The Language of Kindness

On Friday my mum worked her last shift as a nurse. For the past few years she has worked in a hospice, providing end-of-life care to patients.

She first started nursing when she was eighteen, over forty years ago. Born in Swanage, a quiet seaside town, she moved to suburban Edgware. My mum was living away from home for the first time and her dad had not long passed. The loss of a father, the move to a new town, the start of a new job meant she had to grow up fast.

Training to do anything then was not as easy as it is now. The hours were long with few concessions afforded to students. You had to observe carefully and learn fast. The Sister's rule was law. Iron fists hiding velvet hearts. Meet their standards or meet your Maker. The choice was yours. My mum got through her practice and met my dad. He was in hospital with malaria and saw her on another ward. His Florence Nightingale. The lady with a lamp that lit up his heart. In a fit of romanticism he went over to the nursing quarters and asked her out. They’re still married today.  

"Florence, would you turn that bleeding lantern off. I'm trying to get some sleep."

From there, they moved to Watford where she worked in the hospital for over twenty years. Working with the elderly, she provided dignity when their age could not. Tired and spent by ward work, she moved to a rehabilitation clinic, nursing people of different ages. Her final job was a real challenge. The euphemisms of ‘they had a good innings’ didn’t always apply here. She was seeing young children say goodbye to mothers and fathers. It’s hard to keep going when you’re surrounded by such sadness, but that in many ways is the true test of a nurse: when the Fates have been so cruel, treating kind people with such contempt, it’s down to you to show- however powerless- goodness reigns. The opportunity to give people the best goodbye in the worst situations was a responsibility she never took lightly.

A few months ago, my mum lent me a book, The Language of Kindness: A Nurse’s Story by Christie Watson. I’ve been meaning to start it for a while but I thought this week , given mum was concluding her own story, would be particularly apt. Watson’s first novel Tiny Sunbirds Far Away won the Costa First Novel Award in 2011. Whilst writing her debut she was working at a London teaching hospital. It isn’t until recently that she’s decided to hang up the fob watch and pursue her career as a writer full-time. This book, her third, is a rumination on her time spent working as a nurse.

Author and book.

For the young Christie nursing wasn’t on the horizon. She trumpeted the idea of law, photographer, conservationist and even Jazz trumpeter. Nursing wasn’t the life she saw ahead of her – why? Because it was already in her. Her mum was a social worker, who in one scene brings her work home with her. During a training placement, she invites a group of adults with learning disability into her living room for a drink – they end up stopping for dinner. At first Christie, aged fifteen, is unsure. Over the course of the evening she sees these are no Boo Radleys, quite the opposite, there is tenderness and kindness here: a textbook lesson in not to judge a book by its cover. On quitting school she volunteered for The Spastic Society (what is now known as Scope). Here she was persuaded to induct in nursing (at this time it came with a grant. Imagine that. A grant to support people into an under-staffed, under-paid profession. They were really on to something then). And this was the beginning of a tenure that would take her through hospital corridors, up and down floors, to provide a comprehensive guide as to what it’s like being a nurse.

With This Is Going To Hurt by Adam Kay and Admissions by Henry Marsh, it’s about time nurses' voices reached the mainstream. The aforementioned are superb, offering a behind the curtains glimpse into life as a consultant; however what isn’t always heard is the place nurses play in a patient’s recovery. Their role in the theatre of medicine is less about showmanship and more about craft. They might not have the biggest speech, but their role in the ensemble is vital. A doctor may take the final bow, receive the ovation, sign the autographs at stage door, but in the wings are the people who keep the show on the road.  

Great reads as well, particularly Kay's.

Christie’s book is a marvel because it moves seamlessly between memoir, treatise and polemic. She drips in philosophical quotation and portentous statistics to make her book more than an autobiography. In reading I learnt some things that were truly shocking. For example, I knew suicide was the biggest killer of young men, what I didn’t know was domestic violence was the biggest killer of young women. I discovered that the Government want 21,000 more mental health nurses, but aren’t prepared to pay a grant to attract them. I learnt that over a million people are expected to have dementia by 2025. Christie’s drops in these hand grenades, then runs for cover behind her anecdotes. The result is we learn by stealth. You never feel it’s preachy, whilst recognising that something has to be done.

Her journey across specialisms means she is well qualified to talk about many areas of nursing. However her concentration in intensive care give her stories real gravitas: this is life and death. In one memory Jasmin, a little girl, is in with smoke inhalation. Her mother is already dead. Aware that she hasn’t got long, her aunt asks for a priest. He’s not going to make it in time. Christie assumes the role and baptises the child. Despite being trained medical professionals, priest isn’t the only role they have to adopt. Nurses are cleaners, administrators, mathematicians, dream-catchers and counsellors. Although it seems like nurses deal in biology, psychology is as important. To keep someone’s spirits up in the sterile atmosphere of a hospital is perhaps the heaviest lifting they perform.

I’m grateful for this book as it has helped me understand the woman who raised me. What she’s done for others. What she’s done for me. I salute Christie for celebrating this noble profession. Nurses like my mum have read it and felt proud of the job they do. And in a world where they’re under-appreciated, these pick-me-ups are needed more than ever. Ultimately, Christie's memoir is a phrase book on kindness; a reminder we must do all we can to support those already fluent in it.

The Language of Kindness by Christie Watson is available now.

Home

Yesterday was an ugly day for society. A member of the far-right opened fire on a New Zealand mosque killing at least forty-nine people. The Australian Senator Fraser Anning said, “whilst this kind of violent vigilantism can never be justified, what it highlights is the growing fear within our community, both in Australia and New Zealand, of the increasing Muslim presence.” Further he went on to describe Islam as the “religious equivalent of fascism.” How a man can blame growing fear then contribute to it beggars belief. Today, Anning was egged by a teenager –even vegans will concede, I’m sure, the egg was not wasted.

But this is where we are. We’re living in a time where people seem devoid of empathy. Now politicians aren’t ostracised for pillorying minorities, but elected.  This is exacerbated by social media, which gives people free rein to say what they want about strangers. We’re living in ignorant times where cowards speak in caps lock drowning out tolerant voices. It happened a few years ago with the migrant crisis. In this climate of hate, the columnist Katie Hopkins said migrant boats should be blown out of the water. Men, women, children fleeing terror – and that’s your response. Around the same time, Nigel Farage launched a Brexit poster that depicted a queue of refugees with the headline, ‘Breaking Point.’ If there was an image that best illustrated the unkind times we live in, it is this. Victims of war being treated like a swarm of locusts. The dark episodes of history have not been learned; we’re in danger of repeating them again.

In the foreground: a person unwelcome in Europe.

Humanity can be found in strange places though. Channel 4, a broadcaster known more for edgy comedies, has produced a feel-good sitcom on immigration. Penned by Rufus Jones, the show’s genesis lies in a 2016 Guardian article. In it, the journalist Helen Pidd wrote about inviting a Syrian refugee, Yasser Al Jassem, to stay. She met him through a friend and was upset to hear how he had two options: sleep in a homeless shelter or an overcrowded house. Not wanting him to take either, she created her own and had him stay with her. Together, the two struck up a friendship, which saw Pidd invite Yasser to spend Christmas with the family. The article never felt like virtue-signalling because she outlined the challenges of sharing a house with a stranger: would he be ok with her eating a bacon butty? Could she express disappointment that he hadn’t sourced a paid job? (He was volunteering every day.) Where do you source an halal turkey? Yasser too spoke of his surprise that he had a female landlady, something that wouldn’t happen in Syria. Jones read the article and enjoyed the odd couple dynamic: a premise was born.

Home begins with the Peter, Katy and John returning from a family holiday in France. There is some tension here. John is less than impressed with Peter. He’s not at all sure of his mum’s new boyfriend, making his disdain pretty plain. Katy brushes this off as adolescence – or as she describes it – 'three years of Pornhub and silence.’ Pulling into the drive, they’re home sweet home. Vacating the car, Peter hears a sound. A sound coming from the boot. Champagne doesn’t sound like this. Piqued, he goes around to investigate. His hunch is right. There is a man in the back. There’s a terrorist in the boot. This, however, isn’t a alt-right children’s book, but a living, breathing manifestation - or so Peter thinks. Frightened, he locks the car and scurries to the front door to call 999. The immigrant has an ace up his sleeve though: Peter’s champagne bottle. If Peter makes a wrong move, the upholstery gets it. Middle-class to the core, he drops his weapon and negotiates with the 'terrorist.'

Youssef Kerkour is Sami (centre). Rufus Jones plays Peter (right).

The man in the boot is not a terrorist. He is Sami. He has come on a long journey to be here. Yes, he’s disappointed it’s Dorking, but frankly anywhere is better than home. He escaped Syria with his family but became separated in Italy. He has travelled across the world to be with the family, yet Peter is reluctant to lay out the welcome mat. The lovely irony in the sitcom is that Peter is as much a guest in the home. His surname is Guest and he feels like one. Having only been in a relationship with Katy for ten months, he’s trying to make it his home as well. He, therefore, sees Sami as a threat, perhaps an unwanted mirror too. Katy, on the other hand, bonds with Sami: she’s happy to learn that he’s a teacher just like her. She also warms to his personality: he has a wonderful line in sarcasm, describing how school in Syria hasn’t been so good lately what with children playing ‘truant.’ An argument later outlines the couple’s differences:

                   Katy: He’s lost and alone and he needs our help.

                  Peter: He’s not Paddington.

                  Katy: That’s exactly what he is.  

For Peter, Sami is the headline in the right-wing press; for Katy, a feature in a broadsheet. He wants to take back control, whereas she wants to open borders. The Paddington reference is no accident either: Home owes a debt to Paddington. There are moments in the first episode that allude to the film, what with Sami causing mischief in the bathroom and kitchen. It has the parallel of the woman and child warming to him, whereas the man sees him as a rival. Although being an adult sitcom, it has bite too.

In the second episode there is a brilliant scene with Sami in the newsagents. The shopkeeper Raj is talking him through British newspapers. On one pile he puts the papers that likes ‘Sami,’ on the other ones that don’t. Sami asks, ‘which ones sell the most? Both are disappointed by the answer. In a thirty second scene, Jones lays bare the root of racism: so long as vitriol outstrips compassion, we will live in a society that makes scapegoats out of innocents.

On this my 200^th blog, Home is a reason to be cheerful. It promotes kindness and understanding at a time when people are getting away with lies and bigotry. As To Kill a Mockingbird’s Atticus Finch says, ‘You never really understand someone until you consider things from his point of view …until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.’ For thirty minutes every week, there’s a small corner of Channel 4 where we can do that. Being in Sami’s skin is a valuable place to be; I urge you to climb in.

Home is on 9.45pm, Tuesday on Channel 4.

Previous episodes are available on All4  

This Time with Alan Partridge

Alan Partridge has seen it all. Appearing first in BBC’s On The Hour in 1991, Alan’s career has had more ups and downs than a snakes and ladders set. From here, he went on to have his own Radio 4 chat show where he interviewed France’s second-best Formula One driver and a nine year-old Oxford prodigy. With his star on the rise, Alan made like Jeremy Vine, transferring from radio to TV. His big band chat show though came to a dissonant close when he punched a BBC commissioner in the face. Exiled into the wilderness, he became a night owl, occupying the graveyard slot on Radio Norwich. Despite wowing tens of listeners, it wasn’t enough to convince bosses to keep him on mainstream radio; as a result, he joined the roster of North Norfolk Digital. Along with Sidekick Simon the pair made mid mornings matter. What Alan really wanted though was to come home. As the home of British Broadcasting, the BBC is where great British broadcasters belong. Alan is one such broadcaster. So despite a short stay on Sky Atlantic (watched only by Rupert Murdoch and his eldest son), Alan dreamt of a day when the nation’s corporation would come calling.

Fortunately for Alan the host of magazine show This Time is gravely ill, so he gets the call. It’s taken him twenty-five years, but finally he’s back where he belongs: on prime-time television. Understandably, he’s nervous: his mouth drier than a nun’s unmentionables; he needs water and he needs it now. Next to him is Jennie Gresham, a consummate professional, a handbrake to Partridge’s off-road presenting. With her as co-driver, there’s a chance this vehicle won’t go crash, bang, wallop. After all, Alan needs it to succeed. He’s a short-term replacement, there on probation; a digital personality on day(s) release. Mess this up and it’s back to the big house- by that I mean little house of local radio. Get it right and he’ll be re-admitted into media society. A lot is at stake.

********************************************************************************

The first episode of This Time is a mix bag. For me the first episode had moments but didn’t knit together as a whole. This isn’t the end of the world. Since the magazine format is segmented, you're never waiting long for the next 'sketch'. For example, the seal pups section at the beginning, where Partridge interviews a naturalist, doesn’t elicit that many laughs; however a later one on gambling really does. Also, it’s worth remembering that it’s an establishing episode. There’s signs early on that Alan’s relationship with Jennie will become fraught. Off-air he makes an alliterative quip and debates whether to say it live; she shakes her disapproval. On-air Jennie lifts the line and scores laughter from the crew. Later, they question a reporter on betting terminals: every question Alan asks is met by dismissal, whilst Jennie’s re-wording of these is met with the contrary The on-screen dynamic works beautifully between the pair as it sets up two things: conflict between the characters and the audience’s sympathy for Alan. Jennie is made for television: she’s conventionally attractive, intelligent, a safe personality. Conversely, Alan is awkward, loose-lipped, a hazard around live tv.

We root for Alan as well because he’s grown up. When Steve Coogan considered bringing Partridge out of hiatus, he thought of how to do him differently. He enlisted the Gibbons brothers, Neil and Rob, to work on the new incarnation. Being fans of 90’s Alan, the pair wanted to remain loyal to the character, whilst having him reflect his older age. Thus, the Partridge of the last ten years has been altogether more nuanced than that of the 90’s. Some would argue that in striving towards verisimilitude, the character has lost some of his comic punch – less Basil Fawlty now, more David Brent – in other words, he appears more documentary than sitcom. It’s true there is now more pathos. He doubts his ability at the start of this episode and is hurt by a cyberhacker’s expose later on. Alan is no longer the larger-than-life flat character of catchphrase and delusion; he is rounded by nuance and awareness instead. That’s not to say Alan can’t make a complete balls of things. See how a solitary thought on toileting leads to a two minute act out: however  this Alan knows what he’s doing is wrong. Before the comedy of Alan rested in him being a monster; now it lies in him being human.

In my opinion, the second episode is stronger. Alan is less tentative here, maybe reflecting his growing confidence in getting through his first show. It begins with Partridge going ‘off-grid’ in his eulogy to This Time host, John Baskell. Buoyed by the news of a competitor’s death, Alan gives the viewer a heartfelt metaphor about a distressed pigeon placated by a train set. The metaphor of course being that This Time provides a vital distraction to its viewers. Public service broadcasting in all senses of the term. Between features Lynn, Alan’s PA, appears. In the first episode she was utilised well; in this one hilariously. If Alan is becoming more complex, we need secondary characters that retain their buffoonery. Lynn is worried that Alan is being upstaged by Jennie, therefore she channels her inner-Lady Macbeth, urging him to vanquish her: ‘Fortune favours the bold. The time is upon us.’ Her life is intertwined with Alan’s. He has made a concubine of her, achieved subjugation. His domination has led to Stockholm Syndrome where instead of resenting her captor, she'll do anything for him. His failure is hers. His success hers. Vicariously, she lives through him.

Another returning character is Sidekick Simon (Tim Key). Again, this was a better segment than the previous episode. Here, the two look at a UK map, which lights up as tweets come in. It reminds Alan of air strikes. Together the two ruminate on what would happen if Britain’s livestock was struck. It’s another wonderful moment of surrealism that harks back to I’m Alan Partridge. The difference is it’s done more quietly and isn’t shouted at you. Despite really enjoying this scene, I don’t think Tim Key works so well here. Given the rest feels so believable, it doesn’t sit right that Alan could bring one of his parochial mates over to live TV. It’s a minor quibble, but I do think it would work better with a different character in that role.

I looked for a picture that would illustrate my above point, but couldn't find it, thence this image.

Earlier I alluded to the mixed response and wanted to address that before I go. It appears the broadsheets have received the new series well, whilst some fans haven’t. The second episode was down by over a million on the first. There’s always a drop-off on the premier, but rarely this large. What I would say is this comedy belongs on BBC2. After twenty-five years it makes sense that the corporation wanted to lay out the red carpet and logo for him, yet this isn’t mainstream comedy. This Time is layered, intricate and very subtle. It’s the one comedy since Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle that I’ve felt compelled to  re-watch immediately. And watch again you should. Because if you do, you’ll notice new and hilarious things. In the first episode, Alan walks the streets of London reporting on hygiene; off-camera a man chides, ‘Partridge, you wanker.’ (I missed it first time round.) In the second episode a pre-recorded feature fails to pick up Alan suppressing a burp. (Like the fictional production crew, I missed it too.) These are small things, but as with all comedy the devil is in the detail.

If you want comedy that’s going to be rammed home to you – like a block of cheese, you mothers – this isn’t for you. If you’re prepared to pay attention and appreciate quiet brilliance, you’ll be more than pleased. First class comedy!

This Time with Alan Partridge is on BBC One, Monday at 9.30.

This Time with Alan Partridge is available now.

Three Identical Strangers

Many of you will be familiar with Willy Russell’s musical Blood Brothers. With a storyline centred on twins separated at birth, it became the third longest running musical in West End history. Theatregoers returned again and again, drawn to the nature vs nurture debate that propels the story. Having the brothers adopted into different families: one from the inner-city, one from the suburbs, we see how upbringing affects opportunity. Conversely, we see within both an innate charm, along with a hot-headedness that has huge ramifications late on. Lionel Shriver’s book We Need To Talk About Kevin deals with a similar topic, questioning whether a mother should be held responsible for her son’s destructive behaviour. Was he born bad? Or did his environment make him so? Nature vs nurture has fascinated artists and observers for years. Many find the notion of nature's supremacy frightening, suggesting as it does how our lives are predetermined, resting in the hands of genetic Gods; powerless to its might, wherever we turn we return to the same place, constricted through chromosome, contained in code. Nature denies the idea that love and industry can alter essence, making someone happier and healthier. If nature is all, then there’s no need for psychology or counselling: you can’t escape who you are so why bother.

From different side of the tracks: Blood Brothers.

Three Identical Strangers is a staggering documentary from Channel 4. Directed by Tim Wardle, the remarkable story begins in an unremarkable setting: Sullivan Country Community College. A nineteen year old arrives for his first day in a new place. Rarely popular, often reserved, he’s a little nervous about the whole thing. As soon as he’s in the block though, something strange happens. He’s greeted by all and sundry. Backslapped and kissed like there’s no tomorrow. “It’s great to have you back.” “ I thought you’d left.” “Catch you later, Eddie.” 

There's just one problem.

His name is not Eddie – it’s Bobby. 

Why are people calling him the wrong name? Why do they think they’ve seen him before? Why is he being greeted like a returning captain when he’s making his debut? Finally a student comprehends the confusion and asks him if he’s a twin. Bobby was adopted and has an older sister, but doesn’t have a twin. The student, Michael, thinks differently. He grabs Bobby and races him down to the callbox, loading the receiver with quarters to confirm his hunch. The voice that Bobby hears on the other line is his. The tone, intonation, idiosyncrasies all his own. However, this is no echo; this is another voice. The voice on the other line is Eddie – Bobby’s brother.

The twins enlist another member.

Soon Bobby and Eddie are re-united. They discover that the were both adopted into different families, not many miles apart. It isn’t long before the press hear the sound of headlines and descend on them. With that, the two men are catapulted into the newspapers. A feel-good story of long-lost newly-found. Every breakfast table reads the story, smiling into its coffee. One kitchen sees something familiar and alerts David Kellman, a student at Queen’s College. He looks into the photo and sees a mirror. He is the spit of Bobby Shafran and Eddie Galland. He has turned a duo into a trio, twins to triplets.

With the three men now together, the story gets bigger. They are on every chat show in America, being interviewed by everyone in the land. Desperate to make up for lost time, they move into a New York bachelor pad, creating a whole heap of pizza boxes and mischief along the way. With their brand rising, they set up a restaurant where people come from miles wide to meet and eat with them. In the first year the take home is $1 million – not bad for a family business.

At the height of their fame, the three boys had a cameo in Madonna's Desperately Seeking Susan. (She's the one on the left.)

Whilst they enjoy themselves, their families are less pleased. They are angry that the boys grew up apart. None of the parents kept the brothers from each other: they had no idea their adopted boys were one of three. Isn’t it also strange that their children had such different lives? David was born into a loving blue-collar neighbourhood, his dad an avuncular shopkeeper; Eddie’s family is middle-class, his father a strict teacher; Bobby's a prominent upscale family, his dad an out-of-town physician, his mum a solicitor. All three brothers, identical in birth, are from separate worlds. 

The parents go to the adoption agency looking for answers and are met by evasion and misdirection. It isn’t until a journalist happens upon a find that an extraordinary history emerges. What starts off being a fun feature piece becomes an expose on corrupt institutions. A film that begins about identical appearances turns into a deeper examination of research ethics and genetic determinism. The film is unbelievable. Prepare to have your breath taken away.

Three Identical Strangers is available on All 4

A Man Called Ove and Sex Education

Comedy is a broad church. It accepts the surreal, the slapstick, the cerebral, the visceral, the crude, the wholesome, the nonsensical and the philosophical. People get very angry about comedy in the way they don’t about drama. A viewer can sit through an hour of disappointing drama and chalk it up to bad luck. The same viewer can sit through a shorter comedy show and become incensed when they don’t laugh immediately. They forget that comedy is a broad church; that the laughs come in different forms; that people’s experiences might make them more susceptible to some jokes than others. It’s the reason why some people walk out of award-winning Edinburgh shows declaring ‘that’s not funny;’ when what they really mean is, ‘it’s not my type of humour.’

In my mind the best thing to be is to be open to laughter from all directions. I know the type of humour I like best is the profound and philosophical, humour that gets to the bone of people and institutions. However, I also enjoy watching a grown man trying - and failing - to throw a pen behind the ear. (See Tim Vine). The reason I’m ruminating on comedy is because this week I’ve loved two very different ones: A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman, and the Netflix series Sex Education. The first features an elderly curmudgeon in the title role; the second a coterie of young people, all united under one banner: sex.

A Man Called Ove was a publishing sensation in Sweden where nine hundred thousand copies were sold (that’s one in ten households). Initially, success didn't translate. The book proved a slow burner in the US until word of mouth spread like wild fire; soon the Scandi novel had engulfed all competitors, becoming a New York Times bestseller. From there, a Swedish film was made and soon, with Tom Hanks on board, an American one will follow.  In terms of the book though, its origins lay in blog form. The author Fredrik Backman wrote regularly about life’s irritations. These pieces took the form of humorous rants, whereby he would pour scorn on people and institutions that had crossed him. This young person’s blog would go on to be funneled through a novel, arriving at A Man Called Ove.

It’s easy to see why Backman chose to use an old character as his mouthpiece: after all, it’s much more endearing to see an elderly person railing at the world than it is to a young person. We consider it just the elderly moan, since they're the generation who made do and mend, who saved and sacrificed. They were not born into a time of unlimited choice (of career, of holidays, of breakfast cereals) - they liked what they liked because that was all there was to like.

After the first chapter, the story begins in earnest with Ove surveying his principality. He’s checking to see no one has parked in a signed area, no dog has pissed on the paving and no one has fucked up the recycling – only an arsehole would put a metal lid in with glass jars. Ove then is a man who likes things just so. His first car was a Saab. And his last car will be too. He has routines to follow, standards to fulfil, expectations to adhere to. It’s important to do things well whatever it is, to rely on no one but yourself, and treat your home with respect. Anyone who doesn’t conform to these exacting ideals are sure to get the raised eye brow treatment.

Over the course of the book, Backman peels back the frown lines to reveal the younger man that once was. When we flashback in time to Ove’s early life, we witness a world of sorrow and pain that has made him the man he is. For all his modern-day grumpiness, goodness remains. When a trailer reverses into his letterbox Ove admittedly goes postal; soon, however, he’s helping the incompetent negotiate off his drive. Parvaneh, the Iranian immigrant who occupies the passenger seat, will go on to show Ove that not all good things come from Sweden, that some wonderful things can be manufactured abroad, that not everyone has to be a Saab.

I appreciate from my description that this all sounds whimsical and melancholic, but let me leave the first half of this comedy special with some lines from Backman’s novel.

On Ove: ‘He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s torch.’

On Ove denying an idiot a parking space: ‘He stepped out of the Saab triumphantly, like a gladiator who had just slain an opponent.’

On Ove being told his card isn’t working: ‘Ove looked as if the man behind the Plexiglas had just raised the possibility of Ove having erectile dysfunction.’

Look at the richness of those metaphors, similes and analogies. The comparisons are so vivid and hilarious that they elevate life’s minor victories and failures into huge triumphs and tragedies. There are more wonderful examples peppered throughout the book - huge praise must go to Henning Kock for translating them so well.

'Don't turn your back on the old' might be the message of the book.

And now for something completely different.

Sex Education isn’t a programme that Ove would watch. If he were to turn it on, ‘hell’ and ‘handcart’ might comprise his reaction. It isn’t wry or droll. It’s uproarious, rambunctious fun. Creator Laurie Nunn comes out the traps early, establishing the sex comedy through – well – sex. Two sixth-formers are racing towards the finish with the girl beckoning her boyfriend to get behind her as they head into the final furlong; unfortunately, with the end in sight the jockey dismounts before finishing. Both leave feeling unsatisfied. In another bedroom across town someone else seeks satisfaction- only alone in their room. This juxtaposition serves to establish the main character. As whilst Otis sits in Virgin, his classmates are out back, otherwise engaged, locked in toilet trysts.  Otis is the classical hero of all teen comedies: a male geek in want of sexual fulfilment. We’ve seen it all before, but here it feels different.

Otis (Asa Butterfield)

Sure Sex Education shares in its gross-out moments of American Pie and Superbad; yes, it has the cruel nicknames and mean boy banter of The Inbetweeners, yet it achieves something richer and kinder along the way. You see, Otis is the child of Jean, a sex therapist played by Gillian Anderson. Through his mother’s openness, he knows all there is to know about sex: the mechanics, the biology, the psychology – he just doesn’t know how to put practice into practise. He’s passed his theory in flying colours yet can’t bring himself to take the practical. He’s less Otis Redding, more Otis Reading.

His knowledge of the challenges of sex though will come in handy, as later in the episode he finds himself in a position where he can dispense advice to a patient. Adam who we met at the beginning of the episode has got himself into a predicament. A bully in school, he has no problem in playing the hard man. The trouble lies in the bedroom, where his penis doesn’t stand to attention, rather surrender to anxiety. To remedy this, he’s taken his dad’s Viagra. The trouble is he’s taken so much he can’t move. Otis questions why he’s felt the need to do this. Adam opens up about his performance fears. Maeve, a pink haired outlier in high school conformity, looks on impressed. In fact, she’s so impressed she begins to see pound signs. Soon her and Otis are in business. Their clients will be the students. Their product? Sex therapy. What a business plan! Is there any demographic more thrilled and scared of sex than teenagers? Any age group that puts so much stress on it? At least adults have experience, so when things go wrong they chalk it up to an off day. For teenagers, a minor issue can feel insurmountable, how will it ever improve? What if I’m cursed? Worse, what if people talk? This is what Laurie Nunn has really tapped into: the fact that teenagers are more likely to need sex therapy than anyone.

Maeve, Otis and Adam (left to right). Pic. courtesy Jon Hall/Netflix

It being sex, there are embarrassing moments. It being sex, these are often hilarious. People walk in when they shouldn’t. Something goes up when it shouldn't. Words are said out loud when they shouldn't. For all of the bedroom shenanigans though, the best moments are the most private of all: where you see teenage vulnerability. Without falling into the trap of Skins and becoming too issue-led, Sex Education manages to weave in narratives on slut-shaming, homophobia and abortion. The skill is that it doesn’t feel preachy or jarring against the mischief; it feels very real.

Two comedies then. Sex Education and A Man Called Ove. Completely different, focusing on very different lives, but both revelatory in a way. Both shine a light on the challenges of life, whether it be young or old. And that’s what good comedy can do: make you laugh with lives unlike your own, to see that everyone is scrabbling along, struggling to look like they’ve got their shit together, when in fact we’re all idiots making a right cock of things.        

A Man Called Ove is available from all good bookshops.

Sex Education is available on Netflix.

Stag! Stag! Stag!

Brothers, I will drink my fill with my brothers,
And if one of us is ill then my brothers will watch over me.

(Hot Chip, Brothers)

Manchester, Oh so much to answer for.

(The Smiths, Suffer Little Children)

___________________________________________________

Tradition dictates that a man in want of a wife must have a stag do. Now a stag do can go two ways: it can be just what the prospective groom wants, or just what he doesn’t want. Fortunately, my brother has forgiven me for being an irritating little bastard as a child and chose to organise the former.

He said, ‘Where do you want to go?’

I replied, ‘Manchester.’

He said, ‘What do you want to do?’

I said, ‘I don’t want to do anything physical.’

He said, ‘Crazy golf?’

I said, ‘Defo.’

He said, ‘Where do you want to end the night?’

I said, ‘Indie disco.’

He said, ‘Should I pack invisible gladioli?’

I said, ‘Yes. Bring a bunch. I’ll do the rest.’

Some boys play air guitar. I play air gladioli.

So we were off to Manchester, home to Factory, Fergie, parkas, rain and simian approaches to walking. I’d always wanted to go to there; it’s where The Smiths are from, my all-time favourite band. 80’s Morrissey remains my hero: melancholic, literate, hilarious – there will never be a better pop star. (A shame he hasn’t aged like a fine wine, today resembling a fine dickhead.) I knew the other boys would appreciate Manchester too: new fathers, they would jump at the opportunity to abscond for a short time, but I was aware as decent men they would want to get back too. Two hours on the train and we'd be there. 24 hours and we'd be home. This wasn’t going to be a stag weekend. It would be a stag day. All Killa No Filla to quote a Sum 41 album. We would be on it like an Austen bonnet, then back to residence for tea and aspirin.

The day started with me up bright and early; Liam and me meeting outside Aldi to board the bus. (Dunstable has a busway, which is the finest example of town planning since the pedestrianisation of Norwich City Centre; consequently we were at the station in ten minutes.) Getting the train, we head to Kings Cross, where we made the short walk to Euston. Greeting us at the station was my brother. Soon the other boys arrived, meaning we could make like Tolkien characters on an expected journey. We were only missing one. Scott. It had gone nine and the train was in quarter of an hour. I left a message. I left a missed call. Still no reply. ‘We’ll have to go without him.’ (Kieran said this a little quickly, if you ask me Scott.) And I said, ‘I guess we’ll have to.’ (Notice the word ‘guess’ there, Scott. It suggests a sad reluctance.) Then Scott rang and said he was on the motorway and was never intending getting the train. This is what happens when you try to organise a group of boys.

For the train my brother got some beers in. Usually I have a rule where I don’t drink before 12, unless I really want to, and then I just move my watch forward, making it perfectly acceptable; but this a stag so I broke with protocol and drank ante meridiem Budweisers – delicious. Jonnie and me spoke about work for ten minutes, realised what we were doing, corrected ourselves, then talked about music and comedy for two hours – this is the right ratio for life. It was 11.40. We had arrived.

Golf was booked for 12.30 so we needed to get moving. Kieran had checked us into the Ibis Budget Hotel, a 5 star spa retreat, priced at £40 a night. It surprised me, actually. The downstairs foyer was like an Apple Genius Bar: clinically white with free croissants. (I think they were free, otherwise Ant has to hope the long arm of the law doesn’t stretch south). We organised who was bunking with whom. Kieran said it was tradition for the best man and groom to share. I know the subtext of this was, ‘I miss the chats we used to have when we were little. You know when we had the bunk beds, and after mum had read us some Dahl, we would talk to the early hours of the morning about what football boots we would buy next; whether those Predator ones really could bend the ball like a banana, turning incompetent players like us into world stars. I miss that conversation before closed eyes. You were wise before your years; funny before you’d even watched classic comedies. Those were the best days of my life.’ So yeah, I know the real reason you wanted to share, brother.

We then got the tram to Deansgate and ran across the tracks to Junk Yard Golf. The golf was brilliant. More and more of these places are popping up in cities. The Girl and I like Swingers in London, which has a 1920’s, white-picket Gatsby feel; this one had a bit more grit and industry. We got a couple of cans of Red Stripe from the bar and made our way round the nine holes. There were some cracking holes: one involved hitting it through Del Boy’s Reliant Robin, another had a Mouse Trap feel with different coloured holes leading to colour shoots that would then take it towards the hole. It was great. A bit of friendly competition, a chat, a drink: what more can you want?

After, we had a break and went round the other course, which had more of a carnival theme with a hall of mirror, Ferris wheel and clown’s mouth. By this point, it was 2 o’clock and I’d already had five pints. Typically, I don't have five pints by this time. Sure, four pints, but never five. I find the fifth one makes teaching period 5 difficult. It means my transitions between activities are a little slower and I’m at risk of clattering into students, sending them sprawling to the ground; so I always refrain from the fifth one during lunch. Often, I’ll give it to a colleague who has a free period.

With the golf scores added up, the winners were declared. Jonnie, who was a former golfing star, did not place highly, proving one of two things: either there’s no skill in crazy golf, or he’s squandered his talent, the Gazza of the fairways, destined to wonder where it had all gone wrong. I came third on both occasions, suggesting unremarkable consistency, a quality I hope to take into my marriage.

Junk Yard Golf.

It was then off to City Road Inn for pie, mash and beer. I should go on record and say that the pie and mash in that place was brilliant. Normally, I’m happy to talk at length about things that do not really matter, and I apologise boys it was remiss of me to not deliver a monologue on the chef’s skill at balancing pastry and filling. I think the reason I didn’t soliloquise on the food was because I was too busy enjoying the chat. Chat here mainly centred on criminal records. I’m going to leave it at that – all I will say is that I was the one listening to the stories, as opposed to telling them. I’m no jailbird.

Up next was the micro-brewery in what appeared to be an industrial estate. By this point I’d lost all geography, I didn’t really know who I was or where I was going. I was actually beginning to regret the fact that I hadn’t asked my mum to sew in my name and give me a card with my home address, should I find myself lost. The brewery was the first time someone treated me like a groom, and by that I mean paying no respect for my physical well-being. Dec bought me a beer that was 11%. Typically, the beer I drink is around 4%. 2% was enough to decide whether Britain should leave the EU; 7% was enough for my head to leave its senses and exit all reason and logic.

I was then bundled into the back of a taxi and taken to the hotel. Fortunately, a hot shower seemed to revive me and made me remember my name and why I was in Manchester. It was time for fancy dress. Originally, I told my brother to forget costumes. Then, I thought, ‘Actually, we might be able to make it fun.’ All the boys, other than Ant are massive comedy fans, (the last TV Ant watched was the fall of the Berlin Wall) so I decided on ‘Comedy Characters’ as the theme. Being brown makes it difficult. There aren’t many brown characters. There’s Apu, but there’s controversy around a white actor voicing him currently, and I didn’t want to defend my costume choice whilst being completely leathered – I felt my argument could lack nuance. It was therefore decided I would be Ali G: Baron Cohen and me share a similar skin tone and comedic genius. I have to say my costume was pretty booyakasha. Other lads who did a great job were Dec as Partridge and JP as Duff Man, but the real winner was Andy as Father Ted. His wig fit him so well that it really did feel that we’d resurrected Dermot Morgan.

On the way to the restaurant I somehow saw it fit to lampoon the other boys’ costume. Apparently Jim had let himself down by not having a proton pack; Liam disappointed by forgetting a sheep skin; Kieran’s wig was ‘too Elton John’ and JP’s was ‘too good and not shit enough.’ I was like RuPaul, pouring catty scorn on all comers. I loved them for it though. There’s nothing better than seeing fancy dress done nearly right. Scott, for example, was Ron Burgundy but didn’t have the wig, as a result he looked like a hipster sailor that had put a red sock in with his whites. Manchester seemed to enjoy us anyway. I got "Ali G" shouted at me a lot. I raised my dollar rings in gangsta salute. The people smiled. I smiled. We all smiled. In a complex world, sometimes you just want to see a grown man looking ridiculous.

Nearly getting it right: Liam as Del Boy/Peaky Blinder and Kieran as Austin Powers/Elton John.

We were then in Turtle Bay. The only people in a fine eatery in fancy dress. For a fancy restaurant, you would expect other patrons to wear fancy dress too. As it was we were the only ones who made an effort. The Caribbean food was delicious. I mean, I was having a good day with my mates and that. And sure, they’ve been the ones who I’ve shared triumphs and disasters with. But what was most important about today was that I had had a Leon breakfast, a pie and mash lunch, and lovely Caribbean food. Normally, I eat out once a month. Today, I had eaten out three times in one day. And that’s the big memory I’ll take away.

I next found myself in a bar repeating the catchphrase, ‘I can’t drink anymore beer.’ I remember my tone sounding quite distressed at this point. I’d had about ten pints and I just couldn’t go on. Ant took sympathy on me and bought me a Jager Bomb. Which is a bit like giving a someone a ‘Ha! Ha!’ card at their mother’s funeral. In this life or next, Ant, I will find you and I will kill you. Fortunately, my brother noticed I was beginning to flag, gave me a pep talk, and got me out and into the nightclub.

42^nd Street is a club in Manchester that plays wall to wall indie anthems. When we arrived there was no one in there. I wondered if this club was so independent that it didn’t advertise and thought leaflets were for corporate whores. As it was, it was 9.30, too early to get going. Because get going it did. I waved my invisible gladioli to ‘Bigmouth Strikes Again,’ beat my chest to ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ and threw my limbs to ‘Babies.’ I got a bit over-zealous with my dancing at one point and sent my brother to the ground. I also remember asking my brother if he could sort it for me to stage dive across the dancefloor. I’ve said the same thing at a work’s Christmas Party before. I’m unsure why it appears to mean so much to me; but within my psyche there seems to be a primal need to do it. In all honesty, I probably wouldn’t enjoy it. I’d be worried about my wallet, phones and keys the whole time. Maybe, I could give these to a responsible adult before to ensure I didn’t lose them. Maybe all this talk about the administration of stage diving is why I shouldn’t do it and leave it instead to the reckless few that put fun before practical concerns.

Da Club.

Some of the boys went AWOL at this point. One who knew how to get home; one who didn’t. I was unaware of this and went looking for them. Yet with every turn I took I was set upon by bum fluff paps snapping me for their Insta. I felt like Kate Bush in an Ali G costume: desperate for privacy away from the world’s gaze. My brother grabbed me by the shell suit and took me and the other lads home. Luckily, the other two were there once we arrived.

In the morning we checked out and went for a breakfast in the themed Brexit pub called J.D Wetherspoons. I got up to make a toast but I didn’t have the strength or fluency to fashion a sentence. I sat back down. Andy clocked that I wanted to thank my brother and said, ‘Did you want to say anything?’ We raised our mugs and celebrated my brother for organising a great day. I didn’t have the words for a speech, so I’ll conclude this blog by writing what I wish I'd said:

Thank you for giving up your time, money and babies to be here. I’m lucky to know men whom I can talk to about comedy, about love. These, after all, are the two most important things in life. In particular, thank you to my brother who organised the whole thing. I’m very proud of you and the job you’re about to start. Even though you're flesh and bones and the one who's been there since the start; despite the fact the rest of you are johnny-come-lately’s, who only saw fit to befriend me once I could stand and talk; despite all of that, I consider each and every one you my brothers. A toast to 'brothers.'