtowed. In fact, a delightful motif that runs throughout the film is how Conor’s musical influences inspires his look. When he watches Spandeau Ballet on Top of the Pops, he comes in the next day with an impossible scarf, stretching tip to toe. On being introduced by his brother to The Cure, it isn’t long before Conor's conventional mop resembles the singer's explosion in a hair factory. All these little details are so wonderfully observed and show a love that isn’t always evident in filmmaking.

The band inspired by The Cure

By the end of the film I was left feeling quite overwhelmed by the care and attention that had gone into the story. I’ve since learnt the last song of the film isn’t a Carney one (he, along with collaborators, wrote all of the fictional band’s music); it's an Adam Levine one. Maroon 5 singer Levine had been in Carney’s last film, Begin Again, who obviously saw something in him I've been unable to. Maroon 5 have always seemed too impossibly attractive to really care about music – more interested in the sound of cash registers than their own output. Here though in the closing scene of the film, Carney entrusts a multi-millionaire with the closing notes on a small, independent film. What Levine delivers is tender, sweet and remarkably, for a man who has moves like Jagger, understated. It has the momentum of ‘Born to Run’ without the bombast, encapsulating the theme of escape with the rising refrain of ‘You’re never going to go, if you don’t go now.’ Alongside the pictures, the whole thing is just perfect.

As the credits came up I sensed that everyone around me was as moved. I for one tried to stem the flow of tears, but in the face of beauty resistance is futile- just let the rain fall. What a lovely film. 

Sing Street is still available in some cinemas.

Summer Holiday

We're all going on a summer holiday
No more working for a week or two
Fun and laughter on our summer holiday
No more worries for me or you
For a week or two

We're going where the sun shines brightly
We're going where the sea is blue
We've seen it in the movies
Now let's see if it's true

(Cliff Richard, 'Summer Holiday.')

Elvis had nothing on Cliff.

People go on holiday for a multitude of reasons.

For some it’s a chance to experience something new. For others it’s the opportunity to see some sun. For some it’s the ability to put your feet up whilst others take the strain. For many it’s a combination of all three.

Up until this point, holidays for me have been something of an obligation, a task to do rather than an experience to enjoy. I acknowledge that travel does broaden the mind: that in seeing something new, in trying a new dish, in hearing a different language you become less insular, more aware of the world around you, enriched as a result.

For all of that though, if I was to fill in a ‘what celebrity traveller are you?’ questionnaire on Facebook, my match would more likely be Karl Pilkington than Michael Palin. Like an injection in the arm, I appreciate being abroad is good for me but that doesn’t mean I want to look at it. I think I feel this way because foreign retreats in the past have been limited to weekend breaks, meaning these holidays often feel less like a break from the daily grind and more like a tiring treasure hunt to find an attraction before the time runs out.

This holiday to the South of France though was going to be a week long, which meant we could combine some poolside reading with some cultural sightseeing. I said last week I needed to read more and hopefully the little book reviews showed I made a good fist of it. Here's what happened over the whole week:

Un Jour

The journey to Durban Corbieres wasn’t as easy as we hoped. On boarding our already delayed flight we were told we would face further delays due to one cabin crew member going sick and another being replaced because they had gone over their allotted hours. These delays really got people’s goat, particularly parents who were having to quell the distemper of their children. In my opinion they weren’t great at placating their young ones though: instead of bouncing their babies up and down the aisles to stop their tears, they should have just explained rationally that workers rights are important, that a civilised country has labour laws to protect its workers from sickness and excessive hours, that one day when they grow up they might need this protection – I’m sure if the little‘uns heard this they would recognise the selfishness of their tantrums and sit quietly.

Anyway, we did get up in the sky and arrived just a few hours late. With The Girl’s parents there to pick us up, we could finally make our way to the villa. However, on heading south we ran into traffic – correction: we crawled into it. The tailback was miles long. The family succumbed to playing ‘Connections’: an invented game that involved a question master setting four words with the competitors having to guess a connection. It was a real brainteaser and made me appreciate how far my car journey intelligence has grown since the days of ‘I Spy.’

After we passed the scene of the accident, the road turned a new leaf, growing more kind, achieving forgiveness by offering its lanes in way of penance. Arriving four hours later than expected, we toasted our stay with water before heading to bed.

Book started: Jon Ronson, So You’ve been Publicly Shamed.

Deux Jour

Making a mockery of morning, we awoke late to catch the afternoon. Wanting to get a feel of the place, we made our way down to the local supermarket where we were introduced to the store manager: a lovely retailer that made it her business to talk kindly to locals and tourists alike.

In the afternoon I oscillated between the sun lounger, fridge and pool. It was a hard job but someone had to do it.

In the evening we played cards where I learnt for the first time how to play poker. Poker is traditionally a game played by men smoking cigars in old movies, and lads speaking misogyny in new ones, so I was unsure if it was the right game for me. I’m pleased to say that I enjoyed it; I mean I lost with a regularity that was unhealthy, but I learnt that losing matches could be an activity enjoyed by all men, even those that respected women.

Book finished: Jon Ronson, So You’ve been Publicly Shamed.

Pitchfork Review: 8.5678/10

Waterstones Review: A thoughtful meditation on how the current trend to punish people for their online aberrations is unjust and disproportionate.

Book finished: Anita Loos, Some Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

Pitchfork review: 8.2345/10

Waterstones Review: The Marilyn Monroe film made the title famous, but the book deserves equal acclaim, achieving as it does a laugh at every turn.

Trois Jour

This was the day the volleyball net came up for the first time.

Before our holiday volleyball was a sport that I only thought about every four years, where for a few seconds my eyes glaze over the coverage before turning over to a more interesting sport. However by the end of my first game, volleyball would become an addiction, an obsession that would consume every waking hour of my life. Why can’t I be consistent on my first serve? Should I opt for power or precision? How do I hold onto my number one villa ranking? Do I stick to the self-coaching that got me here or do I bring in an ex-pro to maintain my position?

The gladiatorial arena.

Book finished: Simon Rich, Spoiled Brats

Pitchfork review: 7.456/10

Waterstones review: There are some real humdingers in this short story collection, but there are some that pass you by too. Rich's Last Girlfriend on Earth has a better hit rate.

Book started: Lisa McInerney, Glorious Heresies

Quatre Jour

AM; Practised my volleyball serve.

PM; Practised my volleyball serve.

Book finished: Lisa McInerney, Glorious Heresies

Pitchfork review: 7.863/10

Waterstones review: A crude lyrical trawl through the forgotten streets of Ireland. Fans of Irvine Welsh will lap this up.

Cinq Jour

This was the day I was most looking forward to on our holiday. The Girl’s parents had booked two activities for us: a morning one, which involved wine tasting; and an evening one, which involved having dinner to the sound of 60’s cover band, The Oldies. The idea of seeing some wizened Frenchmen covering the songs of young British men sounded like a juxtaposition to my ears – I couldn’t wait to see the incongruity in action. But first to the wine tasting.

I’ve never been wine tasting; my only experience of it is watching Sideways, the first film that I saw with The Girl. The story follows two friends, Miles and Jack, as they journey around Californian vineyards. For Miles, an oenophile, wine is an artefact that the nose must dig to uncover the mysteries of time, climate and process. For Jack, a layman, it is something to swallow whole. Their contrasts aren’t just confined to attitudes to wine; they’re also very different personalities: Miles being the glass half-empty pessimist and Jack, the glass half-full optimist. In one choice moment, Miles gets so annoyed with a sommelier’s stingy measurement he snags a bottle from behind the counter and downs it right in front of him, much to the chagrin of other tasters. I hoped such an outburst wouldn’t happen to me – I had potential in-laws in tow and couldn't afford to create such a scene.

How not to behave.

Terra Vinea was just twenty-minute drive from our residence. Here, in an old gypsum mine we were taught all we needed to know about wine manufacturer. The reason why our classroom was the cave and not the fields is because this is where the Rochere wine is stored. It is a significant holding area as formally the men of the region would work down the mine in the morning, recovering the material used for plaster; then make their way to the fields in the afternoon, tending the grape for wine manufacturer. The tour ended with a tasting, where we given the opportunity to sample a red, white, rose and aperitif. Fortunately, I didn’t have a social breakdown a la Miles, meaning should I ever go to Vinea again there won’t be a picture of me behind the bar, titled ‘Non Servir.’

The cave of forgotten dreams.

In the evening we headed out for an al fresco supper. Out in the open air a stage was set up for Corbieres answer to The Rolling Stones. Normally, when you eat out Jazz is the restaurateur’s music of choice. It takes a bold business owner to pair mouthwatering dishes with guitar licks. Fortunately, it proved to be an inspired choice.

Rock is the sound of rebellion. Of sticking it to the man. Of rejecting the status quo. Therefore in the spirit of rock n’ roll the band started the evening playing quietly, afraid that by playing loud they would upset the customers. By the end of the evening things changed. With peoples bellies sated with dessert, they were now hungry for something else. The middle-aged diners wanted nostalgia, and with big spoons primed they were ready to eat it up. Detecting a sea change in the crowd, dials on amps shifted from 1 to 11. 

For those about to rock.

In the first half, The Oldies had visited flower power, trotting out The Trogg’s Love is All Around; by the second, however, they channeled the dark side of the spoon, reeling out The Rolling Stones’ Jumpin’ Jack Flash and The Who’s Won’t Get Fooled Again. The band were in their element. The guitarist pulled the kind of faces usually reserved for fornication. The sunglassed singer enunciated English like his vie depended on it. The bassist stood up (for the previous hour he had sat on the amp). And the drummer, formally hidden from view like a Magdalene pregnancy, went full on Ringo and sang a song for himself. By the end The Oldies had drunk the elixir of rock and in doing so reclaimed their youth.

Book started: Anne Enright, The Gathering

Six jour

Today, we went to Carcassone, which has been made famous by Kate Mosse’s (no not that one) bestselling books. Carcassone is a fortified French town that fell in ruins the 18^th century before being re-imagined by the French architect, Viollet-Le-Duc. It was of strategic importance because it was near something but became less important due to something. (I should have paid more attention to be honest).

Lord Farquaad allowed us in.

In the afternoon we went to see Chevalrie, a show that promised medieval jousting – and pole dancing. A story in French unfolded that seemed to pit the rampaging King against a band of local heroes- at least that’s what I think was happening. Whatever the narrative the horsemanship was mightily impressive, encompassing dainty dressage and acrobatic tricks into the bewildering production. As for the pole dancing: that appeared in the middle; I don’t think it was integral to the plot, but was appreciated nonetheless.

Crash. Bang. Wallop.

Book finished: Anne Enright, The Gathering

Pitchfork review: 6.842/10

Waterstones review: A deliberately messy book dealing as it does with a messy subject. A well-written Booker winner but one that's tough on the stomach.

Sept Jour

The Girl was nearly forced to pull out of the volleyball tournament, citing two lost toenails. Gamely, she soldiered on. Respecting her strength as a competitor, I preyed on this weakness, smashing the ball again and again towards her injured foot. Some would define this as unsporting, I would argue that I was demonstrating the ruthlessness required to get to the top of swimming pool volleyball. Hey, as they say in water volleyball circles: ‘Compassion has no place in the water.’

Book started: Ali Smith, Girl Meets Boy

Book gave up on: Ali Smith, Girls Meets Boy.

Book started: Peter Mayle, A Year in Provence

Huit Jour

Our last day. Today, we went to Gruissan, an old port town that is caught between two stools: elegance and tackiness. In a café we were given our coffees in half pint glasses, a move that either suggested entrepreneurial quirkiness or Del Boy 'job lot' foolishness. We then walked round the harbour to look for somewhere to eat. Everywhere we looked seemed to have ‘Frites et Moules’ on the board. When we arrived at our restaurant, I knew what to do.

What arrived at the table were a few more muscles than I expected. I had never tasted muscles before; I just wanted to give the cuisine one last kiss before I left for Blighty’s bland arms. Now what I write next will have to be amusing. When you’re taken out for a meal it’s discourteous to subsequently disparage it. I’m now going to skewer this meal and hope my good charm means I can get away with it. You can see on the below picture the amount of muscles I had to endure. On the left were the ones I had to eat. On the right are the ones I ate. This picture serves as a visual metaphor for how far my politeness will stretch. I can now quantify my politeness as 67 muscles. 

Man Vs muscles.

I knew after the 5^th muscle that I couldn’t eat any more of them, but I knew to stop would be rude to the restaurant, The Girl’s family and the nation. Given Britain have just postponed a deal on a French-funded nuclear power station, I knew now would not be a good time to exacerbate Anglo-French relations by pulling out on my agreement with French food. So I soldiered on for etiquette and manners; for the Queen and the Republic; for my own reputation with The Girl’s family. Initially, I sunk them like battleships, thinking the sooner I rid myself of the pox, the happier my health would be. But it was tough. It was like casting my mouth out to the sea and catching the worst parts of the ocean. To all extents and purposes, it tasted of drowning. I hope should The Girl’s parents read this that the metaphors and similes will be good enough to gain their forgiveness for this my impropriety – people will forgive anything if you make them laugh.

So we went home flying over the waters. The thunder and lightning made it a rocky ride. I prayed we wouldn't crash down into the great blue. I’d tasted the ocean once today; a repeat would be mighty unfair.

Book read: Nick Hornby, Funny Girl

Pitchfork review: 8.348/10

Waterstones review: So far up my street I can look over the fence and wave to it. Hornby's comedy about an aspiring comedienne is a warm, witty winner.