Matilda: The Musical

In the state sector world of teaching there are few perks. Boardroom dealmakers don’t put on a Christmas do for you; a summer send-off involves ‘bringing a dish’ and break time milk is credited to staff bank accounts. Sure, you get a lot of holiday, but much of that is spent scrabbling under the sofa for your mortgage repayments. There is one perk though to being a teacher: school trips. Yes, it involves children, which is a disappointment. On the plus side though, you get to see productions for nothing. Zero. Zip. Zilch. Nada. The parent 'respite tax' for a night off is a theatre ticket for this guy (pointing at myself). Seems like a fair deal. So while you parents have your fun while the kids are out, turning your homes into queasy speakeasy swingers clubs, I'm out watching great art.

This week I went to see Matilda: The Musical, which I’ve wanted to see for ages. The reason for this is two-fold: the first is Roald Dahl. As a child my mum would sit beside mine and my brother's bunk and read his stories to us. In my first year as a teacher I taught Dahl’s early years memoir, Boy, and seeing the joy it brought children made me nostalgic for the joy he brought me. The second is Tim Minchin. Minchin, a musical-comedian, is the lyricist behind the musical. A few years ago The Girl and I went to The Old Vic to see his take on Groundhog Day; the songs were stunning in both brains and accessibility. 

Roald Dahl dressed as Bobby Charlton.

In stand-up circles musical-comedians are often derided: often they choose well-known songs, barely re-working the lyrics, which culminate in some Pavlov’s dog noodling guaranteed to raise applause. Minchin is nothing like this. Ironically for a virtuosic pianist, he doesn’t think in black and white. His songs are imbued with a variety of hues: he can do melancholic, nostalgic, romantic, satirical and edgy. His piano isn’t a punch-line prop, but a background set-up for jokes to gestate. 

I was dead excited about going.

Matilda begins with ‘Miracle,’ a ‘homage’ to the miracle of birth. The inverted commas because Matilda’s parents aren’t so happy with their arrival. For Mrs Wormwood it’s an inconvenience: she should be at a dance championship getting 10’s from judges, as opposed to judgement from doctors for maternal indifference. For Mr Wormwood it’s a swindle, a swizz, "where is its ‘thingy?" after all. I mean, he’s heard of this liability being taken with other parents before, but for him, a self-made man of used cars, shouldn’t he be leaving the forecourt with a man made of his own? As other children recall their parents tributes, (‘My daddy says I'm his special little guy. I am a princess, And I am a prince. Mum says I'm an angel sent down from the sky,’) a now grown Matilda laments,

My mummy says I'm a lousy little worm. My daddy says I'm a bore. My mummy says I'm a jumped-up little germ, That kids like me should be against the law, My daddy says I should learn to shut my pie hole. No one likes a smart-mouthed girl like me. Mum says I'm a good case for population control. Dad says I should watch more TV.

(Miracle, Matilda: The Musical)

The fact this is delivered with a straight bat makes it even more hilarious. I know it’s a cheap trick but are there many funnier things than putting adult ideas – in this case sterilisation – into a child’s mouth? It isn’t just the lyrics that are well juxtaposed, but the play script by Dennis Kelly too. When Mr Wormwood sees his daughter reading, he pronounces, “That’s not normal for a five-year-old. I think she might be an idiot.” Cut to Matilda: “It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.” Matilda isn’t just reading; she’s inhaling the great works of literature. She isn’t an idiot, but a genius. Her TV-loving family are the cartoon catchphrases to her layered elegance. Fortunately, she finds refuge in the library.

The library scenes are a Kelly conception rather than a Dahl one. Like Hamlet has a play within a play, Kelly’s Matilda has a story within a story. An argument between her mother and father gets Matilda thinking. Her dad defines himself as an 'escapologist' for getting his wife out of financial scrapes; her mum replies how she ‘must be an acrobat,’ given how she maintains the house. (“Dinners don’t microwave themselves, you know!”) Hearing two tremendously dull people use circus language is the inspiration needed to make Matilda's brain go light bulb. On entering the library, it’s clear she is pub regular at the prose joint. The librarian asks Matilda for a story. The one she tells is of an escapologist and an acrobat; a couple who live and work in trust, catching one another from falling, soaring together to new heights. This is the stuff of painful wish-fulfilment: Matilda wants her parents to act in poetry, not argue in graffiti. Throughout the musical we come back to Matilda in the library, adding chapters to her story, inspired by earlier events, prefiguring later ones. The handling of this magical realism is beautifully conceived with shadow puppetry utilised to create the carnival scene.

Matilda tells her story.

Those of you who are still reading this (who are you people?) will perhaps be wondering when I’m going to bring up Miss Trunchbull. Even more than Matilda, she is the take-away character of the story. Pam Ferris’ rendering of her is marvellous in the film version scaring children worldwide. In the musical she possesses the same dictatorial threat. The Wormwords see her as the Bookfinder General, one that will rip literature from their daughter’s brain, instilling instead the values of fact and discipline. She'll be the educative osteopath that'll straighten their daughter out. 

In going to school Matilda and the other early learners are greeted by the bigger boys and girls. They are told in no uncertain terms that what they’re entering is not the palace of wisdom, but a gothic prison. The ‘School Song’ they sing is a work of wonder – a wonder that I missed. Because I’m short-sighted, dim-witted and tin-eared, I didn’t pick up on the genius of the song. I noticed letters were being put in the school gates but I didn’t get they corresponded to the letter being referenced in the song. It wasn’t until I got home and The Girl said, “How good is that alphabet song?” that I realised what I had missed. She told me that each line references a letter in the alphabet, and played back the song to illustrate.

Here it is:

And so you think you're A-ble
To survive this mess by Being a prince or a princess.
You will soon (C) see there's no escaping trageDy. 
And Even if you put in heaps of eFfort, 
You're just wasting enerGy, 
'Cause your life as you know it is "aitcH"-ent history. 
I have suffered in this Jail, I've been trapped inside this (K) cage for ages, 
This living 'eLl. But if I try I can remeMber,
(School Song, Matilda: The Musical)

It makes you appreciate why Minchin was the one they turned to when looking for a lyricist. He has a preternatural talent for words, just as Matilda does. And just as Matilda is understood better by her own peers than adults, so it appears does Minchin. Whilst all the children clapped wildly in unison as each letter was put down, I thought, “Yeah, it’s good, but it’s hardly the best song.” On reflection I’ve learnt that sometimes children know best.

My favourite song though is the Act Two opener ‘When I Grow Up.’ A few months ago I saw Minchin perform it on Front Row, BBC2’s flagship culture show that has the ratings of the dodo population. I was spellbound by the performance. You would be hard-pressed to find a song that articulates better 'the child experience.' Frequently as a child you feel powerless. You’re forced to endure the fallout of adult conflict. Kept in the dark about the mysteries of death and divorce. Told to keep your why’s and wherefore’s to yourself. It’s no wonder that some children want to grow up. To take control of their own lives and destinies. Minchin’s song doesn’t quite deal in this dark material, but it’s a painful reminder that childhood isn’t all cartwheels and bottle rockets. For those like me who were blessed with a wonderful childhood, it’s melancholic, as it makes you wonder why a child would wish those years away. It’s a staggering work of beauty.

So in a story about the fecklessness of parents, I want to say ‘thank you parents.’ It’s because of you that I got to see Matilda: The Musical free of charge. Yes, the teachers lot may not always be the proverbial land of Miss Honey, but when you get to see wonderful productions it’s not all (Trunch)bull either.

Matilda: The Musical is on tour now.  

Atlanta

A celebratory incantation resounds: ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.’ A bare chested black man comes into view, his body a hoopla of contorted gyration, his face falsified to resemble an entertainer’s gurn. He doesn’t mean what he’s doing. He’s dancing for your silver, to make money and get paid. The camera pans. A man has a sack on his head. The black entertainer takes a bullet to it. The good vibes have been punctuated by a burst of violence. We have no time to dwell on this because the body has been removed quickly from shot. The gun though is taken in a towel, like a crown on a ceremonial pillow.

This is America: the land of opportunity - as long as you play by the rules. If you’re black and move well, you can have some screen time. If you’re a stiff, gunned down for being black, then we’re not interested. ‘This is America’ by Childish Gambino AKA Donald Glover is a work of art: media studies teachers could deliver a whole lesson on its allusions and parodies. Given Trump’s rhetoric of arming teachers, the video highlights the absurdity of America’s second amendment: this is a country that values the gun more than its citizens.

Donald Glover is a prodigious talent. Recently, he’s appeared in Solo: A Star Wars Story and is tipped to be the next Willy Wonka. As well as rapping and acting, Glover has created Atlanta, an American comedy-drama that cleaned up at last years Emmys. The second season has concluded in America, but its first has just premiered here. Fortunately, the BBC haven’t put in a graveyard slot like a lot of imports (see Seinfeld and The Wire), instead they’re airing two episodes a week.

                                                        Glover as Lando in Solo.


When I first heard the news Atlanta was appearing on terrestrial screens, I was relieved. (As an FX production I guessed it would be on subscription services.) Sitting down to watch the first one a few weeks ago, I admit I was initially disappointed. Because the only thing I knew about the show was it had two comedy Emmys, I therefore assumed it would be a laugh a minute. You see, Glover was once a writer for 30 Rock and an actor in Community, a college-based sitcom. Both of these shows are heavy on the comedy with just a light dressing of drama.

Atlanta shouldn’t be seen as a conventional comedy; if anything, it’s more drama than comedy. After a few episodes I began to appreciate this and enjoy it more. Now six episodes in I see it having more in common with The Wire than Seinfeld. Although Atlanta isn’t a police procedural like The Wire, the two have things in common: the city is a main character with multiple locations being used; the cast is mainly black; the language is urban dialect; the attention to detail – verisimilitude – is sometimes toppled by surrealism.

The story revolves around the character of Earnest Marks, known as Earn and played by Glover. The name is apt as this is what the character desires: to earn and find fulfilment. A Princeton dropout and young father, he is effectively homeless. The baby’s momma, Van, has enough hassle supporting one mouth without having to support another, so only on occasions does Earn earn a place in her bed. Quite simply, Earn has to make paper and make it fast, otherwise his access to Van and the baby is at threat. Working a commission only job, there seems little hope he’ll make a roof there, so he turns his attention elsewhere.

                                                        The three lead characters.

Earn’s cousin Alfred is the up and coming rapper Paper Boi. He’s doing well on the underground rap scene, showing enough promise to make him a local celebrity. But he hasn’t got the book smarts to go with the street ones. Earn goes over to his cousin's house with a business proposal where he's soon greeted with a gun. (There’s more beef in rap than the slaughterhouse, a man has to protect his kingdom.) When Earn is eventually let in he meets Alfred’s mate, Darius, who’s hiding behind the door with a knife and plate of cookies, serving as symbolism for a character that has violent hands and gentle eyes.


Earn makes his proposal to manage his cousin, and this is the conversation that ensues:

Alfred: Manage? You know where the word “manage” come from?

Earn: Manus. Latin for “hand.”

Alfred: Probl’y, but I’m a say no for the purpose of my argument. “Manage” came from the word “man.” And, um, that ain’t really your lane.
Earn: My lane?
Alfred: Yeah, man. I need Malcolm. You too Martin. You know what they did to him? They killed him.
Earn: Didn’t they kill Malcolm, too?
Darius: No, no, they say that. But ain’t nobody seen the body since the funeral.
Earn: (Beat) That’s how funerals work.

The excerpt here is a litmus test as to whether you’re going to enjoy the show or not. There’s the highbrow Latin definition juxtaposed against the humorous misunderstanding. Along with that you have references to Martin Luther King and Malcolm X (black cultural references abound in Atlanta, some of sporting figures I just don’t get). Then, you’ve got that understated joke at the end. This is not the comedy of Kevin Hart where the joke is aggravated assault to the throat, rather it’s a blindside attack on the brain. Before you know it, you’ve been mugged of laughter with the assailant making off to the next scene.

What marks Atlanta out as unique as a twenty-minute comedy is its filmic quality. Under director Hiro Murai the show has a scope that is rarely found on television, never in comedy. The opening of episode 1 has an overhead shot that establishes all the faces of Atlanta: rich suburbs, poor corners, manicured lawns, gutted houses, the dull horizontals of the freeway; the bustling poetry of ‘the court.’ When in session, there’s a wooziness to the pacing, a trust that the viewer will ride with them, take in the scenery, and not dial-up a new driver.

                                                             Director Hiro Murai

Also, the social criticism of the show is worth commenting on. Episode two is centred in a police station, which is mainly populated by black people. In fact, it’s only when writing this did I reflect that no white characters are present. The whole thing feels like hell where Earn is denied sleep and food until his bail money comes forward. Whilst held in judgment, Earn surveys the chaos around him. First, a man talks at him with an accent so thick that his own momma would ask for an interpreter. Then, a man in hospital gown, clearly mentally unwell, takes his cup down to lavatory, fishing a drink from its river; Earn smiles at the crazy, but grimaces moments later when the man is beaten down for spitting it at an officer. Next, a conversation ensures between a man and a transgender man. Soon, there are transphobic slurs and recriminations. The police station is the fishbowl of inequality where the marginalised float and die in.

Like Master of None, the show isn’t afraid to sideline its central characters. In Master there was an episode where Denise came out to her mum; there wasn’t one shot of the lead character Dev. A recent episode of Atlanta has Van meet up with her friend: the first ten minutes is just a conversation between the two women. This shouldn’t be unusual, but in comedy it is. It’s even more surprising to have a tete a tete where the complexity of female friendship is unpeeled. Van’s friend is a glamorous success, whereas she is struggling to meet the rent. The writing is sublime, conveying gritted teeth tension with a documentarian’s eye.

Coming to my conclusion, I realise I haven’t even mentioned the trippy elements to the show. There’s a black character called Justin Bieber who to all extents and purposes is Justin Bieber, yet isn’t the real-life Justin Bieber. There’s talk about how no black person knows who Steve McQueen is. There’s a man on a contemporary bus dressed like a member of The Nation of Islam eating a Nutella sandwich. When Glover pitched the show, he said ‘if David Lynch or the Coen brothers made a show about Hip Hop culture’: the influence of these auteurs is evident in these inexplicable moments.

                                                                  Black Justin Bieber

Atlanta then is not a traditional sitcom that you can watch whilst on your phone; it is a tragicomic portrait of black life: the richness of its dreams and music coupled with the poverty of a discriminated existence. Trump would do well to watch it. This, after all, is America.


Atlanta is on BBC Two, Sunday at 10pm. The series so far is available on iPlayer.

John Finnemore's Double Acts

Recently I’ve been listening to a lot of Radio 4 comedy. On Sundays they’ve been showcasing abridged Edinburgh hours – my favourites being Pippa Evans Grows Up and Geoff Norcott’s Right Leaning But Well Meaning ­­– and during the week new sketch and sitcom commissions. Although the station has its old favourites, like Just A Minute and I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue, it does more to promote comedic talent than any other broadcaster.

I try to be in the know when it comes to comedy, but I’ll be honest and say I’ve missed the boat when it’s come to John Finnemore. I don’t quite know how I’ve missed the boat: it’s been at port for the past ten years, festooned with a flag that reads ‘LISTEN TO ME’ – and given I live by the port with a flat that overlooks it, it's a wonder I haven't cottoned on earlier. ( I think that analogy for my ignorance started well, but fell away at the end.) Anyway, I’ve somehow managed to miss the man’s output- something I wish to amend.

He wrote for these two.

For the forlorn few that haven’t heard of the man, he is something of a big deal in radio comedy. He has won the Writers Guild Award for Best Radio Comedy in 2011 and 2017, and been nominated for more comedy.co.uk awards than any other writer. At the start of his career, he worked alongside David Mitchell and Robert Webb on That Mitchell and Webb Look; over time though he's gone from being a pen for hire to firing out his shows – the first being Cabin Pressure.

Cabin Pressure was something of a phenomenon in radio terms. Typically, radio is a cult concern. Only breakfast shows pull in huge audiences, and even then listeners are often only half-listening. For a comedy to create a loyal following, tuning in week after week, to specifically listen is quite remarkable. The fact Benedict Cumberbatch was in the cast admittedly helped too: as his star grew so did the focus on the show (one recording received thousands of requests when just 200 tickets were available). Although I missed the plane on Finnemore’s sitcom, I’m determined to go back and source it out.

Finnemore on the left. The 'Batch on the right.

From there, Finnemore went on to produce the long-running sketch show John Finnemore’s Souvenir Programme- but I’m not going to talk about it, since I haven’t heard it. (I missed the train on that one too. Despite it being on the same network for the past seven years and running at a regular time, and despite the fact the train line runs through my room, I've still managed to miss it. Call yourself a comedy fan!) No, the programme I’m going to talk about is John Finnemore’s Double Acts.

As a regular Radio Times reader, I look out for what good comedy is on. I noticed this week Finnemore was in the listings. Having heard the man speak on the excellent Richard Herring Leicester Square Theatre Podcast, I thought I would give it a go. I’m glad I did. The episode I listened to was sublime. In fact – and I mean this without hyperbole – it was one of the finest things I’ve heard in a long time.

I loved it for a multitude of reasons. The first was its concept: it’s called Double Acts because it only features two people - like that Dot and Ethel euthanasia episode or Parky in the 70’s.  Because it only contains two, the writing has to be perfect. In other dramas and comedies, a slew of players brings dynamism to a production as characters constantly enter and exit scenes. With just two, an audience is stuck with them for better or worse. The fact Finnemore brings together such interesting couples makes for a happy congregation.

The second reason I loved this particular episode was because I’m a sucker for love. And this one was a romantic one. It’s titled ‘Hot Seat’ because it’s about two people that trade desks at 7: 7am and 7pm. The first character is a receptionist; the second a security guard. Initially, the conversations they have are banal: small-talk pleasantries about the weather; soon though these pleasantries become pleasant, as the two get to know one another. The episode is structured quite beautifully: I guess a bit like David Nicholls’ One Day, only instead of being about a particular day each year, this is about a specific time each day. Seeing the talk between the two evolve and devolve is both beautiful and painful. Personally, I’m at a loss to think of something I’ve enjoyed as much in a thirty-minute form. It was like a Daniel Kitson story put to an editor’s pen – as a huge Kitson fan I can think of no greater compliment.

Having fallen in love with this episode, I downloaded all the other ones and listened to them on my journey to and from London. I appreciate this setting is extraneous, hardly essential to the review, but it’s nice to have some colour, isn't it? (See reader: you’re picturing me now on that Underground, being buffeted this way and that, like an inverse ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ Richard Ashcroft, smiling though, oblivious to the uncouthness around me, all because my headspace is far and away with Finnemore gold.) I put that image there reader, and it’s all because I mentioned London. So before you criticise my choices reader, let me tell you there’s method behind this inaneness.

Ashcroft's languishing pop career is karma for 90's pavement rage.

The other episodes retain the high standards of ‘Hot Desk,’ showing Finnemore’s skill at crossing time and genre. Two of the episodes are set in the past: ‘A Flock of Tigers’ set in 1934 and ‘The Goliath Window’ in 1820, with the others set in the very real present. ‘A Flock …’ was one my favourites. It’s about two characters (Do I still need to say two characters? I think you’ve understood the format of the show); it’s about two characters (in case you haven’t) who meet on a train. The first introduces himself as Willard, which tells you everything you need to know about the man. He’s a repressed Englishman that exists in a world of surnames; first names being an unpardonable act of informality. The second is Dolores, an American from the South, here in England to deliver a lecture. Over the course of the journey, Dolores makes Willard yield his first name – and a lot more besides. Like an Alan Bennett monologue, we go from finding a character unpleasant and shallow to discovering depth and pain. The fact this is achieved with laughs along the way is a testament to Finnemore’s writing.

Another episode I really enjoyed was ‘Red Handed.’ It’s set in the modern day and about a man called Joel, who arrives home early from his job to find a burglar in the house. The burglar though isn’t from the contemporary school of breaking and entering; instead he’s from the black and white finishing school of duplicity. Quite simply, this thief could talk the hind legs off a donkey. It isn’t long before we as an audience feels sorry for this felon, despite the fact he’s holding Joel’s possessions in his hands.

‘You don’t look like a burglar.’‘What were you expecting a stripy jumper, a bristly chin, one of those perculiar tiny masks that for some reason only cover the eye sockets.’‘I just thought burglars were well…
‘What?’‘Younger for a start.’‘That’s a little hurtful.’

I’ve already mentioned Daniel Kitson and Alan Bennett in assessing Finnemore’s work, but someone else worth citing is Simon Rich. Rich is someone who walks across time and genre to create stories that pull the rug from under you. Finnemore does the same too; although I would argue with more heart. 

Simon Rich is well worth checking out.

I may have been in the dark about Finnemore’s work up until this point but I’m pleased to say I’m not now. It’s exciting when you discover something old as new. I hope this blog will encourage you to do the same.

You can listen to the episodes I've mentioned here: 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06kx6kg

Ability

Ever since the excellent Mum finished, television seems short of sitcoms. Fortunately, radio is here to fill the void. A show I’ve been really enjoying is Ability, written by Lee Ridley and Katherine Jakeaways. Jakeaways has previous on Radio 4, writing North by Northamptionshire back in 2011. Ridley, on the other hand, is better known as ‘Lost Voice Guy,’ the 2014 winner of BBC New Comedy Award, and recent contestant on Britain’s Got Talent.

A few months back I heard Ridley interviewed by Stuart Goldsmith on The Comedians Comedian Podcast. It wasn’t a typical interview in that Goldsmith had to send his questions over in advance. The reason for this is because Ridley has cerebral palsy, which consequently took his voice. As a result, he uses a computer program to talk. Being a stand up fan, I was interested in how this affects performance. Can you, for example, build in the necessary pauses for a joke to land? What happens say if some material isn’t flying? Is it easy to switch to a new topic? Is it possible to react off the cuff to what’s going on in the room? Other comedians don’t have to worry about such things. The train service between thought and mouth is often efficient – there when you need it. However, if you’re using a computer, isn’t there a Southern Rail chance of a joke arriving late to the station. How does a comic constrained by a computer cope with the issue of timing? A versatile thinker, Ridley has learnt to work within these restrictions. Pre-programming his material, he clicks in and out of jokes. If a joke doesn’t land, he has other topics ‘saved’ he can move on to. Therefore, the beauty of his comedy is in the writing. Some comics get away with skipping around the stage and changing their cadence to give the appearance of a joke, with Ridley his material stands and falls on the writing.

His writing has held him in good stead in Ability too- a perfectly formed sitcom. I genuinely don’t think there’s a bad line in it. The show is semi-autobiographical with Ridley playing Matt, a man with cerebral palsy whose just left home to live with his friend, Jess. Given his parents are no longer there to look after him, it falls on his carer to be his right hand man. The man in question is Bob: a loveable geezer with questionable morals. Him and Matt are inseparable, doing each other’s bidding, getting into hilarious scrapes along the way. Ability subverts the disabled stereotype as Bob is as dependent on Matt as Matt is on Bob. When it comes to playing the disabled card, both are as irascible as the other. Bob uses Matt to appear kind and caring; Matt uses Bob to get nights out and porn mags. Throughout the series, the two quite literally become partners in crime, shoplifting cereal and defrauding lonely men into believing Matt is a sex robot.

The cast at work.

The format for Ability reminds me a little of Peep Show with a ‘talking head’ device being used. Like the creator, the character has a lost voice too. Ridley therefore does Matt’s talking voice, whilst Andrew Hayden-Smith does his inner voice. As Newcastle born, Ridley’s internal monologue is Geordie inflected; however, his conversational tone is computer neutral. Hearing these two voices collide makes you appreciate how difficult it must be to talk with a sound that isn’t your own. In fact, there are hilarious incidents where the other characters don’t realise Matt is joking because his voice isn’t telegraphing the punch-line. Ridley’s voice is the anti-winky face: people have to be smart enough to realise when and if he’s joking.

You might have picked up that Ridley is something of a cheeky scamp. In his Britain’s Got Talent audition he wore a t-shirt that said, “I’m only in it for the free parking.” Another t-shirt he's wore for stand up is, “I was disabled before it was popular.” The man though doesn’t just wear good jokes; he writes them too. Each episode begins with a primer, putting the disability in context. In one he explains: “I’m slow at walking and I wouldn’t recommend taking me out to eat spaghetti. But on the bright side I’m the best passenger on the quiet coach of the train." What’s special about this comedy though is Ridley gives disabled jokes to Matt’s friends Bob and Jess. True friends say awful things to one another, and so it is here. Jess’ nickname for Matt is ‘fire hazard’ and Bob’s favourite game involves messing with Matt’s computer program (he changes "thank you" to "lick me").  In the wrong hands that would seem cruel, but Ridley and Jakeaways are skilled writers, holding a mirror up to friendship, demonstrating how true equality means taking the piss out of your mate regardless of circumstance.

Another great t-shirt.

Like all good modern sitcoms, there is pathos too. The first episode addresses Matt’s fear over talking to a girl he's got to know online (he worries she’ll go off him when she hears his voice). Also, a love triangle develops in later episodes where Matt becomes jealous of Bob’s relationship with Jess. Although society has made great strides in disability rights, we’re not there yet. Many years ago disabled people were to be pitied; recently Channel 4’s Paralympic coverage re-packaged this pity turning it into awe - disabled people became superheroes. The beauty of Ability is that it does neither: it presents a disabled person as normal. Someone who wants a drink, a shag, a laugh, a romance. Like everyone else.

Ability is a sitcom that reminds listeners how disability doesn’t handicap talent. In writing this comedy with Jakeaways, Lost Voice Guy is proving that in losing one voice he's gained another. A comic voice that sparkles with wit, charm and mischief. 

Ability is available here: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0b2nh1n