FriendsFest

Friends was the first sitcom that I ever got into. Up until the age of 12 I just watched what my parents watched: Dad’s Army, Only Fools and Horses and One Foot in The Grave. Classic comedies, but comedies that belonged to another time, another generation. Then, I got talking to my friend JP in an RE lesson and he recommended I give Friends a go. At this point it was on Channel 4 on a Sunday afternoon; I still remember the first episode I watched, The One After The Superbowl. Instantly I knew it was the comedy for me. 

Since I was teetering on adolescence the maturity of the material really appealed to me: the jokes about love and sex weren’t the stuff of Mrs Slocombe innuendo, laughing at rude words like a ten-year-old with a dictionary; instead they were sharp and whip-smart, the person I wanted to be. For a lad who attended a Catholic High School, the show was truly educational. I learnt more about sex through watching Friends than I ever did from my sex ed. class. (Sex education in a Catholic School is as follows: a husband and a wife want a baby, they therefore reluctantly engage in intercourse to beget said miracle. Enjoyment is off the menu. If you have a problem with that go to another restaurant, ask for the Devil, he'll happily cook you up some sin.)

The first episode I watched.

 From that first episode guest-starring Julia Roberts and Jean-Claude Van Damme, a love affair was born. Soon after I went down to my local MVC and bought the first seasons of Friends. This being the time of VHS the first season came in six separate video boxes. Ah, do you remember when the past used to be different and technology wasn’t the same? Here ends my Peter Kay stand up routine. Anyway, on getting the cassettes home with the help of Arnold Schwarzenegger and a wheelbarrow I went all 21^st century on their ass, binge watching the whole lot. Mumma said, “Don’t watch all of those at once, Ryan – you’ll be sick.” I didn’t heed her advice and proceeded to gorge myself silly, requesting seconds, thirds, twenty-fourths until the restauranteur closed the kitchen and told me to go home. (A lot of food analogies in this blog: I did go on a run this morning, so maybe that’s why I’m feeling famished, thinking food).

I now keep these cassettes under my pillow to protect me from burglars.

After I caught up with the seasons of Friends, I watched the new episodes when they came out on Channel 4 just like everybody else. I remember sitting with my family watching The One with Ross’s Wedding Part 2 and being left open mouthed by the denouement. At that time it was perfect programming, straddling the divide between comedy and drama quite beautifully. You really cared about all the characters, desperately wanting them to succeed and find happiness. In school the next day everyone was talking about Ross’s Freudian Slip (unaware of the pre-eminent psychiatrist, we didn’t call it this at the time. We probably called it a ‘fuck up.”) Are these bracketed digressions getting annoying yet? As Holden Caufield says in The Catcher in the Rye, 

The trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting and all. … Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don't like them to stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess I don't like it when somebody sticks to the point all the time. 

I guess what I’m saying is Friends was my generation's programme; it seemed like everyone watched it and everyone had a character they could relate to. I was Chandler, a man who only listened to conversations just so he could have the sarcastic last word. People often put my quietness down to attentiveness, really I’m just lying in wait ready to snipe you down.

Which one were you?

On the way home today The Girl warned me against all this. I said to her that I wanted to write the blog quite quickly as I had things to do tonight. She said, “Just talk about FriendsFest from the start. Don’t do your usual thing of waffling for a few pages before you get on to the actual thing you want to talk about, then realise you haven’t got anytime to talk about it.” Well, honey you know me to well. But at 31 it appears this man ain’t for turning.

Today, The Girl and I went to FriendsFest as part of her anniversary present. She is a Friends superfan who knows a lot more than me about the show. Before we moved in together she had a TV in her room, which was permanently set to E4. Many a night did she fall asleep to the show – the sparkling dialogue a lullaby mobile by her bed. It was therefore my pleasure to buy her a ticket to see her favourite show re-imagined in our own backyard.

Arriving at Knebworth House we were stunned to see the scale of the operation. We thought the organisers were dealing in hyperbole when they appended ‘Fest’  to the name, but it really was a mini-festival. On going on to the site we were presented with the taxicab that Phoebe drove in the series. To the right of us was a huge stage that was a highlight reel of great Friends moments. To the left of us stood Central Perk replete with fixtures and fittings. All around us were food outlets that paid homage to Joey Tribbiani’s insatiability. The whole thing looked great.

The main stage.

First, The Girl and I went to Central Perk for some picture opportunities. Unfortunately, the café wasn’t a fully functioning one, which meant our stay was limited to smash and grab IPhone snaps – the staff are on hand to do this for you, meaning there is no need for the dystopian selfie-stick or the unBritish task of asking a stranger for help. Playing in Central Perk was a Phoebe Buffay tribute act, Crystal Clear, who entertained us whilst we waited.

Open mic night was in session too.

Then, we moved on to The Diner. Friends fans will remember a hard-up Monica waitressing in the themed 50’s restaurant in series 2. Just as we were tucking into our food the opening bars to YMCA blared out, precipitating the waiting staff to burst into song and dance a la Monica in The One with all the Bullies. It wasn’t long before the staff were tearing through the crowd and getting people to join in with the camp classic. By the end a conga line even formed snaking the site, much to everyone’s amusement.

The diner staff.

Next, we had a look in at a silent disco. Both of us assumed this would just be a place to shake off the rain by throwing some shapes; we didn’t think it would be Friends related. After collecting our headphones we were instructed through the choreographed dance routine that Monica and Ross do in The One with the Routine. It wasn’t long before our dance coaches saw my “10 from Len” dancing and recruited me to judge the other dancers. Free from the restraints of the working week I was in a good mood, which meant I celebrated all performances regardless of ability. When you’re as a good dancer as I am, it’s unfair to have unreasonable expectations of other people. Not everyone was born with Sri Lankan rhythm so it isn't fair to criticise.

I went out as a two left feet dancer and came out as a professional judge.

Following this, the pair of us went to Chandler and Joey’s apartment for some La-Z-Boy chair action. Also, a gargantuan game of foosball ensued, eventually concluding in a 10-6 victory to me. Having twirled our fingers to breaking point, we were in need of liquid refreshment. The Girl bought me a ‘Pivot’ cocktail, which appeared to have enough rum to sink a pirate ship. She opted for a ‘Bing-a-ling’ that induced in her a Bill Murray back catalogue of sarcasm. Over the years I’ve grown less sarcastic, The Girl on the other hand has taken over Chandler’s mantle.

At 2.50 we were booked into see Monica and Rachel’s apartment. This is the only thing that involved queuing, and even then it was only 15 minutes. All the time you’re waiting there are quizzes and games going on on the main stage, meaning you’re never bored. We then reenacted the title sequence with accompanying umbrellas before being moved through the apartment where we were photoed in the living room, kitchen and front door.

The apartment.

Overall, it was a lovely experience befitting of a programme that touched millions. Most of the people that attended were our age, the generation that the show meant so much to. However, there were also younger fans; in fact one of the winners of the main stage quiz was a 15-year-old girl. It appears that with Comedy Central recycling the shows a new generation of fans is enjoying the sitcom that spawned a haircut. I haven’t seen an episode of Friends for years, but you know what? I’m going to go back and watch some old ones again. I bet you they withstand the test of time.

* The bet is based on Season 1-8. I’m not even sure Season 9-10 withstood the test of their own time.

FriendsFest is now sold out. Capitalism being as it is, it will probably be back.

Last Chance U

In England football is an obsession; in America it is life itself. 111.9 million people watched this year’s Superbowl 50. Coldplay, the world’s biggest band, performed its half-time show. 30-second advertisements cost companies $4.5 million. With games regularly played at Wembley the reach of the sport is expanding. No longer can people deride the game as particular to America. America may own the rights, but they are leasing out the franchise to viewers all round the world.

When I lived in a flat with my brother and his mates Sunday was often given over to football: the British kind during the day and the American variety at night. Ever the studious teacher I would excuse myself from the evening session to devote time to planning and marking. On the frequent occasion I did take a break though, I would enter the living room and watch parts of the game. Despite never becoming hooked, I could appreciate the interest. For a start, the thing is a spectacle. No one does razzmatazz like ol’ Uncle Sam. The fireworks, marching bands and cheerleaders make an event out of the sport, ensuring a carnival whatever the score. Further, it has an exuberance that is utterly infectious. Tackles are cheered like ceasefires, touchdowns like armistices and victories like homecoming parades. Raised on Hip Hop culture, these players don’t hide their successes; they flaunt them like bling bling chains. In the oxymoron world of soccer personality, the American game has character and characters in abundance. If only there weren’t quite so many stoppages, I could easily fall for it.

The U in USA doesn't stand for understatement.

Just as football is predominately played by working-class men, American football is too. America’s wealth gap is so great that football is seen as one of few legitimate routes out of poverty. With that in mind high school and college football are big deals in America. The campus, alumni and community turn out in force to cheer their team, aware that they may be seeing the stars of tomorrow. Given America’s geography, it isn’t always possible or affordable to see state teams; therefore local school and college teams are seen as the next best thing. Just as the big league has bands, cheerleaders, mascots, and chilli dog vendors so too do the minor ones. If anything the atmosphere is more fervent because the players are attached to the people in attendance. As a result, they don’t carry the weight of the nation on their shoulders; they carry something much worse: the weight of their own world. If they lose there is no hiding place: they’ll see their supporters in class tomorrow. A victory though will ensure a canteen queue jump, ensuring celebrity for another week.

This is the context for Netflix’s Last Chance U, a documentary that follows East Mississippi Community College over a season. Situated in Scooba, local population 782, the football team is something of a phenomenon. In spite of their small town status, the team has won the national championship three out of the last five seasons. The key to their success? They recruit talented cast-offs from the upper echelons of the game; players that would have had a foot in the NFL (National Football League) if it wasn’t for having a punch in a rival. These are young men of unquestionable talent but questionable discipline. Coming to EMCC then is a step down, a chance to reform their character and re-find their game, and in coach Buddy Stephens they have a tough love enthusiast AKA 'their best way back.'

Scooba: a dive. (Sorry the pun was there for the taking.)

In many ways this isn’t a documentary about football, rather a meditation on teaching and whether young men will accept the lessons they’re taught. Born into violent homes the boys’ only experience of conflict-resolution is seeing someone reach for a gun. For example, Ronald Ollie, a defender, witnessed his mother being killed following a domestic argument with his father. The ensuing police chase ended when his father used the murder weapon to commit suicide. Another volatile player DJ Law spent much of his childhood without a positive role model due to his father’s incarceration. Their boasts of fighting and debauchery give the impression of manliness, but fundamentally these are lost boys. They need to grow up quick, otherwise they risk the Peter Pan fate of arrested development.

The people tasked with helping them grow up are Ms Wagner and Buddy Stephens. Ms Wagner as academic advisor has the job of getting the boys through their education programmes. In America all students are expected to graduate with qualifications. Failure to obtain the grades jeopardises the players’ chance of advancing in their sport. The trouble is these kids were built for sporting endurance, not academic rigour. Their high school education was not their number one priority, meaning they probably spent more time with headmasters than teachers. It falls on her to inspire these men to fill their heads, that is before they have it knocked out of them on game day. Wagner is warm, passionate and dedicated – if anything too dedicated. Every time one of her charges skips class, she feels responsible. Acutely aware that these boys will fall through the cracks if she’s not careful, she runs quasi-revision, counselling and social services from her office.

Ms Wagner.

Buddy Stephens is an altogether different proposition. A bad cop to Ms Wagner’s good one. He is a swearing machine powered by perfectionism. A man of advancing gut, he is a visceral agent of spleen and aggression. His after-dinner talks at the rotary club merely a refined front to hide his maniacal impulses. Stephens, a family man, is capable of being a loving father, yet he has it within him to be a vengeful one too, raining fire and brimstone curses on his footballing creations. By the end of the documentary you’ll wonder whether the indiscipline of the players is down to nurture or Stephens’ “I’ll kick you in the fucking ass’ nature.

Coach Stephens.

Last Chance U is a very special documentary, Netflix’s best since Making A Murderer. It makes the case for second chances, making you aware of where the cycle of indiscipline comes from. This knowledge will mean you will root for the boys whilst feeling pissed with them. As a teacher the show really resonated with me. It is so frustrating to see people absolve themselves from responsibility by withdrawing from education, believing wrongly that this is a lesser evil than trying and failing. Seeing the boys’ pride trip them up at every turn is heartbreakingly depressing and shows how masculinity has a lot to answer for.

Dreams, masculinity, nature/nurture. It might say sports documentary on the synopsis, but it is so much more than that. In giving this recommendation I’ve thrown you the ball, it's now down to you to catch it.

Last Chance U is on Netflix

Motherland

Over the past few weeks I’ve watched nothing but comedy on the telly. This is because the BBC are celebrating the sitcom to mark 60 years since their first – Hancock’s Half Hour – appeared on the box all those years ago.

Out of the five new sitcom pilots the broadcaster aired, I’m going to talk about one in detail; before that, I’ll take you through the merits and failings of the others I've watched.

The Coopers Vs The Rest

This contemporary comedy is retrogressive in that its situation has been done many times before. The family sitcom has been a staple of the BBC over the years with 2point4 children, My Family and Outnumbered proving ratings hits. This one though has been updated slightly to reflect the changing face of families in Britain: where previous sitcoms featured white middle-class families, this centres on a mixed-race couple and their adopted children.

The sitcom reminded me a lot of my own failure in writing comedy. One of the things that stopped me from being a good stand-up was my preoccupation with punch-lines. A comedian that doesn’t concern themselves with punch-lines sounds counter-intuitive, but it’s true that the best comics let character and situation drive their jokes rather than the other way round. The Coopers Vs The Rest is if anything too well written, making the words that come out of the characters mouths appear artificial and dishonest. Indeed so scripted is this comedy it feels like more like the children were adopted by Oscar Wilde and Mae West than Tess and Toby Cooper. It isn’t until the 2^nd half of the episode when the mother Tess picks up the wrong child from a party that the laughs truly come.

For me, The Coopers Vs The Rest was a textbook lesson in how character, not jokes, drive sitcoms.

Home From Home

This was another family sitcom that would fit more comfortably in BBC One than Two. Here, Johnny Vegas (Ideal) and Joanne Page (Gavin and Stacy) are a couple that relocate their family to the Lake District to seek a better way of life. However in escaping the rat race, Vegas’ Neil finds a new struggle: competing with the neighbours next door. The old lodge Neil’s family owns is at the bottom of the site, whereas the Dillons’ rarefied one sits at the top. Can anyone see a metaphor?

The class-clash is unremarkable, but cheerily easy-going, showcasing as it does Vegas’ and Page’s every(wo)man charm. To compare it to The Coopers, I would say the jokes aren’t as smart, yet their believability make for a better sitcom.

Our Ex-Wife

This pilot was penned by sometime Simpsons writer Julie Scully. Despite her pedigree in family sitcom, this is an altogether different breed. Jack and Sara are every bit the happy couple, apart from one thing: Jack’s ex-wife. Hilary is a thorn in Jack’s side and one that he is desperate to keep Sara from. Sara, a sweet-natured American pie, is naïve to villainy and demands to meet her. The ensuing Sunday Roast ends in an acid rain of taunts and insults between the divorced couple, making it a cautionary be careful what you wish for tale. I liked this one more than reviewers did, although I agree all the bad feeling is a little much to sustain a season.

We The Jury

I had huge hopes for this comedy because it is written by one of my favourite comics, James Acaster. I first saw James Acaster in a three-hander (3 acts doing 20 minutes) at Edinburgh in 2010. Since then he’s gone on to become the ‘bridesmaid of comedy,’ being nominated for the main Edinburgh award five times without securing the victory. He is undoubtedly one of the finest comedians of his generation, fashioning high-concept narrative out of life's minutiae.

In his 2015 show Represent Acaster distilled his time doing jury service into a dizzying hour of stand-up comedy. Just as Waller-Bridge did with Fleabag, he’s transposed elements of his stage show into the sitcom format. The episode begins with William securing his life-long dream of serving in a jury. From the way he talks about jury service – distinction, honour, justice – you get the sense that William sees himself and his jurors as knights of the round table, sacrificing their lives to uphold the values of the court.

The premise is great – there aren’t many courtroom comedies; the execution isn’t half bad either. Ed Easton excellently conveys William’s puppy dog enthusiasm, and there is terrific support from the excellent Diane Morgan (Philomena Cunk) and Oliver Maltman (Mike Leigh’s Another Year). If anything I would have liked the comedy to be more eccentric, as in its best moments it reads like Green Wing and in its worst, Bad Education. I don’t dislike Whitehall but Acaster is a far better writer; given the chance to grow a sitcom we could see something very special. 

Motherland

This was my favourite sitcom. All the other sitcoms are in a period of gestation, whereas this one has come out fully formed, a beautiful laughing baby if you will. The success of the pilot owes much to the experience of the people behind it: Graham Linehan , the Godfather of sitcom (Father Ted, IT Crowd, Black Books) has penned this with his wife, Helen, along with Sharon Horgan (Pulling, Dead Boss and Catastrophe) and her writing partner, Holly Walsh. With all those comedies between them, is it any wonder this is the best offering.

I’m not going to lie, I don’t know much of Linehan’s work – I’ve watched a few episodes of Father Ted and Black Books, but I’m no expert. Horgan, on the other hand, is the sitcom writer of the moment: the success of Catastrophe has catapulted her into American consciousness, so much so she is about to have her HBO comedy Divorce air in October. For me, Catastrophe is the best sitcom of the last five years, uproariously skewering modern romance with brilliantly filthy jokes. Its second series looked at the impact of children on a relationship and probably formed the inspiration for this pilot.

Motherland is a joy from its very opening scene. Julia, a mother who supposedly has it all, has to try and maintain a coherent work call whilst attending to her wailing backstreet progeny, at the same time as keeping her eyes on the road. With sleeping policeman and temporary traffic lights coming between her and her goal of getting the kids to registration on time, the school run feels less like a routine journey and more like a mental breakdown. On arriving she is surprised to see no one at the school, a member of staff enquires whether she forgot it was the school holidays. To admit her mistake would be to damn her as a woman who hasn’t got her shit together, instead she lies saying the kids are dressed for a back to school party and she’s just come to report bullying to the headmaster – in the world of Motherland making a false allegation against a child ‘tormentor’ is better than admitting you’re too tired to know one day from the next.

Realising she is saddled with her children for the day, Julia tries to find solace in the mothers at the local café. Unfortunately, these matriarchs are headed by Amanda, who as a full-time mum makes a job out of telling Julia how she admires working mums but could never put work before children. Although the women have outgrown their school uniforms, this is very much Mean Girl territory with ‘the plastics’ organising social gatherings away from the less popular mums. One such character is Liz, brilliantly played by Diana Morgan, who unlike Julia couldn’t give less out of a shit out of hanging with the ‘IT crowd.’

Liz and Julia

Unlike Julia, Liz is unburdened by the pressures of motherhood. Maybe her very working-classness stops her from seeing parenting as a competition. I might be being reductive, but does the target driven arena of white-collar work make the middle classes more likely to take that mindset into child-raising? In this comedy it certainly seems this way.

Whatever the class of the parent I’m full of admiration for them. Whether it’s doing your best to sustain your position as Queen Bee or trying to organise childcare, the whole thing seems bloody exhausting. I would like to be a parent one day, but for the meantime I’m just happy to watch it – with that in mind, Commissioning Editor could we have some more Motherland please? 

All of the comedies are on BBC iPlayer