Stranger Things

So this blog has reached its century: a miraculous achievement in the cut-throat industry of amateur writing I'm sure you'll agree. Even though I’m obviously humbled by my success, I think it’s important to take time to remember other unsuccessful blogs that, unlike mine, didn't last the distance. Blogs like Eczema: My Struggle, a wryly written account of life with dry skin; The Toothpaste Diaries, a photo gallery by an Alcatraz inmate documenting the effects of oral hygiene; and my favourite, Paw: a blog established by dog owner, Esmerelda Jimjam, to display the writing talents of her dog, Floppy – famed entries included ‘ajsjfkfnkndfkdfndfnkfnfkndfkdfnknkdfnkdfn’ and ‘kisdidsdndfnfkndfkndfkndskndsknds.’ 

So I appreciate how in a highly competitive market you’ve stood by me by liking, sharing and trolling this blog. Without your support, a readership, this blog would be a diary- something that is far less cool. So thank you.

 Voice of Reason: Well that above paragraph was sarcastic. If this is your 100^th blog, shouldn’t you take a more celebratory tone, possibly extend a hand out to new readers who might be drawn in by this new edition?

Voice of Sarcasm: Why would anyone new read this?

Voice of Reason: Because it’s now 100. People love that number. Cricketers. Telegram enthusiasts. Broadcasters who want to fill hours of their schedule by producing countdown lists of the best thing ever. No one cares about the 99^th one, but with the 100^th one you had a golden opportunity to hook some new readers; an opportunity you've squandered by doing an ironic paragraph at the top.

Voice of Sarcasm: If people are reading this, just because it’s the 100^th one, then I’m glad I’ve alienated them. This blog is for the 6 people who were there when I wrote about Grayson Perry’s art exhibition. It’s for the die-hards, the completists, the people who read when they know it makes more sense not to.

Voice of Reason: This is the very thing your girlfriend tells you not to do: ramble at the top. Just talk about the thing you said you were going to talk about.

Voice of Sarcasm: Fine.

Voice of Reason: So, you’ll start now?

Voice of Sarcasm: Yes.

Voice of Reason: Well, that was easier than I thought.

Voice of Sarcasm: Deep down I want approval, so I don’t want this bit to be so protracted that I lose people. I guess the sarcastic opener was just an insecure way of trying to prove that I wasn’t like other blogs who indulgently write about topics no one cares about.

Voice of Reason: And spending an hour of your three hour writing time doing a back and forth between the voices in your head isn’t self-indulgent?

Voice of Sarcasm: I thought I was meant to be the sarcastic one.

Voice of Reason: Just get started.

Voice of Sarcasm: Ok.

This week my interests seem to have converged on the topic of monsters and alternate universes. Earlier in the week I read Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean At The End Of The Lane, a story about a young boy accidentally releasing powers from another dimension. As fantasy is rarely my bag, I was hesitant about venturing into this parallel universe, but because of the book's plaudits I felt it was a foray worth taking. Ultimately I found the book to be a good read, if a little loosely plotted. (Gaiman originally conceived the idea as a short story, however it morphed into something bigger.) Despite my reservations, it was good to get out of my comfort zone (‘coming of age’ novels) and read something fantastical and unbelievable.

After finishing the book I turned to The Girl and said, ‘Do you fancy watching Stranger Things?’ You might remember me in an earlier blog describing The Girl’s fear whilst watching Charlier Brooker’s Black Mirror- how she conspicuously went to brush her teeth during the scary bits- so I didn’t hold much hope of her saying ‘yes.’ Fearing her rejection, I lined up a series of arguments to win her round: "it has Winona Ryder in; it is up for Golden Globes; it was in The Guardian’s Top 10 shows of 2016; it’s one of Netlix’s most watched shows; my friends from work are talking about it and if I don’t watch I’ll feel left out …" Knowing me too well, she probably guessed that I had a case file of reasons prepared, and therefore thought it easier to throw out the case by immediately saying, "yes, go on then." By the end of the first episode, she was the one suggesting we extend our bed time to allow for another one.

Stranger Things is set in 1980’s Hawkins, Indiana. The timing is significant. Remember Back to The Future fans the scene where Marty’s dad confuses Marty for an alien from outer space? Well, this incident served as a metaphor for a sci-fi obsessed decade: a time when Spielberg and Carpenter films occupied the multiplex; Dungeons and Dragons littered table tops and Stephen Kings piled bedsides. The world was enraptured – fearful – of these imaginative lands, so when something out of the ordinary happened holding supernatural forces responsible wasn’t so far-fetched. Teenagers- like Marty’s dad- in particular were impressionable to the fantasy they were consuming, making them advocates of sci-fi in a way more cynical adults weren’t.

Marty crash lands into the past.

Stranger Things begins with a group of children playing their fantasy role play game, desperate to role a 13 (In Dungeon and Dragons I’m guessing you play with more than one dice. As a general rule, the more dice involved in a game, the more geeky it is). Rolling a 13 will ensure the evil Demogorgon is defeated; unfortunately, Mike’s mother brings the real world down on their fun, closing fantasia's portal door by reminding them they have homes to go to. Together Dustin and Will ride off, letting testosterone turn the pedals en-route as they launch into a race to see who can get home first. Throwing his feet into action, Will soon has Dustin eating his dust. Now separate, Will ventures through the misty streets alone. Suddenly, something jumps out ahead of him. He is startled. Afraid. Terrified. Abandoning his bike, he runs for home. Inside the house, he calls for his mother; his brother. No answer. He bolts the door. The door shivers, shakes. Someone is trying to get in. Will flees the inside for the out. Ensconcing himself in the garage, he loads a rifle that will take the taker. Unfortunately, the tables turn and Will is taken. His mother's life is about to be turned upside down as she learns her son is missing. This is the premise of Stranger Things: a mother’s search for her son. A search that isn’t as simple as officer Hopper's assertion: "In 99% of cases children are taken by someone they know." A science lab features in episode 1. For some unknown reason home lights flick on and off. A shaven headed girl turns up in a restaurant starved of language and food. How do these dots connect?

Winona Ryder's star turn as Joyce.

I really loved Stranger Things and I’m no sci-fi buff. I haven’t seen Halloween, Poltergeist or The Thing ­– all films that the child characters love. Even though I know the writers are in thrall to King (one episode is named The Body, a nod to Stephen King’s Stand By Me story) and Spielberg, I admit that I wouldn’t have picked up on all the references. Despite all of this ignorance, I totally bought the programme. The relationships between characters reminded me of Freaks and Geeks where the dislocation between parents and children is at odds with the camaraderie the children feel towards one another. Alongside the realistic depiction of social structures, there is a believably unbelievable yarn about mad scientists and government cover-ups. For someone who said last week that they didn’t do mystical puzzles, Stranger Things is that strangest thing: a riddle that I was happy to be confused by

Thank you again to everyone who has read, liked and commented on the blog. I really enjoy writing it each week; it is a lovely bonus that people look at it too.

Stranger Things is on Netflix.

The Bride's Dad

“Oh, I love a good wedding I do.”

A giddy aunt usually says this during a successful raid of the buffet cart.  I too, like a giddy aunt, love a good wedding.  I don’t care whether the venue is a church, hotel, beach or wrestling ring (I’ve seen episodes of Don’t Tell The Bride), it doesn’t matter; it’s the symbolism that counts. In a country of buttoned-up repression, it’s the one time us Brits can show our emotions. Whether it be the participants declaring their love or the congregation witnessing it, the wedding day consolidates all our annual feelings into one affordable payment (£50 in the card. Less if you’re only invited to the reception). 

Without the wedding day, there would be no outlet for British emotion, no reservoir for our tears to go; in time, the surfeit of tears would break their banks causing mass flooding in workplaces, shopping centres and gymnasiums across the country. Social commentators would ask: how did this mass ‘breakdown’ sweep our nation? How in Britain, a nation famed for its emotional restraint, is there a pandemic of tears? The answer would lie in the dearth of wedding ceremonies. The Church believes people should get married to have their union ratified by God; I would argue that people should get married so their friends and family have a safe place where they can be happy and cry; if people don’t tie the knot, because they deem the whole thing to be an antiquated ritual akin to a Viking funeral, then it won’t be long before we have lots of Michael Douglas’ running down the street tooting their AKs shouting, 'the world doesn't listen!'

Without weddings, this would happen.

Other than the therapeutic benefits a wedding day brings, it also provides people with a chance to shine. Personally, I’m someone who shouldn’t be the centre of attention: as someone who has done stand-up and is currently a teacher I’ve already tasted the celebrity lifestyle: on ratemyteacher.com I’ve been trolled by students; once in a branch of Costa Coffee a former student papped me and my current flame as we drank coffee; I’ve also been asked for my autograph (passport forms come with the territory when you’re a teacher). For lesser mortals that haven’t experienced the wonders of celebrity, the wedding day can give you a taste of stardom. 

My favourite part of a wedding is the speeches. Despite being like an episode of Mock the Week where only the men get to the mic, I’m always moved by this part of the day. Seeing someone shy and hesitant, unused to public speaking, stand up and deliver a tribute is profoundly moving. Those of us used to delivering presentations can’t appreciate the discomfort others experience in this maelstrom; the satisfaction that the couple feels hearing the speech and the pride the speaker feels afterwards is worth the price of the wedding gift alone.

Killing it.

The reason I talk about wedding speeches is because it is the subject on Hamilton Leithauser and Rostam’s debut album, I Had A Dream That You Were Mine. Leithauser is lead singer for indie band The Walkmen, whereas Rostam Batmanglij is essentially the sound of Vampire Weekend, providing production and instrumentation. With The Walkmen on a break and Rostam walking out on Weekend, the two have hooked up to form 2016’s most romantic record. (This statement is fraught with hyperbole. I’ve only listened to five records this year. I have no idea really if this was the most romantic one. It’s just people believe you more if you’re emphatic. I didn’t become a cultural tastemaker by saying words like ‘might’ or ‘could.’ My repute lies in ‘should,’ ‘is’ and ‘must.’)

Rostam and Leithauser.

I won’t be talking about the whole record in this blog because I’m hungover, and because I don’t know enough about music to talk intelligently about it. As a child the only instrument I ever played was a recorder; an auditory ordeal that led to my mum calling the police, which in turn led to the musical assault charge I'm trying to work off. What I will do instead is talking about a single song, The Bride’s Dad – a work of breathtaking beauty.

Maybe because I’m an English teacher, I enjoy narrative. I’m not very good at anything that feels discursive or impressionistic. In whatever I watch, read or listen to, I look for meaning. I don’t want something too mysterious; something too impenetrable for me to get my claws into. I want to get a grip of the thing, pull at it, dissect it, right down to the innards. I like songwriters that I can connect with: Dylan, Cocker, Morrissey- artists who eschew the elliptical, whilst maintaing the poetical.

The Bride’s Dad is a piece of wonder. It tells the story of the father’s wedding speech: something that should be customary and commonplace, however, is turned into a two-minute psychodrama, wrought by wondrous melody and lyricism.

It begins with Hamilton intoning:

My ginger voice was raw with smoke

They hid their smiles when I stood and spoke.

Immediately, the song establishes how the father doesn’t feel welcome. The convivial atmosphere has soured as he takes the stand. But why does he feel like he’s on trial?

Some sunny lawn, some Saturday

My face was flushed when I went to sing.  

The ‘some’ suggests why the speaker is seen as intruder as opposed to a father. Even though it’s his daughter’s wedding, he isn’t clear on dates and location. Everything about your daughter’s wedding should be etched into your consciousness yet his thinking is muddled. The defendant’s flushed face could indicate nervousness, but more likely suggests drunkenness – the pallor of the inebriate.

Wild Mountain Thyme,

But I was crying before the second line.

With the congregations’ eyes forming a noose around his head, this jailbird doesn’t give a speech; instead he sings an old Scottish folk song. By the second line though he is teary-eyed, overcome by the power of music – maybe a lullaby he once sung for his daughter.

The strawberry stripes across

My ruddy cheeks got em giggling

My eyes were red and wild and wide

As I choked up over another line.

He may have turned up to the wedding to fulfil his duty as ‘loving father’ but the man is guilty of dereliction. All he needed to do was get his act together for one day, to deliver a Polonius speech from father to child on how to live, on how to behave, instead he is playing an all together different part- Falstaff, the embarrassing drunk.

For years and years I disappeared

But tonight I’m here and giving my best

It’s all I have, the grandkids laugh.

Aware he has failed his daughter, he knows this speech is an opportunity to make amends. For all the years of neglect, today he stands beside her. The speech needs to do more than confer niceties; it needs to be powerful enough to serve as confession, apology, eulogy and promise: booze-sodden, he isn’t up to the task.

My linen vest is yellow stained

My teeth are chipped and my beard is gray.

The juxtaposition of the pristine ‘linen’ alongside the father’s degraded form is stark. The teeth stink tobacco; the teeth show fall; and the beard signals how you can't live hard and keep your colour intact.

Your mother left, she’s not impressed

The wedding guests are starting to get restless

And I think I’ve worn out my welcome.

The jury has reached their verdict and the foreman has delivered the ‘guilty’ sentence by walking out. Ironically, a folk song has divided the gallery, leaving our protagonist contemplating his fate.

But wait. There is a pause. The drum kicks. The vocal rasps. Defiance forms. One final cry from the man in the dock.

But I swear I caught your smile

From the corner of my eye

When they threw me off the stage

Oh I know I caught you smiling

I swear I saw you smile.

Was everyone in the gallery against the defendant or did he have the support of the person he desired most – his daughter? The repetition of ‘smile’ though seems more and more like the last roll of the lunatic. On a day when she wanted a normal father, why would she smile at this shambling shower? Is it a rueful smile – a “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted him?” Was the smile just a hallucination of the father’s hope that all wasn't lost? Or was it what we the listener hopes: a sign that his daughter recognised the effort, that the execution didn’t matter – he came and tried, that’s what’s important.

When they carried me away

Through the center of the crowd

From the corner of my eye.

There is no dignity in the defendant’s exit. He hasn’t been able to shuffle out of this kangaroo court quietly. Instead, a parade of the man’s demise is made by the mob leading him out through the middle. The avuncular father of the bride archetype has met the same end as a failed dictator.

Oh I swear I saw you smiling

You’ll always be my darling

(Pause)

sweetheart.

I love the lyrics of Morrissey for their romanticism. Within his writing he uses terms of endearment like ‘honey-pie,’ ‘charmer,’ ‘sweetness.’ The pay-off of ‘sweetheart,’ therefore, is magic to my ears. The father’s behaviour has been ugly but he achieves redemption- from the listener at least- in the beauty of his intentions.

What a song!

Brides' Dad is on I Had A Dream That You Were Mine by Leithauser and Rostam

Reasons to be cheerful: a list.

1    1.   The ending of Room.
2.     Grayson Perry being a national treasure.
3.     Seeing Kitson play an audience.
4.     The prose of Alan Hollinghurst.
5.     Coldplay’s Glastonbury headline set.
6.      Scarlett’s win in the jungle showing democracy can work.
7.     Fleabag’s opening monologue.
8.     Seeing the joy of children learning to read in B is for Book.
9.     Alan Bennett speaking up for the state.
10.  Bill Murray singing in The Jungle Book.
11. A cup of tea when I get in from work.
12.  A tax rebate through the post.
13.  The twist in Hateful Eight.
14.  That Guedioura goal against Arsenal.
15.   Remembering O.J. went to prison anyway.
16.  The melancholic beauty of Flowers.
17.  The romance between Mullan and Manville in Mum.
18.  My mum and dad having a piece of Swanage to call their own.
19.  My brother being a Guardian expert in their women’s footballer world poll.
20.  The Girl passing her Middle Leader’s course.
21.  Reading more regularly.
22.  Having someone to listen when I feel defeated.
23.  Maintaining this blog every week.
24.  Hearing a class laugh.
25.  Hanging on during those difficult moments in a school term.

26.  Andy lending me all those books.
27.  My friends welcoming bairns into the world.
28.  JP getting married.
29.  Dec getting his stolen projector back.
30.  Watford staying up.
31.  When The Missing kicked into gear.
32.  Booking a trip to Sri Lanka with Kieran and Dad.
33.  Playing the quiz machines with The Girl.
34.  Faring well in pub quizzes.
35.  Appreciating my parents haven’t stopped parenting and supporting even though I’m a balding, old man.
36.  My warm, hooded top that my dearest hates.
37.  Getting some work done before school.
38.  Using my free periods to work rather than check comedy news.
39.  Feeling like my prose is becoming less purple.
40.  Going for a pint.
41.  Having a poolside holiday.
42.  Defeating all-comers in water volleyball.
43.  The school bell ringing on a Friday.
44.  Getting a vegetable samosa from the shop to celebrate the end of the working week.
45.  Making Sainsbury’s rue the day they gave us a Nectar card. (We took their summer offer to the cleaners.)
46.  Listening to podcasts in the car.
47.  Getting a good night’s sleep.
48.  Having a read on a Saturday morning.
49.  The Girl’s mean chicken noodle laksa.
50.  My consistently brilliant vegetable chilli.

51.  Doing the washing up as you go.
(No better feeling than knowing an Everest of dishes doesn’t follow your main.)
52.  Making The Girl realise that The Radio Times is the best TV listings magazine.
53.  The articulacy of The Strictly judges.
54.  Strictly taking X Factor to the sword.
55.  Len Goodman being a pillar of the entertainment community.
56.  Being upgraded at the tennis.
57.  Watching tennis’ greatest entertainer, Monsour Bahrami.
58.  Drinking with Watford fans before the FA Cup Semi-Final.
59.  Mo winning gold. And then winning gold again.
60.  The wonderful resolution to the tension of Kenny’s Olympic final.
61.  Laura Trott smiling her way to victory.
62.  Jessica Ennis-Hill for being Jessica Ennis-Hill.
63.  Andy Murray’s insane stamina and resilience.
64.  Browsing around the bookshops of Hay.
65.  Leicester winning the title.
66.  Phil getting his dream Champions League draw.
67.  Lovely people expecting.
68.  Jim starting his course.
69.  Friends getting new welcome mats.
70.  Looking to buy bricks and mortar with my tea and tomorrows. (Does that work as a term of endearment for your girlfriend?)
71.  The Girl getting a pay-rise. A tantalising step towards me being a kept man.
72.  1^st day holiday breakfast in the café.
73.  Stewart Lee’s opening 20 on Brexit.
74.  Walking down the canal on a summer’s day.
75.  My brother’s opprobrium towards my new summer shirt. (Envy is so undignified.)

76.   Watching Clare perform in Kilworth House.
77.   The gym teacher interrogation scene in Freaks and Geeks.
78.  My car pulling through another MOT.
79.  Becoming an official Dance Judge at FriendsFest.
80.  Reading my first Stephen King.
81.  Telling cracker jokes around the table.
82.  Getting a parking space near the flat.
83.  Going down to the car on a cold day and realising you don’t have to scrape the car because where you’ve parked is protected from the elements.
84.  Working with great people.
85.  A beer on a Friday.
86.  Getting my money’s worth out of Netflix.
87.  The rare occasion when The Girl has a chat with me in bed. (She’s a lovely conversationalist; unfortunately, she’s a better sleeper.)
88.   Being told that your meeting will be cut short due to bad weather.
89.  The lyrics to The Bride’s Dad.
90.  Mark Kermode ensuring I don’t see terrible films.
91.  Those odd times when I feel the spark plugs of my creativity are firing.
92.  High fiving correct answers during Only Connect.
93.  A good Sunday night drama that fends off the back to work blues.
94.  The endless buffet cycle of Christmas.
95.  Our annual get-together in Bristol.
96.  Michael Gove languishing in the backbenches.
97.  Danny Leigh bringing Camilla Long to book over I, Daniel Blake.
98.  Coming 456^th in my 10k race.
99.  The fact that most people would help their neighbour regardless of what their politics might suggest.
100.                I’m going to see where my Dad grew up next year.