Snowflake/Torndao

'This snowflake's an avalanche.' (Idles)

Stewart Lee has written another show, additional hours of content for his consumers. He arrives on stage bearded, barrel chested, announcing ‘Julian Assange has let himself go.’ The joke is self-referential, alluding to an earlier routine in If You Prefer A Milder Comedian. Lee has such a loyal following he can now callback to jokes he made years ago. Intertextuality is not something that concerns Roy Chubby Brown, but it’s something Lee gets a kick out of.


Lee’s last show Content Provider toured for two years, culminating in a BBC2 release. Centred around Caspar David Freidrich’s painting Wanderer Above A Sea, it was a masterpiece of language, structure and form. From the parallel set up of its first and second act to the subversion of Freidrich’s painting at the end, the work demonstrated a craft and stagecraft rarely seen in comedy. It’s little surprise that Alan Bennett describes him as ‘the J.L. Austin of what is now a sloppy profession.’ (J.L. Austin was a British philosopher of language. I learnt that last night.)

Freidrich's painting was the catalyst for Lee's last show.

So how do you improve on what is peerless? Lee is a regular contributor to The Guardian; his articles a vitriolic lament on Brexit and its architects. All of which have been collected into a book, March of the Lemmings. With the title of this show Snowflake/Tornado there's a strong suggestion the political maelstrom will be addressed here.


The first half of the show though is less about Britain’s decision to leave the European Union and more about mainstream programmers decision to leave Lee well alone. Netflix, the biggest buyer of stand-up comedy, has his show Comedy Vehicle available to stream. Comedy Vehicle was critically acclaimed; BAFTA, Chortle and the British Comedy Awards garlanded it. Inspired by Dave Allen, each episode took a different subject, distilling it into smart laughs. However, Netflix, the biggest producer of stand-up comedy, listed the show as ‘Reports of sharks falling from the skies are on the rise again. And nobody on the Eastern Seaboard is safe.' This type of thing wouldn’t happen to Jimmy Carr or Ricky Gervais. Soon Lee is dissecting the semantics of Netflix descriptions, pouring scorn on how Carr is described as ‘serving’ up comedy – like jailhouse slop – and Gervais ‘slings’ trademark snark – like he’s throwing testicles at trans people. Insulting comedians is Lee’s stock-in-trade and a big reason why we love him. His targets are white privileged males, the counter-culture bad boys who ‘say the unsayable’ for millions of pounds, or mainstream stars who don’t say anything at all.

This mistake was online for a few weeks.

Soon we’re onto Dave Chapelle, Rolling Stone’s 9^th best comedian of all time. Of course, Lee references how his Times position surpasses Chapelle’s. The pair are from two very different schools of comedy, yet their paths are similar. Both enjoyed critical success for their sketch shows: Lee in Fist of Fun and Chapelle in Chapelle’s Show. Both too had long hiatuses from stand-up. Yet the quality of their returns aren’t comparable. Ever since Lee reclaimed the microphone, his output has been prodigious. In the comedy arms race he is packing more than his rivals. Repetition, parallelism, shaggy dog stories, pull back and reveal, anti-comedy, deconstruction, clowning, analogy - he has it all. Chapelle, on the other hand, seems to be living off past glories, barely getting out of second gear. For all that, his tickets sell for hundreds of pounds; Lee’s £27 - with a complimentary £20 DVD.


So the idea of these two men crossing paths is funny. And it’s this tale that forms the bulk of the first half. Despite the cheeky pronouncement that his critical placing is higher, Lee positions himself as the underdog. For someone packing out theatres across the country, he is a master of a deception. A magician. A specialiser in sleight of mouth. We grow so accustomed to hearing him talk about his failures and slights that we forget how schadenfreude is occuring in a sold-out room. Our sold-out underdog tells us about how he was so keen to see Chapelle’s intimate gig he spent £150 on tickets for him and his wife. Our sold-out underdog tells us how with his show finishing before Chapelle’s he looked forward to meeting him. Of course, with the megastar arriving late, entourage in tow, Mariah Carey rider on ice, the G2 conference doesn’t materialise - at least how it should. The pay-off is a contrivance, but a funny one.

Dave Chappelle. (Stewart Lee does not wear clothes with his name sewn on because he's not a primary school child.)
Pic. courtesy of Matthieu Bitton/Shutterstock

By the end of the hour we’re back to Alan Bennett, with a surreal impersonation that you wouldn’t even see Rob Brydon or Steve Coogan attempt. Yes, Lee doesn’t live up to his billing of ‘sharks falling from the sky,’ but he achieves a tornado of comedy, in which nobody – whether it be on the Eastern Seaboard- or the auditorium- are safe.


The second half seeks to address former Leftie, Tony Parsons, assertion that Lee is a ‘BBC approved comedian who can be guaranteed to dress to the left.’ In other words, a woke snowflake or as Parsons defines, ‘professionally sensitive.’ Much of the material invokes the ‘Political Correctness’ routine from 41^st Best Stand-Up Ever! In fact, I heard a punter complain after the show that the second half was all old routines. It isn’t. Correct: the scaffolding is the same, but the content is different. His Gran’s punch-line of ‘It’s political correctness gone mad, Stew’ echoes his earlier output, however the set-up of nuclear disaster is different. If anything it’s the sign of the times that old routines can be updated in today’s world. The battles we thought we'd won, we're having to fight all over again. History repeats itself. Therefore, it stands to reason that the master of repetition repeats himself too. By Lee’s own admission this second hour requires more work. The pacing is a little off and the coda tagged on. With weeks more of previews, this second section will soon match the first.


To get two shows and a DVD for under thirty quid, in the centre of London, is great value for money. And although Parsons means ‘BBC approved comedian’ as an insult, it’s in fact a true compliment. Lord Reith, whom established independent broadcasting in the UK, declared the purpose of the BBC was to ‘inform, educate and entertain.’ These triumvirate qualities are embodied in the comedian’s work. Snowflake/Tornado made me think. It taught me things. It made me laugh. With this being a work in progress, the painter is still painting. Have a look at his tour dates and see the unveiling of another masterpiece.


Snowfall/Tornado is in the Leicester Square Theatre from October 29^th 2019 – 25^th January 2020, then touring the rest of the UK.  

Shaun of the Dead

Rule of Three is a podcast presented by Jason Hazeley and Joel Morris, two comedy writers that have written with Charlie Brooker, David Mitchell and Robert Webb. Their names are probably in your Christmas too, since they’re the co-writers of the Ladybird books for adults - brilliant stocking fillers. I love their show and listen every week. It’s show and tell for adults where a comic writer comes in and shares their favourite comedy with the hosts. By listening to the podcast I’ve finally got around to watching Father Ted, Monty Python's Life of Brian and Airplane; it’s also inspired me to re-visit old favourites: The Royle Family, Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace - and this week, Shaun of the Dead.

A great podcast.

Comedian Tom Neenan makes the case to the boys that Shaun of the Dead deserves a retrospective. Achieving the ubiquity of constant ITV 2 rotation, it’s easy to take it for granted. Neenan really knows his stuff when it comes to Shaun and the sitcom that preceded it, Spaced, so much so by the end I felt there was no alternative but to go back and have another look.


The bones of the zombie movie lie in a Spaced episode ‘Art’ where Simon Pegg’s character Tim hallucinates his game into reality. His living room has become Resident Evil. Surrounded by zombies, he must remove the prefix from the undead. His flatmate Daisy enters, startling him. Throwing his body, he turns his controller on her, shouting, ‘Don’t sneak up on me like that!’ Unperturbed, Daisy asks: ‘Want a cup of tea?’ From tense horror to comic normalcy an idea was born.

Tim playing Resident Evil Pic. Channel 4

From listening to Neenan, I found out what an important project Shaun was for director and co-writer Edgar Wright. So passionate was Wright to work on it he turned down the opportunity to work on Dr Who's BBC1 reboot. Despite the sitcom Spaced being a huge success and having filmic production, this was his first feature. He and Pegg were massive movie fans – obvious to anyone who’s seen Spaced's homage meter – which made their move from television exciting and daunting.


The majesty of the film lies in the planning process. Neenan informs us that Pegg and Wright were methodical and meticulous in their plotting. As though performing a heist, the two talked through possible routes and permutations, finessing and honing their plan. The resulting script is really something. Being an English teacher, I’m in thrall to words, words, words, yet I know structure is what they rest on. Without its silent partner, language is just a load of hot air. There’s a reason why Oscar Wilde is quoted more than he’s read - and that my friends is structure. He has the talk, but not the trousers.


Shaun of the Dead is a play on George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, where survivors of a zombie attack hole themselves up in a shopping mall. This being a British picture our story commences in a pub, The Winchester, which we’ll return to at the end of the movie. A portent for things to come is revealed early with the opening scene of barroom quarrel segueing into town life: shopping trolleys are pulled, checkout items scanned, phones pulled in unison, a football kept up. The zombification of British life is performed in front of us. Romero’s film was a satire on the consumerism of 20^th century culture; this a wry critique on modern life. 

Soon after we’re in the living room, one of Shaun’s flatmates Ed is playing a video game. Shaun tells him he needs to reload. This is a piece of dialogue we’ll return to. Shaun is then returning from work; he bumps into Yvonne, an old friend/flame. She asks him how he’s doing; his reply: ‘Surviving.’ This is a piece of dialogue we’ll return to. Later, we’re back in Shaun’s home that his friend Pete presides over. Pete is pissed with how slovenly Ed is. Enraged, he screams, ‘If you want to live like an animal, go live in the shed!’ This is a piece of dialogue we’ll return too. So much of the opening twenty minutes is echoed in the final twenty. Whilst most comedy films feel like a collection of sketches, this has all the satisfying form of a Stewart Lee routine.


There are great set pieces though in this film, which deserve celebrating. The Cassetteboy-lite slicing and splicing of news footage is a far more interesting way of doing exposition. Further, the scene where Shaun and Ed confront a zombie in the garden makes you re-evaluate the term disposable music. Another garden is the perfect backdrop for a battle scene with a slide doubling for a periscope and a swing ball for a flail. Pegg and Wright really do have the inventiveness of great prop comics. Also, there’s the fight scene in the pub to Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’ This is the antecedent to Wright’s Baby Driver where the music neither scores nor underscores the action, but combines and dances with it.

Shaun of the Dead was the first in the Cornetto Trilogy, and like so many triptychs the first is the best. It has a pulsating soundtrack, quotable dialogue, directorial verve; more importantly though it is plotted like a motherfucker. I’m glad somebody made it.


Shaun of the Dead is available on Netflix - and probably ITV2.

The Testaments

The Testaments is the publishing sensation of the year. Just over a week ago in Waterstones' Piccadilly Store Margaret Atwood headlined a festival celebrating its release. Leading fiction authors discussed the writer’s oeuvre, and the all-conquering Guilty Feminist considered how The Handmaid’s Tale even mirrors liberal society: we have the privilege of commanders and sometimes turn a blind eye to the injustices done unto others. At midnight there was a 10-1 countdown, ushering in Atwood's new world. The author then read her first chapter. Told from Aunt Lydia’s perspective, it reveals how nine years earlier her statue was debuted, a monument she describes:

 Clutching my left hand is a girl of seven or eight, gazing up at me with trusting eyes. My right hand rests on the head of a woman crouched at my side, her hair veiled, her eyes upturned in an expression that could be read as either craven or grateful – on of our Handmaids – and behind me is one of my Pearl Girls, ready to set out on her missionary work.

Lydia’s ascension to the pedestal is complete. People can look up to her in human form and stone too. It perfectly encompasses her power and dominion over women: the child ‘clutch(es)’ her hand in faith, Lydia’s ‘right hand rests’ on the Handmaid as a mother would a child or a master a dog, and ‘behind’ her knowing their place are the Pearl Girls. Lydia comments at how this unveiling is met by ‘discreet clapping’ as ‘we don’t do cheering here at Ardua Hall.’ Conversely, Atwood’s reading was met by vociferous applause, being the rock star of our times.



Given Atwood was brought up in the quiet backwoods of Northern Quebec, it’s antithetical her books cause so much noise. No other author has her level of pull and influence. Last year women’s rights activists protesting funding cuts to Planned Parenthood wore the red robes of her central character. From there women across the globe have done the same to express anger at legislative subjugation. In pop culture there aren’t many older people anointed Voice Of A Generation, but Atwood bucks the trend. People queued around corners for her books. An interview with her was beamed into cinemas nationwide. Her book is on course to be this year’s best seller. Not since J.K. Rowling has a writer been so in demand. The big question now is: Was Atwood right to go back? Does The Testament enhance her feted work or desecrate it?

A literary event. Pic. courtesy of Waterstones.

The Testaments takes place fifteen years after the events of The Handmaid’s Tale. At the end of that novel Offred had put her faith in Nick, hoping to be delivered to freedom, away from Gilead’s tyrannical regime. The TV show adaptation by Bruce Miller has led viewers past that point, leaving Atwood in a quandary as to whether to allude to the screen version or ignore it altogether. Interviews have emerged stating that Atwood and Miller were in correspondence throughout the shifting television seasons with the novelist giving the showrunner certain conditions: the first was to save Aunt Lydia from the hangman's pen, the second to protect Baby Jane's storyline. With this book it’s evident why she requested this.


Unlike The Handmaid’s Tale the book has three narrators. The first is Aunt Lydia. Protected in an sanctum within a sanctum, she writes her testimony in Ardua Hall library, a private place that she holds the keys to. Also, we have a transcript of Witness Testimony 369A, a young woman whom was captured by Gilead and raised within its system. Finally, there’s Witness Testimony 369B, a Canadian teenager whom was smuggled out of Gilead. Now looking at those character summaries, fans of the The Handmaid’s are going to jump to conclusions as to who these women are. It must be stated that Offred’s name is never once mentioned in this book; this is a story about two young women and one older one: the future protectors/rebels of Gilead and its architect. By having these revolving voices we learn what it's like to support, oppose and undermine the system. Initially these narratives diverge, but in time they collide with dramatic consequences.

Aunt Lydia doesn't make the cover.

Aunt Lydia’s narrative was my favourite of the three. Unlike the other two women, she intimately knows life before and after Gilead’s formation. This give her a wider understanding of totalitarianism and its implications. We find out early from her how she submitted to the State’s will. She describes her conversion ‘like a recipe for a tough steak: hammer it with a mallet, then marinate it and tenderize.’ Unlike the televangelist Serena Joy, Lydia wasn’t a religious fundamentalist. She became one out of need, not want. When the judges were rounded up and thrown into football stadiums, she had a choice: to denounce the coup and die, or submit and survive. As she put it, 

I needed to revert to the mulish underclass child, the determined drudge, the brainy overachiever, the strategic ladder-climber who’d got me to the social perch from which I’d been deposed. I needed to work the angles, once I could find out what the angles were.

Lydia is the arch-strategist, a Machiavellian tactician who prioritises her own advancement above all else. In an ideal world she wouldn’t browbeat and cattle prod young girls, but this isn’t an ideal world so out goes ethics, conscience and morality; in comes ruthlessness and self-preservation. ‘What good is it to throw yourself in front of a steamroller out of moral principles and then be crushed flat like a sock emptied of its foot?’ Atwood’s Lydia is a warning on how easily a human can become a monster when a uniform is put on them. The fact she is writing in secret though is testament to how humanity can be reclaimed.

Ann Dowd as Aunt Lydia in the TV series. She must have been licking her lips when she read this book. She's in for quite a pay day when this book is adapted. Pic. Jill Greenberg

Out of the other two narrators I enjoyed Agnes Jemima’s, the adopted daughter of Commander Kyle and Tabitha. For Handmaid’s Tale fans this is an interesting perspective as it fills in the gaps we didn’t get with Offred. There we saw grown women being thrown into captivity, consequently railing against their bars, longing for the wild, wild nights of freedom. Here though we witness how Gilead indoctrinates the young through its schooling. The school is not a centre of learning, but method of inculcation. Our narrator speaks, 

I agree with you that Gilead ought to fade away – there is too much of wrong in it, too much that is false, and too much that is surely contrary to what God intended – but you must permit me some space to mourn the good that will be lost.’ 

 A child born in prison won’t think the bars are a strange thing- for them it’s a design choice. Atwood is nuanced in capturing the Stockholm Syndrome of young children.

Finally, there’s Daisy, the teen who lives outside Gilead. Raised by protective parents, she sees her life as Gilead: a punitive place where she’s stripped of her liberty (sometimes she must help out in the shop) and is denied freedom of movement (they won’t let her go on protest marches). Life for her is so unfair. Out of all the characters I don’t think she is etched as well; there’s something a little YA about her dialogue and characterisation. Although her passages are integral for the novel, I longed to return to Aunt Lydia and her Cromwell/Iago plotting and scheming.

The book has quite the Wolf Hall about it.

Ultimately, the novel is a success. It is a different beast to Handmaid’s, moving at a quicker speed with a focus on dialogue and plot over introspection. The tone of it is lighter too. Whereas The Handmaid’s documented Gilead’s rising; this presents its fall. It's less about the stripping of women’s rights, more the chaos of male governance. Unlike the ambiguous ending of the first novel, you'll be in no doubt whether its the light or dark you're heading. Praise be.

The Testaments is out now.

State Of The Union

Yesterday my wife and I celebrated five months of marriage. By celebrated I mean she turned to me and said, ‘Oh yeah, we’ve been married five months.’ To which I sardonically replied, ‘Yep, they said we wouldn’t make it. We proved them wrong.’


In all honesty marriage feels easy at the moment - and so it should. We’re happy at home, fulfilled at work, our families are in good health. It means we can focus on one another, spend time together, ensure the other feels valued. I do appreciate greater challenges lie ahead. How someone feels about their work today might be very different in the future. Other people one day may require greater attention, elevating them in priority, diminishing us. How we respond to those changes will be the true measure of love. I’m confident we will confront the vicissitudes of life together. I can't foresee a time when my respect for her will fade, that my recognition of what we started, what we built isn't remembered. But I’m not naïve enough to think there won’t be difficult tests along the way.


State Of The Union, written and created by Nick Hornby, is an examination of a marriage, further down the line than mine. It doesn’t so much document an itch, but an illness that requires urgent attention. Tom is an unemployed music critic, someone who has been rendered obsolete by technology. Louise is a successful gerontologist and the breadwinner in the family. Their occupations reflect their minds too: Tom is one to pontificate and hypothesize, whereas Louise prefers directness and solutions. There’s also a sense that their social classes don’t align: Tom married up, even his mother said so, and Louise down. Essentially as Tom puts it, they are as opposite as Montague and Capulet, just without the catastrophic violence. 

Hornby. (Getty Images)

Each episode is ten minutes long and focuses on the time before Tom (Chris O’ Dowd) and Louise (Rosamund Pike) go into their therapy session. The first begins with Tom doing a crossword and cross words are what he has for Louise. She apologises for how they got to this point. Tom doesn’t give the answer you would expect: Don’t worry. It’s as much my fault as it is yours. Instead he puts the responsibility on her: ‘You slept with someone else and now here we are.’ Her: ‘Except there’s a bit more to it than that isn’t there. You stopped sleeping with me and I started sleeping with someone else.’ For him, infidelity is the thing. An unmitigated offence to loyal marriage. A gross misconduct charge that could lead to its termination. For her, context is all. Things don’t happen in a vacuum. Her behaviour was influenced by her surroundings; her surroundings being Tom. Neither want to divorce, which is why they find themselves each week in a pub, across the road from their counsellor’s door, hoping to find solutions to these cross words.


The back and forth between the two is tart without being heightened. This isn’t Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? Rather: Why don’t you give Virginia Woolf A Go? Your Taste Is A Bit Ho-Hum, Humdrum. Just Read Something Different For A Change. More like that. In a middle episode Louise reveals the loneliness of being undesired, explaining, ‘Sex is the one thing that separates you from everyone else in my life.’ Tom’s response is devastating: ‘Well nearly everyone anyway.’ It seems that he can’t get over her affair with Matthew, a fling that wasn’t born out of passion but a need for solace. A sexual misadventure that wasn't about the thing between the legs, but the consequent arm around the shoulder. Both characters are islands, sex the ocean that separates, neither as yet have the answers on how to reach one another.

The programme isn't like this.

Although there are hard questions, we see the spark that brought the pair together early on. Waiting for their session, they see the therapist’s prior appointment leave. Observing them arguing, Tom and Louise provide commentary and analysis, forecasting what the trouble may be. This is a clever device from Hornby as it allows for some levity in earlier episodes when the pain of the couple is all too raw. As the weeks go by and the sessions increase, the couple grow a little more playful, perhaps out of kamikaze spirit, aware that their boat is heading for the rocks, regardless of what they say or do; if all is lost, why not laugh against the dying light. It’s here that the programme moves into The Trip territory with witty rallies between the two. 

Episode six has them imagining life without each other: Louise supposes that Tom would end up with a Naomi, a café owner who missed her chance at children because of a feckless boyfriend. Tom, on the other hand, imagines Louise with a Colin, Roger or Nigel (even the humour is pointed: he sees himself as exciting in comparison to the types of men that Louise is more suited too). Louise notes the barb and challenges. Tom returns with, ‘You wouldn’t turn your nose up at Colin Firth, Roger Federer or – Nigel Kennedy.’ Louise laughs at the last, so Tom offers an alternative. ‘Or Nigel de Jong – he’s a Dutch footballer; he studded a Spanish player in the chest right up here. Terrible challenge.’ Louise isn’t sold. Tom: ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be like that at home.’ Even though socially and culturally the two are from different places, in terms of humour they’re entwined.

O'Dowd and Pike (Photo: BBC)

Once the programme settled into its groove I had so much regard for it. I knew Rosamund Pike was a terrific actor, yet I wasn’t aware of O’Dowd's talent. There are moments that call for erudite Irish charm – O’Dowd’s calling card – however the role demands a well of emotions: jealousy, loneliness and selfishness. This performance will surely lead to more dramatic roles in the future. The only thing that didn’t work for me at times were the analogies. One episode has them liken their relationship to Brexit, another Syria, another dolphins – these are very well written; the issue is you can hear the writing. Where State Of The Union is best is where it feels quick, improvised, free from artifice. This occurs more and more as you go through the series so it becomes less like a play and more like a conversation we’re sitting in on.


State Of The Union is a study of what marriage means after the confetti stops. Watching it with my wife it had me considering our future, and the hope that whatever life throws our way I remember there is power in a union.

State Of The Union is on Sunday 10pm, BBC 2 or the series is available on iPlayer.

Stath Lets Flats

Moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do. This isn’t because of the upheaval of packing away your cluttered junk into neat, contained boxes. It isn’t because of the ensuing grind of returning those neat, contained boxes into cluttered junk. No, it’s because you have to deal with estate agents.

Estate agents are the worst people imaginable. They don’t talk, but spiel. Conversation for them isn't interaction, but transaction. Pinocchio is a film they saw, whose lesson they didn’t understand. They’re bullshit artists: that excrement on the wall is contemporary art, which if anything raises the value of the property. I guess what I’m saying is in a trust exercise you better learn how to fall because you’re heading for the floor. So how on earth has Jamie Demetriou created one that is so loveable and sympathetic?

Estate Agents: a plague on their houses.

Stath Lets Flats is a Channel 4 sitcom, now in its second series. The first series’ initial episodes were co-authored with Robert Popper, a writer of some repute, having written Look Around You and Friday Night Dinner. From episode 4 onwards though Demetriou took sole control of the sitcom, developing real pathos for the letting agent.

The origins of the show lie in Comedy Blaps, Channel 4’s test lab for new comedies. If the five-minute shorts are well received then there’s a chance these creations will see the light of day. Stath released in 2013 showed real promise. Here we had a relatable character. (Not relatable in the sense we were like him, but because we’ve all dealt with letting agents.) He also had that sitcom thing of misplaced self-worth, which follows other narcissists Basil Fawlty, Alan Partridge and David Brent. It’s also a character of the time: as landlords inflate their rents year on year, people are forever packing up and looking for more affordable lettings. This property sad go round is operated by estate agents, people we’re forced to see more and more. The Blap was a success and after a period in development Stath Lets Flats was born.

Watching the first episode back I found myself laughing at all the jokes I missed. It opens with Stath turning up for a viewing. He doesn’t so much park his car as demonstrate what a 45 degree angle is. He has run late. To apologise would put him on the backfoot. Instead he runs past the couple and then back to them, explaining, ‘Sorry, I’m late I just ran over there.’ As if running late would be more understandable than driving late. He then meets a father and daughter: ‘Should we wait for mummy?’ ‘Me and her mum are separated.’ Stath: ‘Oh, God.’ Within minutes these fast cut interactions have established a character that can’t lie, counter to the letting agents code. When Stath actually gets the clients into the property he doesn’t fare well. Whilst most estate agents have the gift of the gab, for Stath it is a curse. When a client questions the damp on the bathroom wall, he is at a loss to answer, until he sees something – toilet paper by the bath. Clutching at this, he goes into government spin doctor mode, unleashing a smoke and mirrors campaign, alleging that the disposable item is to blame: ‘You just don’t want to have the tissue paper on the wall…’ Stath starts well deflecting the attention away from the actual issue of ventilation; however, he hasn’t got the language (as a Greek-Cypriot English is his second language) or the imagination to fashion a good lie, so ends his excuse with, ‘because it’s going to get damp because the wall is damp.’

You see most estate agents are accused of being insincere actors reciting lines. The trouble with Stath is he appears like a man who has just crashed onto stage, having done no research or reading, believing he can still turn in a star performance. When he doesn’t get the deal he becomes angry with the clients. Just as hubris is a trait of all great comic characters, an absence of self-awareness is too. Stath has this absence in abundance. But for all of his faults we like him because he is a failure. (An ability to fail spectacularly is possibly the number one requirement of British sitcom characters.)

Demetriou’s Stath isn’t the only great character in the sitcom. He is joined by his real-life sister, Natasha, to play his fictional sister, Sophie. She is a much smaller personality than Stath, but her delusion is just as big. She dreams of being a pop star and is only inhibited by the fact she can neither sing nor dance. We love her though because she treats people with such kindness, whether it be her brother or his colleague, Al.

Following this thread, it’s worth talking about the romantic sub-plot of Stath Lets Flats. The cringe of The Office was offset by the sweetness of Tim and Dawn’s relationship. It would be difficult for the viewer to sit through David Brent’s toe-curling pronouncements if it wasn’t for the sentimentalism of a love story playing out in the background. Demetriou, a huge fan of Gervais and Merchant, evokes that classic template in his show. Whilst Stath is caught in stasis, forever crashing from one social disaster to the next, his sister and Al’s romance quietly unfurls. Al like Dawn from The Office has a partner, which means their relationship cannot yet be realised.

Over the course of the sitcom Stath becomes more rounded. The introduction of a rival estate agent, backstory and love interest all contribute towards this. By the end of series one you would have grown to love an estate agent – a truly incredible feat by Demetriou.  

Stath Lets Flats is on Channel 4, Monday at 10 pm. All episodes are available on All4.

Fleishman Is In Trouble

Fleishman Is In Trouble begins with Toby Fleishman naïve to the catastrophes that lurk on the horizon. He can’t believe his luck. His phone is overflowing like a treasure chest, ‘aglow from sunup to sundown (in the night the glow was extra bright) with texts that contained G-string and ass cleavage and underboob and just straight-up boob and all the parts of a woman he never dared dream he would encounter in a person who was three dimensional.’

Toby has just come out of a marriage to Rachel, the mother to his two children, Solly and Hannah. From the sexless desert of marriage lies the chance to start again, to dip his toes in the dating pool and get things wet again. For Toby this openness is new and exciting. In the past, women didn’t assert their sexuality. They were passive, waiting for a man to open the door and to call their number. Now here in New York, they felt empowered, weaponised, able to call the shots - Toby can’t wait to bite the bullet. ‘There was something in him that liked the world as his dating app presented it, something that liked to think of New York as a city covered with people just having sex constantly.’

The online world spreads before Toby like a centrefold, a den of iniquity that he can’t wait to enter. As a skilled hepatologist he has worn the robes of Dr Jekyll for too long; in his phone he sees a backdoor, an exit that leads to alleyways promising dangerous excitement. But before he can get too hard at the prospect, he wakes to read a text message: his wife has come in the middle of the night – unannounced – opened his door, and left the kids ­– something not agreed in their separation. This is typical Rachel. Someone who puts herself first and her children second. The kind of woman who thought her husband, a respected doctor, was less than her because he made less money. This is so typical of Rachel. Rachel runs her agency like a devil in Prada, believing it acceptable to treat Toby  similarly. She has such little consideration for his life, his wants, his needs. Indeed, when she was out all hours wining and dining clients, it was him indoors, feeding and bathing children. And where is Rachel going? A yoga retreat. Well, never has a retreat been more offensive, scorching Toby’s plans, demilitarising his penis. 

The upside down image proves significant.

Toby’s rage towards Rachel only increases when she doesn’t come back after the weekend break. In fact, time ticks on and there’s no sign of her. She won’t answer her phone. Her assistant won’t reveal where she is. Rachel is M.I.A. She’s walked away from her duties, betrayed the children, deserted motherhood for her own selfish gains. Toby, meanwhile, has to balance fatherhood, dating apps and patients – he is, as the narrator presents him, a martyr; we completely root for him: the noble knight against the evil dragon.

When Toby goes into hospital he finds his team stumped. A husband has brought his wife in, but they can’t find what’s wrong with her. She was completely fine, just a little careless after her trip back from Las Vegas. Just a bit clumsy, knocking one or two things over, but nothing untoward. Toby knows the problem and wants to teach his doctors an important lesson: ‘Listen to your patient. He is telling you his diagnosis.’ Toby diagnoses it as Wilson’s Disease, a rare disorder that causes copper poisoning in the body. When it comes to patients Toby is an excellent listener; however, what we realise over the course of the book is that the same might not be said for friends, children and – importantly – Rachel.

Herein lies the intelligence of Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s novel. From the start we are completely on the side of Toby, but feel differently when Libby, narrator/friend of Toby, and Rachel’s stories are revealed. This upending isn’t done at the expense of Toby (I still liked him and sympathised with him), yet it makes you appreciate how subjective his view is, indicative perhaps of most male’s view: a woman should celebrate my achievements. Only men have mid-life crises. A woman’s ambition should end with children. Libby’s narration begins with hagiography, canonizing Toby as a modern Saint, but as the book unfurls she downgrades Toby to human being, not wholly good, not wholly bad.

Taffy Brodesser-Akner. Photo: Ali Smith/ The Guardian.

Fleishman Is In Trouble begins as a satire on our technological world and becomes an examination on gender and marriage. It is one of the funniest and smartest books I’ve read in a while. Read it and weep - with laughter and sadness.

Fleishman Is In Trouble is available from all good bookshops.

This Way Up

Sadcom is a portmanteau that’s been developed to describe comedy’s move towards sadder, deeper themes. Seinfeld’s mantra twenty years ago was ‘no hugging, no learning’ – Jerry Seinfeld was of the opinion that a sitcom should put laughter first, sentiment second.

More and more comedies that are categorised as comedy now aren’t providing the same blistering gag rate as early studio sitcoms. I watched Atlanta last year on the back of its Golden Globe win for ‘Best TV Series: Comedy or Musical’ and was surprised by the tone of it. Having watched creator Donald Glover in Community, I expected the sugar rush of rat-a-tat punchlines, instead what I found was something altogether more poignant with pointed reference to race, poverty and fame. The laughs were still there, but coming organically through character, when traditionally they are engineered through plot.

The sadcoms roots lie way back in things like Hancock’s Half Hour where the dour Hancock tries unsuccessfully to make his way in life. This depressed protagonist didn’t subvert sitcom though; the tone is like a Bill Murray movie with the sadness exaggerated, something to laugh at rather than worry over. It has evolved over the years so we’re now just as likely to cry over a comedy as laugh. In The Office Christmas Special the fall of Brent is deeply moving. When Brent finally realises he’s capable of great cruelty, we’re no longer in sitcom territory, a place of hilarious stasis, where characters repeat the same mistakes over and over; no, we’re in a dramatic world of epiphanies and progression, where people can change. 

David Brent evolved in the last episode.

I think there is a place for both schools of sitcom: the traditional, like Father Ted and Brooklyn 99, that exist in a funny universe where everything is powered by funny; if someone stops being funny for a minute they risk jeopardising the planet's very existence - and the modern, like Fleabag and This Way Up, which are set in recognisable worlds whose creations won’t self-destruct if they aren’t funny all of the time. I guess the traditional is one purists get behind, seeing it as perfectly distilled, the very essence of comedy. I’m happy though with a bit of sadness, the sediment that contaminates, because it’s closer to life.

This Way Up is written by and stars Aisling Bea, a face that you will know from panel shows (she’s been a captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats) and for her stand up, appearing on Live at the Apollo. I first saw her in 2015 at the Edinburgh Festival where she performed Plan Bea, her follow-up to C’est La Bea (that hour was her calling-card which led to her being nominated for 'Best Newcomer.') On stage Bea is a natural clown, more than happy to be the butt of the joke. Her delivery is relentless with jokes coming like a popular kid: thick and fast. Yet for all the dizzy fun, she addresses important topics too.

Her route to Channel 4 sitcom wasn’t straightforward. Her and collaborator Sharon Horgan’s first comedy was rejected by the corporation (it has since been picked up by HBO), not to be deterred she sat down and wrote another one. The genesis of This Way Up came from hanging out with her sister, where she wondered what a comedy would be like with sisterhood at its core. With the support of mentor Horgan, Bea earnt her first TV commission.

The series begins with Aine (Bea) and her sister Shona (Horgan) addressing a member of staff. Shona is unhappy that the facility's website promised a jacuzzi when all her sister got was a duck pond. Over the course of the conversation we learn that Aine has been staying in this treatment centre to recover from a nervous breakdown. The tightrope walking Bea achieves in her writing is inspired: never once is mental illness made light of, whilst at the same time she navigates her material away from the po-faced and worthy. 

A further example of this follows Shona’s complaint. Aine joins her sister, raising an objection of her own. She wasn’t happy with the refreshments on offer and suggests in the future a mini bar is provided. The member of staff laughs - so do we as audience. Aine is mistaking this rehabilitation clinic as a hotel to unwind. Then, Bea takes the laughter from our throats and puts a lump there, having Aine add, ‘One day when I was really low, I would happily have paid double the recommended retail price to eat a KitKat without everyone gawping at me. And ideally in a fucking jacuzzi.’ Here we see the stuff of comedy: observational material (mini-bars cost more than they should) combined with quirky referencing (‘jacuzzi’ is a funny word) to create a good laugh; however what’s special though is how our laughter dissipates with Aine’s broken look. Bea exposes her as a person using jokes to mask pain. It’s a lovely two-minute opening that establishes Shona’s love for her sister, along with Aine’s brittle personality.

The rest of the episode shows how Aine is a multi-layered person; she isn’t defined by her breakdown alone. When she is in class working with foreign language students, she is in her element. Warm, engaging, passionate, she is a model teacher. These bits are perhaps the most sitcomy, redolent of Linklater’s School of Rock: a clownish figure uses alternative methods to get the best from their students. Away from the classroom though we see loneliness seep through her pores. This year’s publishing sensation was Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. The writer Gail Honeyman said she was inspired to write the book after reading an article on millennial loneliness. Loneliness as a subject is rarely addressed in print or visual media, when it is it often centres on elderly people. In many ways This Way Up is a meditation on the theme: how an immigrant can experience it in a country, a girlfriend in a relationship – and in the case of Aine – a single person in the city. Going home to a flat share with people you wouldn’t usually choose to live with isn’t communal living; loneliness isn't being on your own, it's feeling as if you are. Many young men and women in our cities experience loneliness. Thrown from the small town into the maelstrom of the city can be a frightening, bewildering experience. Bea’s comedy focuses on someone who has to remind herself which way is up.

Over the course of the series we follow Aine’s recovery. With each person she interacts with we hope and pray they’ll treat her right, that like the title alludes they’ll handle her carefully. Many are supportive of her. The students that she teaches in class love her. Her new French student Etienne (Dorian Grover) too. Her sister Shona and partner Vish’s love (Aasif Mandvi) is that of siblings and parents. There are a lot of people who love her, yet it’s heartbreaking to see how it isn’t quite enough. The problem is she is more susceptible to knocks than kindnesses. A kind word can sustain her for a minute. But a cruelty can feed her for weeks. The more you get to know Aine the more you’ll want to reach through the screen and handhold her away from trouble. 

Watching, I felt like there was a touch of Mike Leigh in Bea’s work. Aine has the vivacity of Poppy from Happy-Go-Lucky, along with the brave face of Mary from Another Year. Like Leigh, her character feels larger-than-life, a little exhausting, but then after some time, once you've got to know them, you appreciate how truly human they are. 

One I recommend if you like 'This Way Up.'

Bea has produced an illuminating comedy on sadness that has the best hug in episode six. 'No hugging, no learning': what does Jerry Seinfeld know?

This Way Up is on Channel 4, Thursday at 10pm or watch the box set on All 4.