After Hours

This week I’ve been listening to Scroobius Pip’s excellent Distraction Pieces podcast. Pip is a spoken word poet known mainly for the 2007 hit Thou Shalt Kill. Polemically semi-serious, it boasts such lyrics as, ‘Thou Shalt not worship Pop Idols or follow Lost Prophets,’ and ‘Thou shalt not think that any man over 30 that plays with a child is a paedophile. Some people are just nice.’ Since Thou he’s toured extensively, gathering enough celebrity to bring him to the attention of casting directors; thence his role in Taboo, the recent Tom Hardy drama. This straddling between music and acting makes for a fantastic podcast, since he has excellent contacts in both worlds. Going back through the archive, I’ve managed to hear his interviews with punk legend Billy Bragg; actor-director Paddy Considine and Four Lions’ Riz Ahmed. My favourite episode though was with writer John Osborne (not that one, the other one).

I won’t allege to know the whole of Osborne’s back catalogue, but I fell in love with his writing when I read a Stewart Lee piece about the BBC. A few years ago, it really did seem that there was a lot of Tory pressure on the corporation to make massive cuts; consequently, there was a feeling amongst artists that the institution was in danger. Lee references being stuck on the North Orbital with just the radio for amelioration. He listens to Osborne’s Don’t Need The Sunshine, a paean to the seaside that evokes memories of windswept picnics and sand-shovel burials. By the end of the Radio 4 programme Lee along with his family were in tears – why? Partly over it’s beauty, and partly because he knew no other radio station would commission it. I bought the book it was based on immediately.

I think Osborne appeals to me because he chooses topics that I’m passionate about. Don’t Need The Sunshine has him cross the country, describing his experiences at the different seaside resorts. Every summer my family traded a house for a beach hut, making Swanage beach our home for two weeks. Unsurprisingly, reading Osborne’s book about the life and death of this yellow world struck a particular chord. Another one of his book’s Radio:Head has him listening to a different radio station each day, underlining how diverse our wireless is. In his most celebrated offering, John Peel’s Shed, Osborne tells a tale of how he came to acquire the DJ’s old records and the impact they had on him. Seaside, radio and music: three of my favourite things. Osborne is going to Edinburgh this year with a show about the Radio Times; it’s almost as if he has focus grouped my brain for ideas.

John Osborne

So I love John Osborne’s work. He writes quintessentially English pieces: quiet stories that celebrate the mundane; all channeled through a wry eye for observation. In the interview he reminded of the sitcom he co-wrote with Molly Naylor. One summer drunk in the pub, Naylor asked him what would he most like to do; Osborne replied, ‘write a sitcom.’ From there, the pair went away and threw around story ideas. Inspired by the collaborative process, it wasn’t long before the two had a sitcom. Through a mutual friend, these made their way to Craig Cash, co-writer of The Royle Family. In The Royle Family, Cash played foil to Caroline Aherne; but since then he’s gone out alone, directing the under-rated Early Doors and The Café (I don’t have an adjective for this as I haven’t seen it. Like I said last week, I put being honest before your entertainment.) Having Cash on board was a boon for the pair: he’s an expert in low-fi, naturalistic set-ups- something these novices needed.   

After listening to the podcast, I thought I have to watch this sitcom. I tried YouTube, but nothing was there. I tried iTunes, but nothing was there. I tried Donald Trump’s brain, but … In the end I went onto Twitter, thinking I’ll tweet John Osborne and ask him how I could get ahold of it. I’m not even on the tweets so this gives you some idea how desperate I was. Looking at Osborne’s Twitter, the first tweet that came up answered my question: I could access the sitcom by signing up to Sky's NOW TV. So that’s what I did. Signed up to the online streamers 14 day trial and cancelled the thing immediately. Not since BT pulled the Champions League rug from under Rupert Murdoch’s feet has the man been so stitched up. This week I intend to watch The Trip, Mid Morning Matters and The Affair without giving the man a single penny. Will the billionaire Rupert Murdoch lose sleep over £6 a month? In my experience the wealthiest people are the ones who look longest at the bill, so I’m thinking, yes, my derring-do raid on his largess will send him spiralling. I reckon he'll be at home worrying: Will everyone find this loophole? Will families share their debit cards to co-ordinate successive 14 day free-trials? Will the ingenuity of this blogger unleash a butterfly effect on my empire? Ladies and gentleman, I’ve taken from Rupert Murdoch; I suggest you do the same. Just remember to cancel the thing, otherwise the fucker will be laughing all the way into Jerry Hall's cleavage.

I fought the Murdoch, and I won.

After Hours is a sitcom centred on the writers’ chief passions: music and radio. It begins with Willow logging on to the Internet radio show After Hours hosted by the hugely amiable, Lauren and Ollie. Soon after, the episode shifts to a café where Willow meets his girlfriend Jasmine. Greeting his order is Lauren, a voice he immediately recognises. Willow’s excitement at meeting her is palpable. Once seated though, his joy turns to despair as he’s let go by the woman he loves. Kind and empathetic, Lauren offers him a role on the radio show. Touched, Willow smiles. 

“I bet you’re glad you came in here now…. Other than being dumped,” backtracks Lauren.

So this is the set-up for a sitcom: a boy’s journey out of his bedroom into the bosom of the group. The transformation of Willow from being the gooseberry of the gang to the apple of every girl’s eye is a little fairytale; yet it is done with such charm you'll happily go along with it. In writing the sitcom, Osborne sad he and Naylor wanted to write a comedy for 6 Music listeners, and by having a shy protagonist they have an Indie frontman that viewers can get behind. The music choices are sublime too with tracks by The Smiths, Hefner and Pixies all featuring. This is a comedy for outsiders soundtracked by music for outsiders.

The cast of After Hours.

Over the course of After Hours we’re introduced to more characters with Willow’s friend Chris being a favourite. Episode two finds him downcast: his house has been broken into, but he vows to protect it to the death – apart from when he’s walking the dog or down the pub. Later, he informs the gang of what was taken: “They took everything. Money. Laptops. Passports. Both teles. Mum’s big wok.” There is a school of though that surrealism is easy; that all you have to say is “panda” incongruously to get a laugh – those people are wrong. Good comedians know the exact word, so it’s with these writers. I laughed from ear to ear on “Mum’s big wok.” It’s perfect. 

We also get to know Willow’s dad (Ardal O’Hanlon) and his friend, Geoff (John Thompson). In a hilarious incident, Willow’s mum tells her out of work husband about a job going in the vapid supermarket, he replies, “I wouldn’t whizz on it if it were on fire.” His wife chastises him like she would her son: “Stop showing off just because Geoff is here.” This isn’t the comedy of cruelty, but the laughs of the lovely.

After Hours cemented my love for all things John Osborne. So why not give it a go, all whilst picking Murdoch’s pockets. Lovely stuff.

After Hours can be pick-pocketed on NOW TV

42nd Street

For America’s thesps Broadway is the destination. Amongst theatregoers it’s known as The Great White Way, a tradition rooted in the 19^th century. The sobriquet came from the fact the district was one of the first to embrace electricity. Years on, actors continue to dream of the day when their name appears in illumination. For British actors, conversely, the West End is the place to be. There’s no denying our friends across the pond trump us when it comes to razzle-dazzle, but Old Father Time remains on our side. Our theatres are as old as your dad’s jokes, and as hallowed as the Wembley Turf. What London lacks in box office receipts, it makes up for in historical (star)dust.

It can be argued which theatreland is best; what is inarguable, however, is that both provide a platform for talented artists. To reach either destination is a phenomenal achievement. How incredible then must it be to perform simultaneously in both? (Both: how is that possible, blogger? How can you be in two places at once?) Well, dear reader, I’ll tell you: through the magic of theatre. For the West End is now home to Broadway classic 42^nd Street. Whilst stood on the most English of stages the cast are performing the most American of musicals. Through the red curtain’s sleight of hand, these players transform London’s West End into Broadway, meaning you get the best of both worlds.

A sign.

One such actor is Clare Halse. She is the best mate of my girlfriend. (My girlfriend actually has three best friends, but if I said ‘She is one of the best mates of my girlfriend, it would appear less emphatic and therefore less interesting. Some would argue that this bracketed explanation is wholly unnecessary, keeping us from more important details, but I feel happier now that I’ve made a full disclosure. Effectively what I’m saying is I’d rather this blog be honest than entertaining.) The two girls went to school together and have stayed friends, which is a pretty strong indictment of people they have met since.

The Girl along with her two other bessies have followed Clare’s career closely, seeing her do panto in Grimsby all the way through to starring in Paris. (I’d like to apologise to Grimsby for the wording of that sentence. The syntactic implication of putting your town opposite the world’s most beautiful place is that your town is a place devoid of love, art and style. This was purely coincidental and never my intention.) Significantly, they’ve seen her perform at Drury Lane before as Tweedle Dee in Shrek and an Oompa Loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Sam Mendes

Now it might seem I’ve highlighted these roles for comic effect, suggesting Clare was in danger of being typecast as a woman prepared to wear a fat suit; however, this is not the case. To get anywhere near The West End is astonishing, to do it in a box-office smash like Shrek, and a Sam Mendes directed Charlie is close to impossible. She is a woman that has put the hard graft in, shown determination at the back, worked the channels, all to get a shot at leading the line. Through all that hard work she has become a fantastic centre-forward. (I might now be a fan of musical theatre, but that extended metaphor means my heart still belongs to football.)

In a case of life imitating art, Clare stars as Peggy Sawyer, a woman thrust from the chorus line into the spotlight. Starring alongside Sheena Easton (Bond tunesmith) and Tom Lister (Emmerdale), Clare delivers a virtuosic performance that beggars belief. Actors always talk about how tiring it is playing Hamlet or Lear: you’re on stage for three hours, there’s a lot of lines to remember, it’s psychologically intense – boo bloody hoo! Clare has to dance around the stage at a hundred miles per hour; then she has to somehow summon the lung capacity to sing; and then, with the remaining airwaves, speak – all whilst smiling! Ian McKellen, you maybe 77, doing eight performances a week of emotionally intense drama, but you no longer impress me. Do it in some dancing shoes, then I’ll applaud you, Gandalf!

The cast lose concentration and start a conga line. Pic. Broadway World

The show 42^nd Street began life as a movie in 1933. Being as it was the Depression, the raison d’être of the picture was to raise spirits. Following the Wall Street Clash, America was plunged into financial black-out. People were out of work and struggling to feed their families. Only the cinema offered some sort of escapism from the hardship faced. Whilst life was a monochrome of unhappiness, the black and whites sang in Technicolor. This was the time of obscenely ambitious dance numbers, ridiculously huge set pieces, wildly excessive spending – and the audience lapped it up.

Like many good movies, the picture was translated into a 1980 Musical, which would go on to win a Tony for Best Musical. Its transfer to London saw the emergence of the now ubiquitous star Catherine Zeta-Jones, who as second understudy went on to impress in the lead role. Following in Zeta-Jones’ footsteps then is Clare. (I should probably inform her fiancée to keep her away from old men, just in case she imitates Jones’ fancies. Are these brackets getting annoying?) Sorry if they (are)?

Clare's future.

42^nd Street begins with the curtain only partially raised, given us a chance to see a chorus line of dancing feet. The speed of footwork is truly awe-inspiring, even more bewildering though is the control at play. As in the tale of the metaphorical swan, these ladies are smiling on top, but you know they are kicking so bloody hard for it. From there, we’re into the musical where we learn of a new musical being rehearsed, Pretty Lady, under the director of Julian Marsh. Marsh is on his last chance: he has won and lost at Broadway; this time he desperately needs his numbers to come up. Unfortunately, he’s saddled with a leading lady that, for all her singing ability, just can’t dance. Normally dancing is a pretty key component for musical theatre, but given Dorothy Brock’s sugar daddy is bankrolling the production he has no choice. For all of the money going into the production, the guys and dolls of the chorus line are on the breadline. They desperately need the work to stave off poverty. One such girl is Peggy Sawyer, who eventually impresses the director into hiring her. When she accidentally injures Brock, she is elevated to star billing – and as they say, ‘the rest is history.’

The first half of the production boasts a terrific vocal performance from Sheena Easton, yet I preferred the second. Here, there is the brilliantly witty ‘Sunny Side to Every Situation’ (You've no dough, so relax, You don't have to pay an income tax.
You've no job so just pretend it's your vacation) and the hauntingly beautifully ‘Lullaby of Broadway.’ There’s also a crazy-ass staircase tap routine, which is Stomp: The Musical put to shoes; further, Clare gets to dance on a piano, which must be every dancer’s dream. For all of the spectacular numbers, my favourite moment is where the musical goes small and Clare’s feet converse with her co-star’s; at this point, the syncopated shift from fast to slow is mesmerising, offering a wonderful counterpoint to the otherwise glorious frenzy.

Clare on a piano. Pic. Broadway World

After the show, we got to go backstage and congratulate Clare. As my friend Gareth said (he’s my friend, but really I know him through being my girlfriend’s friend’s boyfriend; if I put that though it would be a little wordy) … as my friend Gareth said, Clare’s dressing room could happily house a family. She had a bed, table and sink. Next door, a bathroom. Beyond that, a dressing room. I recommend that she sublets it on Sunday for a bit of extra dough. Joining us for popcorn and prosecco was co-star Tom Lister, who was as impossibly charming off-stage as he was on.

For the girls seeing their best friend star in a West End show was a very proud moment indeed. 

Towards the end of 42^nd Street, before Peggy’s debut, she is told: "You're going out there a chorus girl, but you've got to come back a star!" So it was with Clare. Keep going, lass!  

42nd Street is currently at Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

Master of None (again)

I’ve written about Master of None before and if Aziz Ansari makes another series, then no doubt I’ll write about it again.

The previous series was a huge critical success for Netflix, netting Ansari and his writing partner Alan Yang an Emmy for Outstanding Writing. Standout episodes in that series included ‘Parents,’ a meditation on the immigrant experience; along with ‘Indians on TV,’ a critique on the media’s diversity problem. The fact that Ansari addressed these issues subtly, without succumbing to polemic, made them truly groundbreaking.

So Ansari is back playing Dev, an actor struggling to find meaning in a disposable world. At the end of the first season, Dev made the decision to turn his back on subsuming America for homespun Italy. Ansari, a foodie, made this trip himself when Season 1 wrapped, partly to inspire storylines, predominantly to research food. So like his creator, Dev ventures to Modena in the hope of turning his hands towards cooking, an art more noble than texting.

Food is everywhere in Master of None.

Season 2 begins in monochrome with Dev’s alarm clock having a tantrum. Unaware of how to pacify the analogue, Dev throws the baby out of the window. Despite being in a new city, the satire on technology persists. It isn’t long, however, before we see Dev at pasta school, swapping technological paranoia for artisanal fulfilment. Witnessing the satisfaction Dev derives from actually making something resonates with our generation: I could construct a witty text, but would get far more satisfaction out of building a wardrobe. Compared to our parents generation, there is a feeling that technology has deskilled us, put us in thrall of computers, made us powerless; and when inevitably the thing doesn't work, we're left to despair at our piss-poor practical skills. 

The plot of the first episode is hinted at in the first few shots.  Piled along Dev’s bedside is Vittorio’s De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief. In the film (which I have seen on Wikipedia) a working-class Italian acquires a job that will save his family from penury; however, when the bicycle he requires to get to work is stolen, an odyssey to reclaim the transport begins. In Master of None it isn’t Dev’s bicycle that's stolen, it’s his phone. For the protagonist in the movie, their whole livelihood and security hangs in the balance; for Dev it’s much worse than that: a girl’s number is on that phone, rendering a hook up without it impossible. Again, Ansari demonstrates his skill of appropriating the old for the new. You can tell Ansari knows his onions when it comes to foreign cinema, but this preternatural knowledge never slides into pretension: he maintains his gaze on the present, skewering a generation whose whole lives are contained within their mobiles.

'The Thief.'

I’ve also seen the two following episodes of Master and am pleased to say that they retain their quality. Episode 3 titled ‘Religion’ struck a particular chord, dealing as it does in the secularisation of society. Yes, children may be baptised, immersed or inducted into a faith, but do they follow it with the rigour of their parents? Ansari’s episode, co-written with his brother, looks at how religion is as much about family as it is about Gods. In the episode, Dev is warned by his father to affect a pious position when relatives come to visit. Dev is an infrequent attendee of Mosque; his position on pork is atheistic too. When the relatives arrive, Dev reads the lines his father has given him, but questions whether he should break character to reveal his true self. On a recent trip to Sri Lanka I saw my dad participate in coconut breaking and pujas to ward away the spirits, practices that seemed alien to me, yet comforting to him. By the end of ‘Religion,’ the heathens watching might accept as Dev does: that the past is a foreign place, they do things different there.

I’m deliberately rationing myself with Master of None, knowing full well that if it was up to me I would have gorged the whole lot in a single sitting; for Ansari, the foodie, has served up something truly delicious.

Master of None is available on Netflix.

Seville

A week after being back from Sri Lanka and I was off again – this time to Seville. (And to think I was once called a 'parochial motherfucker' by a colleague.)

The reason for this trip was to celebrate the impending nuptials of our friend, Reesy. Reesy and I have known each other for years, both having played as substitutes for our local football team. He was the back-up left-back and I was the supporting right-back. Unfortunately, our manager did not have the same policy on defensive rotation as Mauricio Pochettino, so most of our Sundays were spent watching piss-poor thirteen year-olds play kick and run. Despite the neck ache we endured watching adolescent hoof ball, our time on the sidelines did us good, informing our punditry, making us excellent readers of the game. Wenger, Mourinho and Ferguson weren’t great players but they went on to become successful managers … now I’m not saying Reesy and I could necessarily manage a top 4 team, but I’m surprised no Championship team has taken a chance on us yet.

There is no more loyal player in the whole of football than the thirteen year old substitute.

The Stag Do started early at 8am when a mini-bus picked us up from Watford Junction. A lot of the lads going on the trip were old school friends, which was nice as it gave me a chance to revisit playground handshakes, nicknames and anecdotes. Such was the level of nostalgia on display, I recorded it on my phone to sell to Peter Kay fans at a later date.

Arriving at the airport, I sat my liver down to assuage its fears. I explained that it would soon be killed by alcohol. That, yes, it would hurt. It would take hold. But in time it would find green tea again. Stoic to its fate, I told my liver I'd never been so proud. Midday hadn’t even arrived and I’d had two pints. I had said to Scott that I could murder a coffee, but when the round came I ordered a pair of pints, fearful that holding just one would disrupt my balance.

Pair of pints.

Ben was responsible for the accommodation, and he did a great job. We had a huge apartment with big living area and rooftop terrace. Some of the boys had already arrived, meaning nibbles and drinks awaited us on arrival. Unfortunately the lads didn’t maintain these standards for the whole trip; consequently my cries of ‘waiter!’ fell on deaf ears.

We then headed out into the night to get buzzed. Maquiila was where we went to, which is located in the upper/lower/middle/somewhere part of Seville. (I never knew where I was in Seville. Like a Mail reader, I just went where I was told.) The food was just how I like it: constant and continuous. The beer was refreshing, possessing that vital ingredient: sun. The company was good too. Son Brewing are a great corporation. (Just a pun there to misdirect my friends into thinking I was complimenting them when in fact I was complimenting the cerveza..) Putting foreign words in italics makes you smart, right?

After the meal I shamefully headed home at 12. For the record I did this because I just thought the lads were going for a nightcap. If I knew they were going on an all-nighter I would have continued to fight the good fight, fending off lethargy in the name of stag. As it was I went to bed, awaking a clear-headed man.

I thought this is what the boys meant by 'nightcap.'

The next morning I made way up to the living room where I was given desayuno. Some people might argue that, given I was one of the flaky dropouts, I should have been on the mixing desk early to bang out some scrambled egg. What I would say to that is … yes, that is a completely valid point. However, Steve - on a hangover- made a Spanish breakfast so well it put pay to the idea that men can’t multi-task: Alka-Seltzer in one hand; whisk in the other, the boy can do it all.

After the breakfast of Gods, we left for a spa. Yeah, that’s right we went to a spa. We put the spa in Spain, motherfuckers. I had never been to a spa before because as a skinny jean wearing, tahini seasoning, romcom watching male, I’m far too alpha for that shit. Fortunately, the other boys aren’t. Before we got the relaxing massage though, we had to go through the fraught business of administration. On arrival we were given blue plastic bags to slip on our feet – like we were heading into an Ebola Zone. Unsure whether to put the bags on as we went in, or when we got in, caused an outbreak of panic amongst staff. Quickly, we were quarantined in the changing rooms whilst our translator, Benjo, established whether we could uncouple the bags. After being checked by the manager, we were given the all clear to dive bomb into the waters.

There were three pools: medium, hot – and freezing cold. As someone who isn’t an elite athlete, I saw no purpose in the Alaskan waters. But being on a stag I jumped in because I’m all about the bantz. Rejoining the warm pool, I had a chance to reflect on my life, and after much contemplation I decided that Watford should sack Walter Mazzarri. After this epiphany, I was called up to have my massage. Before having our bodies basted in oil, we were ordered into the jacuzzi, where we were put under strict instructions not to talk. As an introvert I find not talking easy, but the outgoing lads found this experience an ordeal, resulting in them using sign language, semaphore and eye blinking to communicate.

After the health spa, we immediately headed outside to the neighbouring bar to kill off any oestrogen we men may have acquired. Struggling to get a taxi, we paid the local bartender to take us back to the apartment. (This isn’t something I recommend in England. Our cabbies have it hard enough with Uber without John at Wetherspoons muscling in on the market.)

Cabbies: this man is coming for you.

Back at the apartment we played a pub quiz game, where one of the rounds was all about Reesy. At the end of the ten questions, I came to the conclusion that I’ve led a dull, tedious life. If someone had to write ten questions about me, it would be stuff life: ‘In 2015 what did Ryan have two glasses of that made him sick? Answer: Non-alcoholic fruit punch.” This quiz was one of my highlights of the weekend, sitting there with the boys laughing at Reesy’s – sorry, Smelly Pop’s - escapades.   

In the evening we all went for dinner at El Mero’s. A great restaurant with an even better waiter. At first we weren’t sure where we were going to eat, but then the aforesaid collared us. He had a vision for us. He saw fish. He saw meat. He saw laughter. He saw alegria. He told us that he could make all of this happen if only we gave him the chance. We liked the sound of his vision so we commissioned him to make the picture. The final film surpassed our expectations. If you go to Seville, then head to El Mero’s; there a culinary director waits for you, ready to shoot a technicolour he calls: Tapas! The Movie.

Following our feed, we headed to Feria, which is Spanish. The fair is quite the institution, dating back to 1847. I’d been before when I went to visit my friend Phil, but enjoyed it just as much the second time. Having enjoyed a feast for the stomach, feria is one for the eyes. The lights are bright, the dresses are bright and faces are too. It’s a joyous occasion, a collision of sound, drink and food that really is quite wonderful.

The next morning I woke up early and did the washing up. Doing the washing up for eighteen lads is something of a task, and how I didn’t earn a Boy Scout badge for my efforts is something of a mystery. Mum, put the needle and thread down: your son’s efforts have gone unrewarded. Taking the rubbish out was something out of sitcomland: passing into the city square was a group of British men, all carrying a bag of empty beer bottles; it was like we were satirising our own drinking culture – only shamefully we weren’t.

And so home. And after a two and a half delay, which Ryanair described as ‘a bit of a hold up,’ we arrived back in Britain.