Rocketman

Watford FC were Elton John’s boyhood team. As his birth name Reg Dwight, Elton would go to games with his dad, a few miles from their home in Pinner. Having a strained relationship, it was the one thing the two men did together. Cheering on Cliff Holton and Barry Endean, it was a golden time for the boy: his heroes in front of him; his hero beside him. Years later, his music career took off and he left the club behind. His busy tour schedule simply did not allow him to keep up to date with the matches. Then an interview with the NME brought him back. Watford’s finances were ailing, on death’s door; they need a miracle man to come and revive their fortunes. The topic of a charity gig came up. In 1974 Elton along with Rod Stewart came to play at Vicarage Road, making a packet for the club. That day Elton was invited in the board room and over 40 years on he still hasn’t really left. From 1976 to 1987 Elton presided over the club’s greatest period. Appointing Graham Taylor was his masterstroke as together the pair oversaw Watford’s climb from the fourth rung of football to runners-up in the FA Cup and top division. For a club who nearly went out of business to become 'the business' proved apt for a chairman who made a similar climb. So Sir Elton is one of our own. His name is on a stand. His songwriter Bernie Taupin’s lyrics above, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while your in the world.’ Any film about him would therefore be of interest to me. The picture to use football parlance is a screamer into a top corner – it certainly is no damp squib.

Graham Taylor and Elton John in 1977.

Director Dexter Fletcher is at the helm of Rocketman. You might remember him as the child actor in Press Gang or the adult actor in Band of Brothers; if I’m honest, I remember him replacing Dominic Holland on GamesMaster (that’s right the one that had Patrick O’Brien looking like he’d put in an iPhone photo booth). However, his stock in trade is now filmmaking. Sunshine On Leith is his calling card; the music of The Proclaimers put to an original storyline. Think deep fried Mama Mia and you’d be close to picturing its gritty exuberance . From there he had a box-office hit with Eddie The Eagle, a national treasure story of an idiot learning to fly. After he sealed his place at the top table by rescuing Bohemian Rhapsody after director Bryan Singer fell out with the cast. Fletcher came in and made a movie out of the mess, scoring a Best Picture nod for the biopic.

Rocketman though isn’t a make do and mend film; it’s Fletcher’s rich tapestry woven from his own imagination. The first thing to say that it isn’t straight biopic like Bohemian Rhapsody. No it’s more of a homosexual one (a zinger of a joke there for people that thought the Freddie film ignored his sexuality). No, it isn’t nuts and bolts, tab A fits B, storytelling. It’s a fantasy musical that has time, people and songs behaving unexpectedly: new songs are used to score old moments; non-singers burst into songs and strict chronology is ignored in favour of creative truth. Bohemian Rhapsody had Fletcher as ghost-writer, channeling Singer’s voice to turn in a product for mainstream sales; Rocketman though is his and writer Lee Hall’s own fantastical invention; together they have fashioned something altogether more idiosyncratic than executives may like; the result though is more true given the film is centred on a man famed for invention, reinvention.

Dexter Fletcher: games master turned film maker.

We begin with absurdity. A devil walks into a group circle designed to exorcise demons. It is a treatment centre, the devil Elton in trashy costume. Symbolism plays a big part in the movie. At first when he sits down he’s reluctant to talk, doesn’t understand how it will help. Through some probing he begins to tell his story of how he came to be here. His first telling takes us out of rehab into the suburbs of Pinner. To the sound of Bitch is Back, grown up Elton is Del and Rodders at a wake, standing out like a sore thumb as the neighbourhood dances around him. It establishes early how Elton wasn’t born into ostentation, rather a normal world of milk bottles on the door, washing on the line.

The framing device of rehab works a treat as over the course we see a kind of reverse metamorphosis as the colourful butterfly becomes a moth again. This shedding of flamboyance is what Elton needs to become human. Because somewhere on the highway of rock n’ roll he’s broken down and requires desperate repair. Through the flashbacks into his life, we learn how and why things spun out of control.

Elton didn't get the message fancy dress was cancelled.

Elton’s upbringing was not an easy one. Although the family’s finances seem comfortable, the relationships weren't. His dad the archetypal absent father. Paradoxically, this absence is felt more when he is there than when he isn’t. He shows no affection to his son and denigrates him at every turn. When Elton asks for a hug it’s unforthcoming. Hugging isn’t something men do. Elton’s mother is dissatisfied in her marriage and takes it out on the boy. There’s a sense that the hatred the couple have for one another finds voice in how they speak to their son. In a spine-tingling moment the 2001 hit I Want Love is transposed to Elton’s childhood with mother, father and young Elton all contributing to the lyrics, ‘I can’t love, shot full of holes, Don’t feel nothing I just feel cold.’ A musical allows the taciturn to communicate their feelings. Elton’s dad would never expose his emotions but the device makes him more rounded, so we can see there is some complexity to his brutishness. At times then it feels like Distant Voices, Still Lives, Terence Davis’ kitchen sink drama where ordinary people sing their pain, yet when Elton discovers music the musical morphs into something else.

With Elton answering an ad in a musical publication he is paired with Bernie Taupin. Taupin will provide the lyrics and Elton the score. Initially, record company boss Dick James isn’t impressed (played brilliantly by Stephen Graham). When he hears Your Song though he knows that he’s onto something special. Thus begins Elton’s rise to superstardom. From the ground control of Pinner to Hollywood’s hills, he is the rocket man. 

The way Fletcher captures this ascendancy is sublime. When Elton plays LA’s iconic The Troubadour, Egerton takes flight mid-song. Gravity and reality is suspended as the singer floats from the piano stool, representing how his career is in lift off. Later, the spaceman trope is manifest when Elton plays the Dodgers Stadium. With the crowd roaring and America taken, Fletcher rocket fuels Elton into space. These dream-like sequences are perfect for the unreal world of celebrity. In a way it’s a surprise we have so many by-the-book biopics when the rock n’ roll life is far from that. Elton though is Icarus, he flies too close to the sun: burn out and crashing landing is coming. Houston, we have a problem. 

His combustion is presented in full. The drink, the drugs, the spending, the sham marriage. His freefall is ugly, his behaviour too. The poignant Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word sung by Jamie Bell (a perfect Bernie Taupin) shows how many people felt about Elton. Instead of playing by human rules, he was the bitchy diva, someone who apologised to no one when really he needed to apologise to everyone.

Apart from a misstep at the end where we see what Elton is up to now (is there anyone out there who really doesn’t know he’s now happily married? These black and white facts take us out of the colour of the film. They’re unnecessary), the film is a triumph. And for Watford fans I should add there are three nods to the team. Blink and you’ll miss them though. I missed one – The Girl had to tell me – but I spotted the other two.

For Watford fans, you’ll go anyway: he’s one of our own. For the rest of you, go and see a picture that is deep, intelligent and fun. Hall and Fletcher have found the perfect way to tell this story, so go and have a listen to it. 

Rocketman is available now.

The Virtues

This is Stephen Graham’s time. With a mainstream turn in Line of Duty and film-stealing cameo in Rocketman, the actor is being talked about as one of Britain’s finest. It’s his role in The Virtues though that finally cements his place in the pantheon of greats. On his shoulders this show rests. He appears in nearly every scene, negotiating clownish wit and fractured masculinity with consummate ease. A lot of Graham’s early work consisted of gangsters; his most iconic roles have been Al Capone in Boardwalk Empire and Combo, a NF member, in This is England; but boy can this lad do soft hands as well as mean eyes.

The Virtues is a Shane Meadows production. He is the co-writer and director of the Channel 4 miniseries. Meadows' films frequently invoke his teen years, where he went off the rails, falling into gangs and petty thieving. Often they begin with knock-about joviality, before descending into explosive violence, leaving lives in debris. Simply, his films pack a punch. Dead Man's Shoes is a picture that has stayed with me for years. I can’t shake it, nor do I want to: it remind us the past can't be unwritten, wrongs will right.

It feels though that Meadows’ work has been building to this. Recently, he spoke in a Guardian interview about his desire to adopt a more European approach to filmmaking, where the scene slows and dissolves into you, as opposed to jabbing you with rat-a-tat-tat dialogue. Also, Meadows’ own buried pain, that’s alluded to in previous work, has been successfully excavated following work with a clinical psychologist. Where the theme of abuse was one of a multitude in This is England, here it is front and centre. Meadows has talked about it in his own life; now, he’s ready to process that catharsis onto screen.

Shane Meadows.

The Virtues begins with Joe coming back from a job on a site. He goes into his Sheffield high rise, runs a bath and looks out the window. He sees children playing. The vista causes him to cry. Next, we’re with him as he walks across town, the camera his only companion. The walk is long which has us wondering why he hasn’t taken transport. Our hunch here is Joe can ill-afford it. The house he arrives in belongs to his ex-wife. She has a lovely partner; together they bring up Joe’s child, Jay. For Joe, this is the Last Supper. His son is being taken away. His ex and her partner though aren’t the cruel stuff of characterisation, rather they're humane and warm to Joe. They want a better life for Jay and judging by Joe’s courtesy at the table one he approves of. The scene where Joe puts Jay into bed and gives his son a pep talk on new beginnings is deeply moving. Joe is a thoroughly decent man willing to relinquish his happiness for his son; put himself on the cross to free his child from sin. For we learn as Joe exits the reason for his estrangement. His ex checks he's going to be alright: ‘You’re not going to … are you?’ The word unspoken is drink. Joe has lost his wife, child and happiness to the bottle. He understands that them going to Australia is penance for his past behaviour.

The next scene is Meadows’ whole career in microcosm. I spoke earlier about the yin-yang collision of comedy and tragedy – well, it’s here too. When Joe goes into a pub to drink his wounds, the hilarity of those first few pints descends into the blackout darkness of those later ones. At first he’s the life and soul, the Pied Piper of Hallam, whistling his flute, corralling them into song and dance through offers of free drinks and easy charm. Joe though is not of stable income; the chip and pin world is not for him. As his reserves get depleted, we begin to worry. This isn’t disposable income; this is rent money he’s putting into the barman’s coffers. When Joe leaves the camera style is redolent of Smack My Bitch Up, the dizzying point-of-view angle captures a man taken by alcoholism, unable to stand or speak straight. The next morning, he awakes to a pool of vomit. Joe can’t drink. Like all addicts, the drink drinks him. Seeing him splayed on the living room floor surrounded by kebab and grime makes us appreciate why his wife left him.

The camera doesn't spare Joe's dignity.

Missing work because of his hangover, Joe knows the sack awaits. With the few pounds he’s got left, he decides to run away to Ireland. Through the episode we’ve had some small signs that Joe is running from something else, with snatches of repressed memory invading the present day. In the next episode we discover he wasn’t running away from his life, but running to his past, in the form of his sister.

He awakes outside her home; his rough sleeping means Anna doesn’t see a brother but a threat to her family’s security. She beckons her husband out and asks him to deal with the tramp. Soon the truth emerges, and brother and sister are re-united after all those years. The two were separated as children following their parents’ death. Anna was taken in by family, but Joe wasn’t. They only had room for one, so the lad was made an orphan. It’s quite clear how that decision has impacted upon them. Anna marshals a mad, happy home where meals are served with banter. Joe, on the other hand, has a broken marriage, budget and psyche. He’s come hoping his sister will fix him.

I remarked earlier about Meadows’ battle to survive the trauma of abuse and it’s no spoiler to say Joe is doing the same. In finding his sister, he risks losing himself. For being back in his childhood town brings memories to the fore. Those snatches of memory earlier become elongated. The grainy footage Meadows adopts to distinguish this becomes more pronounced. The past Joe has buried in alcohol and distraction is scrabbling to the surface. At the moments it’s just a hand, but we know by the end the whole body will be exhumed. Joe can’t run any longer; his childhood is coming.

Joe can't escape what happened to him as a boy.

The subject matter is dark, yet in all Meadows’ work there is light. Not for a second did it feel like misery-lit; a genre designed for the perverse who think reading them qualifies as therapists. No, it isn’t designed for rubberneckers to gawp at, instead something people must understand. Abuse happens to people. But it isn’t the whole thing that happens to them. Joe experiences kindness, humour too. And the comedy in episode three is quite divine. When going to the pub to escape his memories, the barman brings him over a pint; the description of which is sublime, ‘With the collar on that at first, you’d think the Pope was coming.’ Has there ever been a better description to describe a beer with a big head? Later, Joe’s drunkenness means Anna and her sister-in-law, Dinah, must come and collect him. His behaviour in the car with Dinah is outrageously rude, so much so she punches him in the gob. When Joe apologises in the early hours, the pair literally kiss and make up. The invective that follows from Anna is from the Malcolm Tuckeresque. The pay-off section though is something else, ‘Boxing the jaws off him one minute, chawing the jaws off him the next. Very Liz Taylor of you.’ Meadows along with co-writer Jack Thorne have a way with dialogue, but the delivery of Helen Benah is something else. Her effing and jeffing is the stuff of modern poetry, the counter-balance rhyme of ‘boxing’ and ‘chawing’ lyrical, then there’s that incongruous last line of old Hollywood. Combined, it had me howling with laughter.

As with all of Meadows’ work we’re building to a showdown. In the director’s corner is a battle cry I’m yet to mention. PJ Harvey provides the score to this devastating work. And in a thirty year career it’s some of her best music. Meadows' past work is layered with classical piano, the work of Ludovico Einaudi. As beautiful and beguiling as it is, I do feel it's a bit on the nose. Film Reviewer Mark Kermode spoke a few weeks ago about the score of If Beale Street Could Talk, commenting favourably on music that operates like it isn’t there. A good score should hide in plain sight, pickpocketing your emotions, without you realising what's happened. I feel Harvey’s music does the same. It creates an atmosphere without making a spectacle of itself. It’s less ‘look at me,’ more ‘look at this.’ And so it should, because The Virtues is a wonder. 

Funnelled through Stephen Graham, Meadows has created a vital work that will speak to many adults who were child victims. For the rest of us, it reminds us to protect the young because one day they will grow up. Those little hands become fists. Those innocent eyes sharp. Those joys numbed. This fate will befall them if adults mistreat them. And be sure, the consequences will be felt in fire, blood, anguish. How such a hellish topic can be communicated so wondrously is a credit to Meadows, the divine creator. The Virtues is his most complete work. Watch it and be enthralled. Watch it and be appalled.

The Virtues is available on All4.

One Night in Paris

The alarm goes off at five. I roll over and check to see if my mortgage partner is awake. Her stir and slide to the floor suggests so. I’ve now got the bed to myself. I adopt a diagonal and catch another forty winks. Knowing that I’ve lapsed into forty-two, I make a bid for planet Earth. My feet touch down and I’m taken out of space, landing heavily on gravity. How has this been allowed to happen? On this our half-term holiday, why am I up before BBC breakfast? Hell, even Theresa May is probably still asleep. Dreaming of a sliding door world where she wasn’t saddled with Brexit. A universe where she didn’t have the worst hand at the table. Where in the poker of politics, no one could tell she had a two and a seven. A place where she was nicknamed ‘The Steel Lady’ and not Maybot, the malfunctioning robot.

The reason why we were awake is because we were off to Paris. Off to Paris to saunter down the Champs Elysees with the apple de mes yeux. We were also off to see a show. Not just any show. A show that our mate was in. The Girl’s schoolfriend, Clare Halse, yet again had a leading role; this time in Guys and Dolls. 

In the programme.

We arrived at Kings Cross just before seven and were immediately thrown out of half-sleep into hyper-reality. The queues for the train were long and far. Tourists for Europe. Families for Disney. Businessmen for work. Fortunately, we were there early. (If The Girl were a Mr. Men character, she would be Little Miss Punctual.) An hour later and we were on the train heading to Paris. My reading has been atrocious this holiday so I took the chance to redress this. The material for the journey was Hologram For The King, a sort-of re-working of Miller’s Death of a Salesman by Dave Eggers. Whilst consumed in my book, The Girl came back with a treat from the buffet cart: a croissant and a café au lait. We hadn’t yet entered France, but her choice in food and boisson got me into character early. (For the record my persona for this trip would be Manuel Ennui: a philosopher, thinker and poet that through the power of a withering glance can change a person's mind.) The book was good, the company great and the journey on time. We were in Paris.

Preferring to see a city on foot, we made the forty minute journey to the hotel on our pieds. Dropping our bags off, we then made our way to a nearby café, where we waited for the leading lady to meet her public (us). We caught up with Clare on how things had been going, and it was lovely to hear how much she had enjoyed her run in Paris. After the physical demands of 42^nd Street, she’d appreciated how this role had more of an emphasis on voice than movement. It’s easy for us to look at performers and think they only do eight shows a week, each two and a half hours long, and think they’ve got an easy life. But the demands on your body are incredible. Keeping your body match fit means yoga classes, runs and vocal lessons are a must outside of theatre time.

The three of us then made our way on the Metro to Montmarte or as I nicknamed it, ‘The Bristol of Paris.’ The reason why I’ve given it this sobriquet is because it’s bloody hilly. I used to live in Bristol – more or less at the bottom of a hill. My university was at the top of the incline. Each morning I would heave my pasta belly and beer head up the slope, vowing never to mountaineer again.  But yet again here I was. Climbing up flight and flight of steps. The Girl has walked marathons. Clare dances them. In comparison I'm unfit. But it was worth putting on my walking boots because it’s such a lovely place to have a nosey.

The Catholic Church spent their money on this as opposed to Key Stage 3 textbooks.

First, we went to get some food in the Soul Kitchen. Here, the staff put pay to the idea that all French people are miserable with lovely, personable service. Clare recommended the three course special, where you get starter, main and dessert for 19 euros. I hadn’t eaten for six hours (a new record for me), so I wolfed mine down double quick. From there, we went up by the Sacre-Coeur, a Catholic church so lavish and expensive, it left me wondering why we had to share textbooks in our Catholic comprehensive. The church stands on top of the hill; perhaps as impressive though is the view going the other way. Looking away, the whole of Paris spills out before you. Astronauts say that it’s only in getting to the moon that you realise the beauty of Earth. So it was here. Sometimes things are worth climbing for. After this, we went to the Musee de la Vie Romantique where we got talking to a couple celebrating their 10th anniversary. She had been a child actor and once worked alongside Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Apparently Elizabeth Taylor's timekeeping wasn't as good as my wife's. 

The Romantic Museum is what it says on the tin: romantic and a museum.

Saying goodbye to Clare so she could go home and get ready for the evening, The Girl and me got some cheese, olives and meats, and made a picnic of our hotel room. After eating enough fromage to give us nightmares for eternity, we put our glad rags on and made our way to Theatre Maringy for a performance of Guys and Dolls. I wanted to try out some GCSE French, so I said to the Box Office lad, ‘J’ai une reservation dans le nom de Clare Halse.’ How fucking French do I sound? Someone roll me a cigarette whilst I prepare a bus strike. ‘I can’t find your reservation, Sir.’ To me, I sounded like Serge Gainsbourg; to him, Derek Trotter. Necking our drinks like Brits, we made our way into the auditorium.

I’d watched Guys and Dolls on TV at Christmas and been surprised to find Marlon Brando in it. All machismo and grunt in The Godfather and On The Waterfront, I had no idea he could sing and dance. Despite being second choice to Gene Kelly, he is surprisingly good. Overall, I liked the film without really loving it. I felt quite different on seeing it live.

Whilst the movie seems to drag in places, this production had a kinetic thrill. The transitions between numbers are sharp, unrelenting, never giving you time to think your way out of 1920’s New York. The humour has real zip too. The original script didn’t cut the mustard, so the producers had comedy writer Abe Burrows re-write it.  Long-term engaged, never married, Miss Adelaide and Nathan Detroit are hilarious creations. Nathan is afraid of commitment; Miss Adelaide longs for it. So much so she fabricates to others the strength of their love. She’s told her family they are married. Told them she has children. But Detroit isn’t ready to play husband or father. He wants to play craps. It being the 20’s, a time of prohibition and illicit frisson, he's a man married to excitement. The only thing he’ll bend one knee for is shooting dice. The challenge lies in finding a game when the police are trying to shut you down. Joey Biltmore offers his venue on one condition: Nathan pays him a $1000 retainer. Trouble is Nathan hasn’t got the money. A man he knows does though. Sky Masterson. He will bet on anything. If Nathan can just find a sure thing, he can dupe Sky into parting with his cash. Cue Miss Sarah and the Salvation Army marching band. I bet Sky couldn’t get a date with that doll? Sky shakes his hand, takes the bet.

Outside the theatre.

Miss Sarah is played by our Clare in the Paris version. Her character is one that goes on a journey from buttoned-up moraliser to revved-up firecracker. When Sky promises to get more people into the Salvation Army in return for a date, Miss Sarah relents. The scene for the date? Cuba. The stage transformation from New York streets to club Havana dancefloor is incredible. The breakneck speed of the band is mirrored in the frenzied steps of the performers. With Miss Sarah unknowingly under the influence, she sheds her shyness and loses herself to the rhythm of the night. Clare said before the show she was worried about doing drunk. She needn’t have worried: George Best would have raised a glass to her.

The Girl has three close friends from secondary school- Clare being one of them. All four are so proud of how much each has achieved; it’s just they get to see Clare at work. In 42^nd Street the singing demanded control and finesse; here though it can be unfettered and charged. In ‘If I Were A Bell’ there's an exuberant chime to her voice; the celebratory clamour of a wedding day. Most incredibly, there are moments when her voice feels operatic, demonstrating how a contained character is capable of huge, important emotions. Last time I saw Clare, I was dazzled by her dancing; this time it was her voice. How depressing to have two talents. I haven’t even mentioned her acting, which is lovely, particularly alongside grandad Arvide in ‘More I Cannot Wish For You.’

The next morning we went to Clare’s apartment for breakfast. I had croissants in a nod to my French persona, and a bowl of cereal in homage to my British one. We then parted ways, wishing her well for her last few shows.

The Girl and I made our way down to Bateaux-Mouches, which translates as boat something or other – I really should look it up. This took us all the way down the Seine, taking in the sights off The Musee D’Orsay, Notre Dame Cathedral, Louvre – and pedestrians waving. Why is it that we feel compelled to wave at people on boats? Anyone who waved at me, I waved back. I could see them smile as I did so. In turn, this made me smile. This circular reciprocation of goodwill is a strange phenomenon in a world where people are feeling more and more isolated. Maybe we just need to walk around with cardboard boats – like a Year 2 version of Moby Dick- and we’d be more welcoming to one another. The trip ended by taking us back to the Eiffel Tower, which is even more impressive from water than land. I even broke my selfie embargo to have a picture with The Girl. With the water a diamond mine, the sun a golden wonder, her in the foreground, that in the background, there really was no better place to be.

Does this need a caption?

Leaving the boat, we walked the way we rode, going past the landmarks on foot. At the end we arrived at Shakespeare & Co., one of the most famous bookshops in the world. This version was 2.0. Sylvia Beach, who founded the original, was the person responsible for publishing James Joyce’s seminal work Ulysses and encouraging the publication of Ernest Hemingway’s debut. The shop was a wonderful collision of lending library and store; in literary history though it’s best known for being a modernist hang-out, where Ford Maddox Ford rubbed shoulders with Ezra Pound. Now in its second incarnation, the store is still as characterful, boasting a staircase collection of Agatha Christie, an upstairs piano where a housecat sits, and pictures of famous guests. There’s even camping mattresses among the shelves that fold out to sleep aspiring writers. It's a booklovers paradise.

Shakespeare would approve.

So that was that. We made our way home on the Eurostar- this time though in Standard Premier. For some reason it was cheaper to get an upgrade, therefore the return leg involved more leg room and a light meal. More impressively, a complimentary beer, as well as tea/coffee service. At one point, I had a book on my knee, a beer in hand, my wife next to me and a cuppa waiting. C’etait magnifique. One night in Paris. Memories for life.

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)

 ______________________________________________________________________________

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.