Mum

Over the summer I had a lot of time to sit and think, and I realised that everything I think and do and I say, I just want to be thinking it and doing it and saying it with you.

(Cathy from Mum)

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I feel compelled to highlight the above dialogue because TV writing isn’t always held in the same esteem as movie writing. A few months back, when looking for a wedding reading online, I found nothing but movie and literary references. In the end we went for When Harry Met Sally, where Harry tells Sally all the things he loves about her, concluding on, “When you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.” It’s the romantic urgency of the line that appealed to me; that carpe diem feeling of when you’ve found something, someone, to just get on and make the most of it, because in a finite life of passing years there simply isn’t enough time for hesitation. I won’t ever regret choosing Ephron’s words because they came from a film we love, reflecting the feelings we felt.

TV though is giving Tinseltown a run for its money in terms of romanticism. In the final episode of Fleabag, Phoebe Waller-Bridge writes a perfect love speech for Andrew Scott's priest character:

‘Love is awful. It’s awful. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life. It makes you selfish. It makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel, makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want, and it’s hell when we get there. So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own.

I've been to a lot of weddings and I've never heard a priest come close to doing a speech as good as this. Pic. BBC

Although this isn’t a speech you would hear at a wedding, it’s one a registrar should share with a couple pre-ceremony. The devotion you feel to your partner does have costs. Your happiness is entwined with theirs. If they’re unhappy, you are unhappy. If they grieve, you grieve. Their mood is your mood: good or bad. Love makes you stronger than you’ve ever felt, but it also makes you weaker. You have to accept that someone holds your hope, heart and happiness in their hands; trust they won’t let it slip, slip through their fingers. That last line is the pay-off though: for all the horror, the vulnerability and insecurity it throws up, love is easier when you go in together. It’s Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130 written for the box set generation: a lament whose hard truths concede to quiet beauty. 

In watching Mum this week I’ve gone back and looked at a few old episodes. The epigraph at the top of the page is one I missed on first viewing, but one I’m delighted to rediscover.

Golaszewski’s writing doesn’t have the appearance of anti-romance like Waller-Bridge; it’s from the Ephron playbook of gilded screenwriting. There’s the repetition of ‘think,’ ‘do’ and ‘say,’ but with the subtle change of pronoun (‘I’ to ‘you’) that gives it its power. At the end of series two, Cathy decides to release herself from the prison of grief and guilt. These emotions that live in your head are necessary for some time – the mortgage on happiness- but there comes a time when you feel you have paid your debt in full, and to continue to pay senseless when you’ve paid back quite enough. In reaching out for Michael’s hand in the final scene, we see Cathy’s thoughts made action: she waves goodbye to isolation, gesturing hello to co-operation.

Michael (Peter Mullan) and Cathy (Lesley Manville) Pic. BBC

The final series of Mum has been put out on iPlayer. It was mine and The Girl’s intention to watch one a week as they went out on BBC Two, however, the greatness of it got the better of us and we watched them all. For the benefit of the reader though, I’ll just talk about the ones that have been transmitted on terrestrial.

Series three begins in a different environment than we’re used to. Just as Golaszewski shifted setting for the final series of Him and Her, his previous sitcom, he’s done the same here. The similarity with his past offering does not end there. Both final series switch time frames, becoming more condensed in their plotting. Him and Her’s conclusion ran episodically over a day, from morning 'til night. Mum spans a week, with the first titled ‘Monday’ going right through to ‘Saturday.’ Doing so raises the stakes, as the relentless march of time denies the viewer a break from the action. With no chronological interludes, no fast-forwarding in time, we are there with the characters the whole time, in their lives, rooms and situations, laughing, commiserating with them along the way.

We begin with Cathy pulling up in her car, son Jason and girlfriend Kelly in the back. She exits and looks up, ‘ooh Christ.’ The blaspheme comes out of shock. Cathy is from suburbia: a semi-detached world of car on the drive, Bolognese on the hob. What she’s not used to do is country estates. This one is huge. More bedrooms than people. More drive than cars. More money than sense. Pauline, her brother’s girlfriend, comes out to meet them. She isn’t so overawed by the lavish environs, in fact she positively revel in it. ‘Hello, sorry to keep you waiting I was by the pool.’ She then proceeds to name drop ‘the pool’ into conversation with all the frequency of an insufferable celeb on The Graham Norton Show, so much so that Cathy can be in no doubt that this house does indeed have a pool.

It has a pool, don't you know. Pic. BBC

We’re then taken on a tour of the house. Bear in mind this isn’t Pauline’s house: they’re renting it for Derek’s birthday; however, the way Pauline moves around the gaff is as if her name is on it. Derek, Pauline’s boyfriend-cum-man servant, sits on the sofa reading The Daily Telegraph. Pauline is thrilled to announce they have a larder, opining, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever had a larder, have you Cathy?’ She’s also delighted the house houses a piano, or as she calls it ‘pi-a-no.’ This woman is a post-watershed Hyacinth Bucket: a monstrous snob determined to elevate her status at the cost of others. 

Later, we see her reading James Joyce’s Ulysses by the pool. Forget Lee Child or Jodi Picoult, what you really need to unwind on holiday is an impenetrable, stream of consciousness doorstop. The thing is with Pauline she knows the cultural signifiers, what makes someone middle class, yet she’ll never be one. You can acquire intelligence and wealth, but you can’t acquire class. It’s hardwired into your DNA: it’s where you were born, how you were raised, what school you went to – for good or bad you can’t escape it or buy your way out of it. By Golaszewski introducing Kumar and Claire, the homeowners they are renting from, we feel sympathy for Pauline and Derek. No matter how hard they try, they will never join the elite because they will never talk about owning a horse with the same ease Claire does.

Pauline reading James Joyce. Pic. BBC

Away from Derek and Pauline, Kelly and Jason are struggling to keep some big news under wraps. Kelly is clearly pregnant. She won’t touch alcohol and complains of feeling sick and tired the whole time. Meanwhile, Jason is worried that carrying a water bottle might be too much for her. The two are the most conspicuous people imaginable. If they killed someone, they would hide the body outside a police station. In a touching moment Kelly seeks advice from Cathy over how a ‘friend from Sainsbury’s’ is concerned about her pregnancy. Seeing a young woman go to an older woman for counsel is very moving. Despite Cathy going along with the pretence, her words strike home and leave Kelly feeling much better for her 'friend.' So happy is she, she’ll just go off and text her, then 'have a big period.’ Lisa McGrills, who plays Kelly, was missing from Bafta nominations this year; surely the same mistake can’t be made next. Over the programme she’s bloomed into a character of warmth and surprising perception.

A fantastic performance from Lisa McGrills. Pic. Getty Images

And finally, there’s Michael and Cathy. Michael did not travel with Cathy, which makes us wonder what's happened in the intervening time. Fortunately, he does turn up in episode one, holding Cathy’s eyes in his own. The trouble, as in the last series, is Jason. The two have to tiptoe their love around him, fearing his reaction. Although the laughs appear with some regularity, Golaszewski addresses the big issues too: Is it ok to love someone else when your partner is no more? Does it betray what you had? Should you chase happiness to the detriment of others? Jason may seem selfish in his evasions, invasions, threat and warnings, but a parent moving on has huge consequences for the child too. Golaszewski has said in interviews that there’s no villains in his show- and he’s right: there’s only humans.

The final episodes of Mum will melt you like- well, like butter. I’ve written about Golaszewski in a previous blog, but I feel Mum may be his greatest triumph. Here, he has created a comedy of manners wrapped up in a great love story, all whilst shining a torch on grief. Not since The Office has pain, warmth and laughter been so skillfully handled. So don’t keep mum, tell everyone about it. Like love, it’s worth sharing.

Mum is on BBC Two Wednesday at 10pm. All episodes are on BBC iPlayer.

My previous blog on the writer is here: 

https://reasonstobecheeful.blogspot.com/2016/05/stefan-golaszewski.html

FA Cup Final

In 1872 Wanderers beat Royal Engineers 1-0 to win the inaugural FA Cup. Since then the competition has evolved into the greatest domestic tournament. Each year teams like Dunstable have the opportunity to emerge from preliminary rounds to face professional sides in latter stages. The fact many amateur sides will never get to the third round and compete against billionaire behemoths is by the by; what’s important is there is a cup which means it is at least possible.

Over the years the cup has lost some of its prestige; the turning point for this was Manchester United’s decision to withdraw from the competition in the 1999-2000 so they could compete in the World Club Championship. This emphasis on putting the global before the domestic is seen today with top teams resting players for the FA Cup in preparation for European midweek games. For most sides though the tournament represents history, tradition and opportunity. The chance to bring some millionaires back to your mole hill and laugh at them as they try to play it along the floor. The possibility of rich boys rolling up in their Beats headphones, finding they have to adopt a sit-forward/sit-back approach to fit in the changing rooms. The dream of scoring against them. Sometimes that’s enough. Not even winning. Just a tackle will do. Going through a seven-figure salary can provide an amateur with a rich anecdote for life.

Manchester United announce they are withdrawing from the 1999-2000 FA Cup.

I don’t support a minnow. I support Watford FC. A small team that through good management have become big. Thirty-five years ago, the genius of Graham Taylor reached peak levels when he led us to the FA Cup Final. Under his management, he took the team from the basement of English football to its ivory tower. Despite being exuberant in Pop, Watford chairman Elton John did not operate such largess when it came to running a football club. Taylor balanced the books successfully; the team’s success owed more to his tactical acumen than it ever did to financial backing. Over the years Watford have experienced the worst of times, nearly going into administration; and the best of times, sustaining their position in the Premier League. For all of that, this year has been the best one in thirty-five years. The reason? We reached our first major final since 1984.

Knowing we were up against Manchester City meant we were all determined to enjoy the day. City have scored five or more goals eleven times this year. They beat Burton Albion 9-0 in the League Cup Semi-Final first leg. They beat Chelsea 6-0 in the Premier League. (Chelsea, who came third.) Last year, they got the highest ever points total in the Premier League. This year, they got the second highest. In other words, they’re competing against themselves. Shadow boxing against their very brilliance. Trying to outdo their own records. They’re nothing short of phenomenal.

In yesteryear the FA Cup Final used to be a bigger national event. Coverage would begin in the morning and go through to the night. The helicopters would be out tracking the team coach. Interviewers would be out early to vox pop fans. In one video I looked at during my research a reporter is at the hospital bed of one injured player, there to commiserate his bad luck. It used to be an important date on the British calendar; now, it doesn’t attract many people outside of football. In a bid to recreate the past we decided to devote a whole day to the match, in order to savour every moment.

The day began in Bill’s in Watford. My brother is a contributor to the award-winning From The Rookery End podcast, a weekly listen that previews and reviews games, as well as updating supporters on the schemes and initiatives the club run in and out of the ground. Through the pod my brother has gained an extended family. Like all genuine friendships, the boys respect for one another stretches beyond work commitments, meaning they now socialise away from Vicarage Road. It being cup final day they decided to get everyone’s families together so we could breakfast like hobbits and devise schemes on how best to make away with the silver. Having the opportunity to put faces to voices was just brilliant. For the past few years, their show has kept me company on the journey to work. A podcast is an intimate experience; more so than radio, as you’ve chosen when and where you want to listen to it. I kept my fanboy in check and chatted casually to the guys as if they were ordinary men, as opposed to the celebrities they definitely are.

After finishing two rounds of toast, scrambled egg and salmon, we made our way to the Watford shop, where my dad got all giddy and bought a bumper sticker. What my dad forgets is that I live in Dunstable, a Luton stronghold, part of the Orange Order. As a Watford fan, I’m positively Catholic in comparison. (This analogy needs a working knowledge of kit colours and Irish conflict. If you’re not on this Venn diagram, I can only apologise for your ignorance.) So what will happen when my dad comes to visit? Having that on my drive makes me a target. If I get a petrol bomb through my letterbox because in a dizzy moment of cup fever my dad thought it sensible to buy a bumper sticker, then I’m sending him the repair bill.

I'm dug in behind enemy lines living in Dunstable.

After this, we went home, put on our yellow t-shirts and had a round of teas. Whilst there, The Girl and I showed my brother the pictures from our wedding. (The happiest day of my life – pending the result of the cup final.) Both my brother and I were pleased with the reaction shots from our speeches. For too long we have doubted our sense of humour, yet there in front of us was cast-iron proof that we were indeed hilarious. A picture doesn’t lie. Unless you’re Stalin and you make it lie. Otherwise though, it doesn’t. There in the tears and laughter was concrete evidence that we are very funny men.

The journey to Wembley was a little stop-start. For The Girl, who suffers from travel sickness, she was looking more peaky than blinder. So it was a relief when we pulled up on the drive and parked our car (we booked one for the day; we don’t just park where we want. We’re civilized people, not riff-raff you have to call the council on).

Walking up the ground, we decided to take a diversion and go via Wembley Way. There’s nothing quite like seeing the stadium in front of you and walking up those hallowed steps towards the ground. We weren’t quite sure where we were going to stop for ale. The pubs looked mega full when we drove in, so thought it might be prudent just to go straight into the ground. Fortunately, Box Park (which we heard was good) was letting people in.

Wembley Way.

As soon as I walked in, I saw former centre forward Heider Helguson. I appreciate the name doesn’t mean a lot to everyone. But for me, he was my teenage hero. At a time when Watford didn’t have much quality, he was a star man, netting big goals in our debut Premier League season. (I’d met people off the podcast and now a retired Icelandic international – what a day.) Yes, I appreciate they’re not Cruise, Clooney, DiCaprio … Streep, but better to idolise a man without fame than give time to one with. (That sounds like something Jesus would say. For the record, I’m not saying I am Jesus. I’m just saying it sounds like something he would say.)

After drinking some pints, we were ready to head to the ground. In the semi-final The Girl didn’t get her bag searched. This is because they thought she was under 16, as opposed to being a thirty-something woman. This time they did search her bag, which just goes to show how being married to me ages you. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get tickets together, so we had to split into two factions. My dad, The Girl and me; my brother and mum. We ascended the escalator and made our way up to the Gods. High up in the Kingdom of Wembley, we would be singing with the angels. Such heavenly songs as ‘Javi Gracia, he drinks sangria’ and ‘Wash your mouth out son, go shoot some Luton scum.’ You know, songs that the Almighty Father would approve of.

Getting the beers in.

Early on in the match, we have a chance to make it 1-0. Roberto Pereyra is put through one on one with only Ederson to beat. He doesn’t find the corner and the score remains 0-0. Ten minutes in and a goal would have given us a huge amount of confidence. When you’re playing a team that has swept the whole league before them, an early lead would have been just the tonic. As it is, City pounce on a mistake by Abdoulaye Doucoure, leading David Silva to profit. Not long after, Huerelho Gomes is tempted by the serpent boot of Bernado Silva and is made to pay for his indiscretion. Gabriel Jesus is on foot to put it into the back of the net. Two mistakes and we’re 2-0 down.

After half-time, we come out and dominate the midfield. Our central pairing are showing the tenacity and dynamism that make them the best partnership outside the top four. We came back from 2-0 down in the semi-final; because of that experience there’s a feeling we can do it again. Last week Liverpool and Tottenham came back against world class opposition. Recent history tells us that it’s possible. We press forward. Smother City. Remind them: ‘this is a contest.’ Then from one of corners, they break. Pereyra, guilty for missing that chance earlier, isn’t a reformed character.  As supporters, we gave him a second chance to make amends; unfortunately, he re-offends, pulling out of two aerial challenges, causing the ball to go upfield where De Bruyne scores. 3-0 down with half an hour to go. The Watford players know it’s over.

The final thirty minutes demonstrated why Manchester City should be punished by the FA for unsporting behaviour. They were relentless. Like a dominatrix in the bedroom, they got unholy pleasure from flogging us into the ground. Perverts the lot of them. Every time they went forward they looked like they would score. At 6-0 it was already the joint worst defeat in cup final history. (In 1903 Bury beat Derby with the same score.) Yet still they came forward. Fortunately, in the dying seconds, Gomes saved from John Stones, preserving some of our blushes. But 6-0 was a humiliation, which did not befit the game.

The day remains a reason to be cheerful however, because it typified what football is about. In the morning I ate and talked with people I didn’t know – all because of football. I spent the pre-match drinking and singing with my family – all because of football. And in the 80^th minute I stood defiantly with other Watford fans, waving my flag to the sky, not white in surrender, but yellow in club pride. Pride over what had been accomplished. Out of 736 teams that started the competition, we made the final two. Against billionaires, we didn’t put eleven men behind the ball and accept narrow defeat. We dared to dream, believing we could win. Sure, we were found out, but we gave it a go. 

Standing together.

The cup final anthem is the hymn ‘Abide with me.’ Today, the lyrics strike a chord.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens Lord, with me abide
When other helpers fail and comforts flee
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

The football pitch is a lonely place when you’re being spanked by Guardiola and his band of perverts. We could have left our team, turned our back on them, yet instead we stayed to lift them. In our biggest game, we suffered our worst defeat. How you react to adversity says a lot about character. We as a club responded by standing together. I’ve never been more proud.

From The Rookery End is available on iTunes and other places where you download stuff. 

Comebacks

Shit! Raul Jimenez scores to make it 2-0. Rubbing salt into wounds, he goes trademark: donning a Mexican wrestling mask to acknowledge his nationhood. We’re down for the count. Laid out on the mat. 1-2-3. It's time to send us back to the locker room for a round of tea and recriminations.

Booooo! (Getty Images)

I should have expected this. We’ve been as profligate as prolific this season. Able to out pass and out manoeuvre teams without winning games. Today looks like one of those days. We haven’t played badly; we just haven’t been clinical up top. There hasn’t been that incision, that brave decision, to cut a defence in two. Three years ago, we were here. In Wembley. A semi-final. Sunnier than today. But with the same gloomy feel. Frustration permeating every pore. The pre-kick off anticipation dissipating into what-could-have-been. We lost then and we’ll lose now. Wolves aren’t Cardiff or Fulham: teams we'd score a bundle against. They are well managed and motivated. I turn to the person I’m about to marry, look at the team I have, and let out a sigh. Loving a team can be bloody painful. “I wish I knew how to quit you, Watford.”

Enter stage left, Gerard Deulofeu. A man on a mission. He wants to prove his manager wrong. Having played most matches this season, he was dropped for this one. Unhappy with his previous contributions, Javi Gracia made the call to bench him. For a man brought up in the Barcelona academy, this is an indignity. I mean people used to say my name in the same sentence as Lionel Messi. And now I’m here on the sidelines whilst a man who goes out with a Little Mix takes my place. Andre Gray! He was playing non-league football a few years ago. Long balls and cold showers. Mud and high tackles. Did I mention I used to play with Lionel Messi?

If Raul Jimenez is the masked Mexican, Gerard is V for Vendetta. Instantly, he changes the game. His positivity sets the Watford end ablaze. His diminutive nature belies his presence. He’s given everyone a lift. Then, it happens. From an acute angle, he sees something. The keeper stands to the left. Two defenders block any potential strike. Yet he sees something. Goods manufactured in Barcelona aren’t ordinary. Like superheroes, they can see through walls. Deulofeu is one such man. With a move befitting a ballerina, he scissors his leg and cuts the ball into the far corner. I can’t believe what I’ve seen. I’ve grown up with Devon White and Neil Shipperley, great lumps of centre forward. I have never seen a Watford player do that.

Goal of the season.

From there, the wind is in our sails. There’s no stopping us. Wave after wave of attack. The pressure is unrelenting. A ball comes into the box, a foot goes into a body, a penalty is awarded. It isn’t so much kicked into the back of the net, but put into a cannon and fired in. 2-2 and we’re going into extra time. Afterwards, Watford striker Andre Gray said, ‘There was no doubt we would win it in extra-time.’ I felt the same. Momentum plays a huge part in football. For all the technical excellence and tactical nous of the great and the good, throw a goal at them and see the confidence drain. We won 3-2 that day. It was Watford’s greatest comeback.

I talk about my favourite comeback because this week has seen two great ones. Normally, this blog is an arts one, where I celebrate such things as film, theatre, music, dance. I would argue these matches have encapsulated all of these forms, coalescing them into staggering, spell-binding entertainment. When football is good it has more drama than theatre, more twists than film, more passion than music, more rhythm than dance. The beautiful game isn’t a cliché; it’s an apt name for something that can be aesthetically pleasing and spiritually enriching.

Liverpool are 3-0 down from the first leg. They don’t have a hope in hell of coming back. Yes, Anfield is a fortress. But Barcelona are little hobbits, able to breach impregnable lairs. Sure, it’s possible that Liverpool will score three goals. What isn’t possible, what I - and no one else can countenance- is they will get through this game without conceding. They have Messi, Suarez and Coutinho: the magic number, a holy trinity, a 5-star trilogy. Liverpool's search for goals will go punished; I do not doubt this.

They cost more than three tenners.

The game starts the way I envisaged. Liverpool are McCartney helter-skelter, all whilst Barcelona create a fairground up front. Yes, Liverpool have an early goal but it’s only a matter of time before Messi puts one away, then they’ll need five. You ain’t scoring five against a defence that includes Pique. The man has been revitalised this season, behaving like a defender who has listened to Marcello Lippi’s audio book, read by Diego Simeone. It can’t be done; it won’t be done.

At half-time Liverpool are forced to make a change. The marauding Andy Robertson, the best left-back in the world, is taken off for Gini Wijnaldum, a consistent performer, but one who doesn’t possess a similar threat. Of course, he scores, powering in a cross from the right. He then leaps to conquer, scoring with a header off the left. It’s 3-3 on aggregate. Barcelona can’t believe what’s happening to them. Normally teams look at our team sheet and quit then. Sure, they come out and play. But their participation is merely symbolic. They know when they read Messi, Suarez and Coutinho that hope is but an illusion. What an indignity! This team pressing, harassing us, as if we’re mere mortals. We’re Ozymandias. King of Kings. Look on our records and despair!... How did this happen? What the fuck do we do? How can we be reactive when we’re proactive? Is there anyone who knows what to do? Please, anyone. Please. Lionel, say you know what to do.

The ball is on the corner spot. Trent Alexander-Arnold runs away from it. I do too. I go to the cupboard to get a pack of Doritos. I miss a moment. The replay shows all. The young scamp has only gone and out-witted grand masters. The run away was but a feint. An illusion. The talk hiding the trick. He wasn’t running away from the ball, but giving us the run around. With Barca players busy watching Arnold, they don’t notice his doppelganger running back and spraying a corner into the box. Origi, a man who wouldn’t get on Man City’s bench, rifles it home. Liverpool are beating Barcelona 4-0. And that’s how the score stays. 

At the final whistle the players conduct a choir. They are Freddie at Live Aid. The song, ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone.’ Thirty years on from Hillsborough, it’s moving beyond belief. I look at The Girl, a Liverpool fan, and hold her hand. We applaud like it’s theatre.

The next night and I’m in on my own. I decide to give the Tottenham game a go, knowing full well that it won’t be as good as the previous nights. Wednesday isn’t a good tele night, anyway. If it was Thursday I’d watch ‘The Good Fight,’ then watch the highlights after. By half-time the game is more or less over. Tottenham have played well but they’re 2-0. down They won’t comeback like Liverpool because they don’t have the momentum. In Liverpool’s game they were starting the second leg afresh. An early goal gave them confidence. Tottenham’s fresh start is worse than their old start. In the first leg they were only 1-0 down; here it’s 2. Goodnight Vienna.

I would have watched this if it was on.

Unlike Liverpool, Tottenham make a tactical change. Fernando Llorente comes on for Victor Wanyama. A big attacker replacing a holding midfielder. Spurs are going for broke. Like Liverpool, a substitute changes everything. Whereas Klopp praised his team as ‘mentality giants,’ Tottenham need to praise their actual one. By sitting on Daley Blind, Llorente squashed his opponent, making him redundant. Everything was going up to the Queen bee with teammates swarming in behind. Soon Lucas Moura had latched onto an Alli pass, spearing it into the back of the net. Then, a Llorente close-yarder was saved miraculously by the Ajax keeper, only for their hero to spill it to Moura. The subsequent ball control was like a Marvel character in full flight. The swish-swish-bang of it was quite insane. Still, Tottenham are behind on aggregate.

To give Ajax credit, they did not surrender like Barca. Being young, they did not have the hubris to expect to be in front. They had their chances, went close, all to no avail. With the clock ticking down, Tottenham kick a Hail Mary into the box. Its knockdown falls to Alli, who pirouettes the ball into Moura. Incredibly, the hat-trick is sealed. From 2-0 on the night, 3-0 down on aggregate, Tottenham win on away goals.

The subsequent celebrations were as moving. Never have I seen a post-match interview be postponed because ‘the manager is crying right now.’ Most memorable is how manager Mauricio Pochettino beckons his staff over to celebrate with the fans. Genuflecting, his arms proceed to tell them he’s not worthy. It’s the players and managers who get the headlines; however, they’re nothing without the staff behind them.

I’ve never seen better back to back football matches. The contrast from agony to ecstasy was the stuff of great narrative. But how has it happened twice? Guardian journalist Jonathan Wilson puts it down to progressive rule changes that mean teams can’t shut out attacking sides anymore. The back-pass rule and protection of skillful players restricts defensive teams from adopting hard tackling, anti-football. On top of that, the top teams aren’t used to defending. In the domestic leagues they’re not challenged, like they are in Europe. Consequently, an emphasis is put on putting the ball in the back of the net and not keeping it out. All of this creates a situation where talented teams are never dead and buried. There’s always the chance for renewal and resurrection. Which is why I’m not worried about Watford’s FA Cup Final next week. Undoubtedly, Manchester City will go 3-0 up, yet with the season being as it is there’s no doubt we’ll win 4-3. Here’s to the comeback!  

Don't Forget The Driver

It’s been a difficult choice this week. What cultural thing have I enjoyed most? Line of Duty culminates on BBC One tomorrow, a denouement that promises to answer the question: who is H? I’m hoping writer Jed Mercurio throws a curveball and reveals Ian Watkins from Steps as the double agent. That ending would certainly piss on the chips of everyone whose been on tenterhooks these past weeks.

It couldn't be him, could it?

I was honestly thinking of doing it on Line of Duty, but the truth is as much as I love the intrigue and tension, I find it po-faced. There’s not much in the way of levity or romantic sub-plots to break up the tension. Don’t get me wrong: it’s great – it’s just a little one note. It’s a great note. A minor or C major (I don’t know much about notation to be honest). I would just prefer to have a few different shades. For all the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet and King Lear, there’s Mercutio and the Fool respectively. If Line of Duty saw a joke book, it would swab it for prints, bag it, catalogue and store it before anyone had a look. Another show I considered was Ghosts, a fantastic sitcom from the team behind Horrible Histories. This week’s episode had a beautiful blend of pathos and comedy, showing signs that it’s developing into something truly special. The one though that I’ve stumped for is Don’t Forget The Driver; I’ve been enjoying it for weeks and I can't ignore it any longer.

Don’t Forget The Driver is written by actor Toby Jones and theatre maker Tim Crouch. The pair met years ago whilst working on a play together. Staying in touch, the two talk regularly on creative endeavors. Crouch’s latest idea was the TV show we see today. Born in Bognor Regis, he saw something compelling in its geography, explaining: “Bognor sits on the edge of England - facing out towards Europe. The modern world has arrived and yet Bognor still has the unmistakable air of a seaside town holding onto its traditional values.” For Crouch, the seaside is the quintessence of Britishness. Its salt, sea and sand serves as a reminder to our past: the holidays that we all took; the smell we all brought back. Further, it remains largely untouched. Technology has not moved in; multiculturalism is elsewhere; modernisation not yet invented. There is still beauty, but it has faded, gathering dust.

Toby Jones (left) and Tim Crouch (right).

A BBC One show earlier in the year The Mighty Redcar invoked a similar mood. The duality of pride and shame felt in these towns. The remembrance of them being busy and bustling, alongside the lament that those times won’t come again. The young want to leave and the old want to survive. Jobs are scarce and the bank manager’s noose grows tighter. Yet for all the neglect and hardship, no one can repossess the sea: the ancient God that provides succour to all. To be by the sea, to have the sand under your feet, to breathe the breeze, is a free kind of therapy.

The first episode begins with a focus on the fridge. There are magnets that cover Edinburgh and Hooky Hole. Nice places but not too far away from home, establishing the parochial character. In contrast to that is the voice from Down Under: on Skype is our protagonist’s brother, Barry, a boorish prick doing nothing to rebrand the stereotype of Aussie men. Peter and Barry discuss their mother who is ill. Thousands of miles away, living the good life, Barry doesn’t seem too interested in her plight. Next, we’re in the living room. A girl and a boy are asleep on the coach. The way their bodies are spread suggests friendship, not coitus. Pete isn’t happy with the girl: ‘Have you eaten my Spanish omelette?’ She can’t remember. She plays sleuth and burps. The evidence is clear: yes, she has. “But that was for my lunch,” Pete replies. This is a comedy of details. Specificity is the stuff of comedy: say ‘omelette’ and you don’t get a laugh, prefix it with ‘Spanish’ and there you have it. Kayla’s burp tells us everything about her: rebellious, uncouth and cheeky. Who needs words when you’ve got gestures? The writing is peerless.

After we’re outside with Pete as he gets into his car, off to work. The camera pans back and in wide shot we see his home against others. You are  There’s the flag of St George flying outside his neighbour’s window. You get the impression it’s not the Patron Saint’s Day or an England fixture; it’s a mark of identity, suggesting a nation that fears invaders. We see one such invader a few moments later. Pete stops for a pitstop and walks the beach where he finds a body washed up on the sand. Afraid, he flees the scene, wanting no part in an international tragedy. Pete has his own problems closer to home: a mum with dementia, an unemployed daughter and a job that just about pays. Charity is fine for those who can afford it, but Pete is time poor and as much as he wants to doesn’t have the strength for it.

Pete (top left) and his problems: Kaya (bottom left), Mum (bottom right) and Fran, his love interest (top right).

Later we find he can escape it no longer. On returning from Dunkirk (he is a coach driver), he finds  a refugee stowed in the luggage compartment. Over the course of the next episodes we see how Pete cannot ignore this young woman. She pricks his conscience and despite his best efforts, his good nature wins out, protecting her in his own cowardly way. Toby Jones who plays Pete is at his conflicted best, perfectly communicating a man caught in two minds, in two worlds: he wants the quiet life, however it doesn’t want him. I think Jones is my favourite actor; I loved him in Marvellous and detectorists for his ability to show the fallible nobility of the ordinary man. He does this again here.

And before I go I must talk about the direction. A few weeks ago I went with my dad to the National Portrait Gallery to look at Martin Parr’s Only Human exhibition, ostensibly about Brexit, but really about our Britain's quirkiness. Like Parr, director Tim Kirkby knows how to show the nation. The camera freezes on British iconography: condiment bottles, food vans, seafronts, cockle stalls and bunting. The camera lingers on these images, contributing to a pacing that recreates the feel of an invigorating walk. The programme isn’t slow, but it doesn't rush around either. I guess it’s the antithesis to Line of Duty cliff-hangers and jump cuts.

A Martin Parr picture. Credit: Martin Parr/Magnum Photos

Don’t Forget The Driver is simply beautiful. So for all the hullabaloo surrounding a certain show, remember there’s an altogether more quiet and dignified one on BBC Two. Don’t Forget The Driver, then – you would regret it.

Don’t Forget The Driver is on Tuesday 10pm BBC2. Alternatively, all episodes are on iPlayer.

Back to Life

George Lazenby didn’t. David Moyes couldn’t. Donald Trump isn’t. Back to Life has.

How do you follow someone, something, iconic that's defined a generation? It’s one of the hardest things to do. Fresh in everyone’s mind is what’s come before: their brilliance, their ingenuity, their class. You’ve been thrown into history too soon. Better if there was a gap, a go-between, to ensure you weren’t juxtaposed against one of the greats.

Back to Life has been put in the TV slot vacated by Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Fleabag achieved what The Office did in 2001, achieving the impossible, writing a second series that surpassed its first, improving on perfection. In doing something original with the fourth wall, in creating a character that captured millennial angst, Waller-Bridge showed she could reflect life and push on art. It was a phenomenal achievement, demonstrating how TV can equal theatre in terms of innovation and experimentation. So how do you follow that?

Fleabag: not an easy programme to follow.

Daisy Haggard’s Back to Life is proving something of an underground hit. It hasn’t been trailed as much as Toby Jones’ Don’t Forget the Driver (which is also great), but for me it’s the TV show of the moment. This week The Girl and I shot through all six episodes on iPlayer. We did consider watching them live on Monday nights, but we were so impressed by the opening we thought it right to watch them all.

The opening episode begins with Miri cutting her fringe. She makes a mistake; tries to even it out; thus making it worse. The camera cuts to a job interview – an interrogation where the ‘no comment’ get out is denied. Nathan presents his findings: ‘Your CV it’s quite gappy. As in there’s a gap in it. It’s mostly gap. In fact it’s all gap.’ Miri hasn’t worked since Fat Face in 2000. Why has she not had a job since? A mealy-mouthed excuse follows. ‘I was travelling.’ The camera cuts to Miri collecting her possessions from prison. Miri hasn’t been travelling; she has in fact been doing quite the opposite. She’s been holed up stationary for the past eighteen years, unable to move a muscle; the only world she's seen is the one from her cell window.

From here, we go back to her release from prison. Her mum and dad greet her. We know they will be entertaining as Carol chides her husband on his hat, “You look like fucking Guy Richie.” On the journey home, Miri breathes her head out of the window, inhaling sensory freedom. Now at home she goes into her bedroom, finding it’s been kept how she left it. Prince, David Bowie and The Naked Chef adorn the wall. Looking at Jamie Oliver, she says, “Thank God, he’s still with us.” Miri, like her parents, has a great sense of humour. Pulling a box out, she observes ancient artefacts: a Discman, printed pictures, a Tamagotchi. The little machine won’t start up; “Rest in Peace,” she retorts. With a wry sense of humour, Miri belies the prisoner stereotype: she has a personality agreeable to all.

The thing is she’s been sent away for eighteen years. You do not serve a stretch for stealing pick n’ mix. Consequently, she receives telephone, online, letterbox and graffiti threats. The community has closed ranks and want her out. Miri doesn’t have many people to turn to. Her childhood friend Mandy is persona non grata (she didn’t visit when she was in prison), her ex-boyfriend Dom is now married with children, even her mother doesn’t appear to trust her (hiding the kitchen knives in top cupboard). Whatever Miri has done has got people scared. No one is buying the idea that prison can reform and rehabilitate: as far as they’re concerned, she is the Bride of Chucky, Myra Hindley, a Kathy Bates character all rolled into one.

Over the course of the six episodes, clues as to what Miri has done are drip-fed. The series has been executive produced by the writers behind The Missing and their influence is felt here. As although it has the beats of comedy, at its heart is a murder mystery. Haggard puts the success of the plotting down to co-creator, Laura Solon. Solon won the main Edinburgh Award in 2005 and went on to adapt Hollywood film scripts. The pair have been firm friends for years, working on BBC sketch show Man Stroke Woman back in 2007. Across the pond, Haggard shared her script ideas, with Solon giving notes for improvement. These skype chats have produced a comedy about a murder that neither descends into spoof (Touch of Cloth) or grotesquery (Nighty Night), instead it pulls off the difficult feat of being serious and funny.

Solon and Haggard worked together on Man Stroke Woman.

For all of Miri’s struggles to forge a new life, she does experience kindness. Nathan, the chip shop owner, takes a chance on her. Like Miri, he isn’t welcome in Kent. The reason is less dark. He’s bringing the worst symbol of hipsterdom to Hythe: leather aprons. An upmarket fish and chip shop is as wanted as a returning killer. Another person who befriends Miri is her neighbour Billy. The two meet when Miri is making a phone call in the garden. Billy isn’t the most socially confident, but his goodness is clear. The only thing coming between a romance is a Brontian madwoman in his attic, raining a volley of cunt curses on Miri. Over the series a Punch-Drunk Love relationship develops between these misfits.

I really loved Back to Life. It occupies the same time slot as Fleabag but shouldn’t be treated the same. Yes there is darkness, comedy, a search for identity, but Back to Life wears its heart on its sleeve from the start; it’s less arch and ironic. Haggard has created something special here, proving the best way to follow greatness is not through imitation, but by being yourself. Back to Life is a laugh-out-loud crime-drama. How many of them have you seen? My guess is none. So watch this one.

Back to Life is on BBC One, Monday 10.35. Alternatively, all episodes are on iPlayer.

The Making of the Women's World Cup

Once upon a time my brother worked for a publication called My News. Its raison d’etre was to provide community news and promote small businesses. Kieran’s job meant leaving the office to report on parish news, council meetings and charity efforts. All important, all vital. However, the one thing that really piqued his interest was sport. During the 2009-10 season he was tasked with reporting on his local team, Watford FC Ladies. A huge fan of football Kieran had never, however, been to a women's game. He was thoroughly entertained. A seven-goal thriller. Unfortunately, all seven went to the away team as Chelsea trounced Watford.

From there a love affair was born. Or more accurately a relationship, as it hasn’t been a passing fling that died a death when he changed jobs, rather a constant in his life for the past ten years. Along with his friend Hamish, they established the UK’s first women’s football podcast. When Hamish moved, Kieran worked with experts from around the globe to provide an in-depth look at the world game. From here, he’s worked with TalkSport, BBC World Service, The Independent and Evening Standard to offer insight into this ever-growing sport. 

If you think he's handsome, you should see his brother.

None of his media accreditations have been achieved by nepotism or luck, they’ve all been garnered through hard work. He’s flown himself around the world, often at his own expense, to report on the game. But don’t for a second think I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for him. When you do something you love, it’s not a sacrifice, rather a pleasure. He has and would do it for no money. (I hope your current employers don’t read that sentence, bro, otherwise your pay cheque might look a bit smaller next month.) Just as fans travel around the world supporting their team, Kieran does the same. First and foremost, he’s a fan. Secondly, a journalist. Probably an entertainer third. (I couldn’t help the David Brent reference.) He loves the women’s game because it is as competitive as the men’s but played with a spirit that befits it. There is less simulation, tribalism and disrespect. There is more personal sacrifice and dedication. With the money being less, you have to really want it.

This love and knowledge of the game has coalesced and led to the formation of The Making of the Women’s World Cup, a book about the origins and evolution of the beautiful game within the biggest tournament of all. The book is co-authored with Jeff Kassouf, a leading light in women’s football journalism, responsible for The Equalizer, a website dedicated to North American soccer coverage. With Jeff in the US and Kieran in the UK, how did these two forge a special relationship? Initially, the pair met through Twitter and then in person at a soccer conference in Baltimore. Striking up a bond, these febrile brains plotted a book on women’s football. With Robinson publishers on board, an imprint of Little Brown Book Group, the two lads have combined to produce a winning tale of inspirational women and teams.

With Jeff being an expert on the American game, he has written most of the chapters chronicling the US’ brilliance. With Kieran knowing less about America, he’s contributed to the sections on England and the rest of the world. The book has a foreword from Kelly Smith, who is only behind Rooney, Charlton and Lineker as England’s greatest ever goal scorer. After that, the book is told out of chronology: a good decision in my eyes as it allows for the writers to crisscross and overlap, adding depth and layers, without succumbing to repetition. Also, it gives it a choose-your-own-adventure feel where you can start with the chapter that most interests you and move through the book how you like.

I chose to start with Jeff’s chapter on ‘The Early Years’ of the Women’s World Cup. What I read re-enforced what we already know: sport, society and politics is intertwined. The racism we’re currently hearing in grounds is indicative of the pernicious rhetoric we hear from today’s politicians. The sexism that female footballers endured was symptomatic of a world where women didn’t have equal opportunity. It wasn’t until 1991 when the first Women’s World Cup took place. Unlike today, FIFA weren’t overly enthused by it. Having Mars company on board as sponsors, they used the confectioner’s as a quasi-stalking horse. If the tournament was successful, FIFA would take credit for it; if it wasn’t the sweets manufacturer would count the cost. As a result, the first World Cup was officially called the ‘First FIFA World Championship for Women’s Football for the M&Ms Cup.’ Even Kim Jong-Il, a fan of big titles, would feel this a little wordy. On top of that, the tournament was truncated into two weeks and 80-minute matches. Clearly, the women weren’t being treated the same as men; the battle for recognition was only just beginning.

The sexism women are subjected to is a trope that runs through the book. When reading about Marta, the greatest player of all time, we read about the challenges she faced to gain acceptance. Born in Dios Riachos in the Alagoas state of Brazil, the region was rife with prejudice. In one sorry tale, she is forced to withdraw from a tournament because an opposition manager refuses to field a team if she plays. As a result, aged just fourteen she travelled three days to play for Vasco de Gama, Rio de Janeiro’s team. From here, she moved to Sweden to play professionally. These tremendous sacrifices got her to the World Cup final in 2007. It’s a travesty that a person who went on to become the world’s best had to leave their childhood, their home, their country to realise their potential – it’s also inspirational, a true sign that greatness cannot be suppressed.

There are so many inspirational stories in the book. One that enthralled was the story of the Japan team. In March 2011, the nation was hit by an earthquake killing twenty thousand, leaving hundreds of thousands homeless. Darkness had descended on the land of the rising sun. With the World Cup just months away, football didn’t seem so important. Japan are a wonderful team on the eye. I saw them in the 2012 Olympic Final with Kieran and was so impressed by their tika-taka style of play. Although they were beaten that day, their use of the ball was sublime, a joy for footballing purists. Poetically, Japan went one step further in 2011. Coming back twice from behind in the final, the game went to penalties. There, Saki Kumagai kicked the winning penalty to take Japan to World Cup glory. Sport cannot rebuild a nation. It can’t reawake the dead. But it can provide dignity, restore pride, when all hope is lost. Even America’s players had to concede that eleven players can't compete with the will of a nation.

So I really loved reading the book, and not just because my brother co-wrote it. I love football and get a kick out of the people who kick it. With sponsorship coming in, participation growing, there will hopefully come a day when we won’t have to hear about sexism in sport. If that day comes, this book will serve as a testament to the people who fought so hard for the chance to play on the biggest stage of all.

The Women’s World Cup kicks off in France on 7^th June, twenty four nations will compete in ninety minute games, with 720,000 tickets already sold. Proof that we’ve come a long way from 1991. It seems if you build it, they will come.

The Makings of the Women’s World Cup is available to buy here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Making-Womens-World-Cup-Defining-ebook/dp/B07K6NR5XF