The End of the F***ing World

‘I’m James. I’m seventeen and I’m pretty sure I’m a psychopath.’


When the The End of the F***ing World was trailed two years ago, I wasn’t sold. I thought the provocative title was a bit try-hard and embarrassing. Then a friend from work who always watches good tele told me how much she was enjoying it and I made a mental note to catch up. When it finished its run on Channel 4, it was quickly bought by Netflix; from there it has become quite the smash, succeeding on both sides of the Atlantic.


The bombastic title might put you off, but it shouldn’t. Although the name feels adolescent, something a thirteen-year-old would come up with having listened to Never Mind the Bollocks for the first time, the execution is seriously mature. Stylistically, I don’t think there’s been a better programme on television since the overlooked Utopia. From the locations to the soundtrack so much care and attention has gone into creating an idiosyncratic show with a unique tone and voice.

The nihilist comedy-drama began life as a graphic novel. Charles Forsman’s book was the starting point from which the TV show is based. Its story of suburban malaise, where two bored teenagers runaway and commit a bloody crime, was read by Jonathan Entwistle. Originally, he planned to adapt the story into a movie; however, the lack of takers meant he changed tact and pitched a miniseries. With Charlie Covell on board to write, the pair have produced a show that's become a sleeper hit.


Its story revolves around James and Alyssa. James lives with his embarrassing dad and the memory of his dead mother. For him, the adult world is phony, the school world a joke. He is Britain’s answer to Holden Caufield. Precocious and stubborn, he won’t be put in a box. Alyssa is similar. Her home life is in turmoil, but unlike James it isn’t owing to a haunting, rather some dickhead who's very much alive – her stepdad – whom makes life a living hell. She too doesn’t fit in at school: the negotiations and compromises of popularity aren’t for her. Less loneliness comes from being on your own than being surrounded by people you don’t like. In the first episode when she leaves her mean girl table behind and wonders over to James, it’s a meeting of minds, a council of weirdness that'll make and break them.


James is happy to have Alyssa’s company. As a child, killing animals was something of an occupation. Now he's older killing a human is his preoccupation. It’s fortunate then that Alyssa has come into view. After all, it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a psycho in possession of a good knife, must be in want of a victim. The thing is Alyssa is anything but a victim. She is a young woman with agency. Her first words to James are: “I’ve seen you skate. You’re pretty shit.” James’ response of ‘Fuck you’ comes as much from respect as it does hurt.

Chekhov's knife: it will go off.

With Alyssa so direct and powerful, she soon leads James on a merry dance. A dance that leads him to punching his dad in the face, stealing the car and flying down the highway. His passenger is quite turned on. What unfolds is a Badlands rebooting - just with Adrian Mole and Pandora Braithwaite in the roles. (I appreciate this A crossed with B facetious style of reviewing is pretty hack, but there is some truth in it. With the 50’s and 60’s rock n’ roll soundtrack, the dirt roads and neon diners, there is the heavy feel of Americana; however, the British casting and consequent accents means it feels fresh and original.) 

The first season’s quality never lets up. Having watched most of the second season, it feels more of the same. For a story about feeling empty, it’s full of beauty. Charlie Covell has to be commended on neutralising this acidic world. Her skill is dropping in just the right amount of romanticism means this star-crossed tale is more about love than death. Lines such as: “Sometimes I think I feel more like myself with James than I do on my own… Everything feels really simple” and “Sometimes James feels like a boy I could love. Like, really love & other times, he feels like a total fucking stranger” are perfect distillations of love.


Much like Catcher in the Rye is confused as a story of teenage rebellion, The End of the Fucking World is actually a cry for acceptance; not a turning away from, but a turn towards love.



  The End of the Fucking World series one is on Netflix. The second series is available on All4.

Lionesses

We've come a long, long way together
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should

I have to praise you
I have to praise you
I have to praise you
I have to praise you like I should

(Fatboy Slim, Praise you)

Norman Cook is on the loud speaker and the 77,000 + crowd dance in unison. Children with foam hands point them skywards, parents cradling infants bounce to the beat, and my family shuffle with a choreography reminiscent of Jackson 5. What some in the crowd might not be aware of is the profundity behind the dance track.

In 1921 the women’s game was banned with claims that it could cause ‘infertility.’ It took fifty years for this to be lifted, allowing women to play competitively again. In 1989 the national team played their first fixture at Wembley with around 500 people in attendance. This year 12.5 million viewers tuned in to watch the women’s team’s semi-final with USA, making it the biggest television event of the year. Today, I’m in a stand flanked by a six-year-old boy who knows all the players names; the players’ families who’ve supported their partners, daughters, sisters through thick and thin; and my brother, up just above me, in the press box, an expert on the sport.


From being banned from the game to paying to play these women have come a long, long way together. The invitation that went out to former players to be guests at this fixtures feels deserved. They were the ones who made the ultimate sacrifice. They were the ones who played without financial support. They were the ones who were sneered at for kicking a ball. They were the pioneers who made all of this possible.

The 1971 team.

Since their semi-final defeat to USA, England’s form has been woeful. Subsequent defeats to Sweden, Norway and Brazil have made the side go from world beaters to also-rans. On top of this, their solitary victory against Portugal was unconvincing. Conversely, Germany have scored 31 goals in the last four games. Many have come here expecting an England victory. It’s understandable. They still see that tackle by Steph, and when White scored, Bronze belting the ball and Nobbsy dancing (in the studio). That was the World Cup party though; the hangover has kicked in; there’s doubts whether manager Phil Neville is the paracetamol or the poison.


The game does not start well. Some intricate German passing leads to a centred cross that's headed in by Alexandra Popp. Much like the business end of the World Cup, England have got off to a poor start. Germany are unlucky to add to their lead. The England passing is clueless and wayward; Germany, on the other hand, are moving with rhythm and fluidity. Their coach Martina Voss-Tecklenburg has only been in the job for twelve months – months fewer than her opposite- yet her team seems to understand sequence, dancing to her direction.

At the game.

England are thrown a lifeline when a gorgeous Ellen White pass leads to Beth Mead being fouled in the box. Nikita Parris steps up to the spot. She missed two penalties in the World Cup. To miss one may be regarded as misfortune, to miss both looks like carelessness. Her wild lash down the middle of the goal is saved by the stray legs of the keeper. Perseverance does sometimes lead to success, but here it seems Neville’s persistence on Parris from the spot is another shovel to a deepening hole.


The team do draw level on the stroke of half-time though with an eye of the needle pass from Keira Walsh leading to Ellen White slotting home. In all honesty England do not deserve this. They’ve been outplayed, passed and manoeuvred by the young German team. But we don’t care. The children scream, the mothers beam and the dad’s dance. Football is coming home.


After the break England perform better, the intensity is upped, adopting a firmer press and an in-your-face approach to the German side. Off-the-ball things improve, yet on the ball there’s still a pinball game of possession-dispossession. The team’s approach seems mirrored in the touch-line. Neville is in and out of his technical area, appearing unsure what to say and do. The passion is there, but the tactical know-how of how to change things seems missing.

Under pressure. Pic. Getty Images.

As we enter the final minutes, Germany score. Steph Houghton, an inspiration in so many ways, on this occasion is found wanting. Instead of locking Buhl down, she gives her the key to Wembley; it’s not long before the centre forward escapes to celebrate.


With the rain bucketing down and England defeated, it should be a source for sorrow. But it isn’t. People came in their thousands. Paying to watch world class athletes on the biggest stage of all. They saw the marauding monster of Lucy Bronze and the fox-in-the-box Ellen White. Household names. With a better manager, these individuals have the chance to become a great team – like Germany were today. Come rain or shine though there’s a feeling that these women are going to be supported regardless. With Team GB in the Olympics next year and the Euros coming to England in 2021, the focus will only grow, the glare intensify.


From mocked to praised. From anonymised to popularised. We’ve come a long way.

Now, let’s go further.


England’s next game is on BBC 4 on Tuesday, kick off 7.15.

How Europe Stole My Mum

‘I’d rather be dead in a ditch.’

(Boris Johnson on being asked on delaying Brexit)


It seemed this week really would be the week when Britain left the EU. In the circus of Brexit, Boris went from extra to actor-director, re-cast from clown to strongman, ready to achieve what Mrs May couldn’t and be the muscle of Brussels. If the EU would not acquiesce, he would leave the tent with No Deal. Broadcasters obviously thought Johnson meant business as this week two comedies were aired to commemorate our EU exit. The first was Little Brexit, a Walliams and Lucas reunion of their hit comedy Little Britain. Originally played on Radio 4, the pair returned home with half an hour of sketches all centred around Brexit. There was the Prime Minister’s aide, modelled on Peter Mandelson, unhappy that BoJo was now PM (I won’t go near your backstop) and the vomiting Home Counties lady disgusted to discover the background of her donor (a Remainer). The sketches were so-so, but they did hit the nail on the head when they had Vicky Pollard describing Boris' ‘yeah-but-no-but’ position on the Union. Ultimately though it wasn’t the old guard who had the funniest comedy show this week on the topic, but a youngster in the form of Kieran Hodgson.

It was ok.

Hodgson has been gaining traction over the last few years for his Edinburgh shows. As a character comedian, he’s versatile with act-outs and impressions, able to inhabit different guises successfully. What marks him out though is that he has a through-line to these sketches. There’s been autobiographical shows about his adolescent love for Lance Armstrong, as well as an hour called Maestro, centred around Gustav Mahler. In oscillating between playing himself, his friends, his family and historical characters, the comedy is exciting and kaleidoscopic; the effect dizzying.


Last year Hodgson turned his attention to Brexit in ’75. Following a falling out with his mother over the referendum result, Kieran sought to investigate where these fault lines first appeared. His journey took him right back to 1963 when Harold Macmillan first made overtures to France about being part of the European project. This fluttering of eye lashes went unconsummated for a decade. It wasn't until 1975 when Britain finally clinched entry into the Common Market, allowing PM Harold Wilson to enjoy a post-coital pipe.

Harold Wilson.

Essentially, Channel 4 have seen the potential in this Edinburgh show and allowed the talented comedian to transpose it onto TV. It begins with a background into the mother-son relationship. Hodgson builds up the affinity the pair have for one another. Her pride in seeing her child praised for his impressions; how his Tony Blair is even better than Rory Bremner’s. She loves his precocious ways. Ultimately, she is proud to mother the esoteric nerd. However, when Kieran comes over in a mope, decrying the travesty of Brexit, the two are pulled apart when she reveals she voted the other way. Thus, begins Hodgson’s odyssey to find out why his mum voted the way she did.


The ‘celebrity journey’ format is parodied by Hodgson. He breaks the fourth wall, pinching his luck that he got Liza Tarbuck to play his mum and an attractive actor his husband. There’s also a touch of Charlie Brooker's Cunk in the way characters are named: for Charles de Gaule, it’s Charles de Gaule Airport; and for Georges Pompidou, it’s Pompidou Centre. This impudent approach to documentary means the programme never feels dry or stale.

Kieran Hodgson

For all the cheekiness though, I learnt an awful lot. I had no idea that the Tory, Edward Heath was the biggest champion of Europe. Nor did I know that Tony Benn was dead against joining the European Common Market. Interestingly, Enoch ‘Rivers of Blood speech’ Powell and Benn were bedfellows on the subject. It makes you appreciate that Labour were once a party of Eurosceptics, whilst the Conservatives were the first to see Europe's potential. All of the wrangles and tangles are expertly played out by Hodgson and Enfield, transmogrifying into these political animals. 


So in a week where Little Britain returned for the nostalgists, it was the young liberal who got my vote.


How Europe Stole My Mum is available on All4

The Disaster Artist

‘Who is he?’ I demanded. ‘Do you know?’

‘He’s just a man named Gatsby.’

‘Where is he from, I mean? And what does he do?’

‘Now YOU’re started on the subject,’ she answered with

a wan smile. ‘Well,—he told me once he was an Oxford

man.’

A dim background started to take shape behind him but

at her next remark it faded away.

‘However, I don’t believe it.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know,’ she insisted, ‘I just don’t think he went

there.’

(The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald)

With the coming of Dean Moriarty began the part of my life you could call my life on the road. Before that I'd often dreamed of going West to see the country, always vaguely planning and never taking off.

(On The Road, Jack Kerouac)

The Disaster Artist is the book behind the movie. Typically, these works are hagiographies, celebrating the painstaking talents of Kubrick, Welles, Coppola et al. They peel off the cinematic gloss and outline the challenges these auteurs faced in turning visions into reality. The Disaster Artist is something like that, and nothing all like that. It is written by Greg Sestero, who appeared in a picture called The Room. A movie that cost $6 million dollars to make that earned $1,800 at the box office, closing after just two weeks. Usually, a film lingers in your multiplex for a while, making a couple of million, before shuffling off its moral coil, only to be revived on DVD later. Every now and then a classic picture will be granted a big screen retrospective, but this is only reserved for the crème de la cream. The Room, on the other hand, is still played in cinemas worldwide today, showing no signs of going away. In Leicester Square’s Prince Charles Cinema it’s on regular rotation with fans bringing props and catchphrases, turning it into an interactive experience, much in the same way as The Rocky Horror Picture Show. The Room, then, has both died and killed at the box office. Pound for pound, dollar for dollar, it is an unbelievable success. In the poker table of movie production, the $6 million gamble somehow paid off, red has turned to black.

The best way of describing The Room is that it’s the movie-making equivalent of the band Spinal Tap. At its centre is someone who has an artistic vision, without any real skill in fulfilling it. Said man is Tommy Wiseau. To this day, the background on the film’s producer, executive producer, writer, director and actor is sketchy. His co-star and friend Sestero has heard many contradictory stories about Wiseau’s origins – all from Wiseau himself. Judging by his east European accent, it appears that at some point Tommy fled the Communist Russia for a better life. The fact that he speaks French points to a life lived there. His love of Marlon Brando and James Dean is what’s really important, suggesting as it does a love for American cinema, in particular the white t-shirt machismo of pouting leading men. For Wiseau, he was always American, it just so happened he was born in the wrong place. By hook or by crook (and there’s a suggestion it may be by crook), Wiseau amassed enough money or backers to fund a $6 million film.

Tommy Wiseau. Pic. Jake Michaels

So what? You might be thinking. Hollywood is made from figures who believe in fairy dust. A town where everyone puts ‘Actor’ on their passport, but no one really is one. Where bar tips and restaurant service charges transmute into acting lessons. A town of reality runaways, exiled in fantasia’s bubble. What makes Tommy Wiseau so different? Well, for a start he embodies La La Land. Pragmatism is the death of actors; you need some naivety, otherwise you would never attempt to breakthrough in a saturated market. However, it doesn’t help to be downright deluded. The problem for Wiseau is he can’t act. His accent has something of the Schwarzenegger about it, only he’s Arnie without the self-awareness. He has the intonation of a child reading for the first time, able to sound out the words without understanding the register they should be said in. He also has the memory of a gold fish. A gold fish with dementia. Unable to learn lines, he just says what he feels. He’s also a dangerous dreamer. Dangerous because he has money. Give a delusionist money; havoc will soon ensue.

Sestero’s tale is a dual narrative: the first gives a play by play account of the making of The Room; the second the events leading up to it. I haven’t actually seen The Room – apart from a montage of the funniest scenes on line – yet the account is fascinating. Rubbernecking would be the best way to describe it. Sestero puts us on that mad set, allowing us to watch the multiple car pile up that ensues. There’s Wiseau purchasing millions of dollars’ worth of camera equipment, even though it’s the done thing to hire it. There’s the problem with verisimilitude: scenes with characters delivering their lines whilst throwing an American football are there apropos of nothing. There’s the issue with staffing: Sestero appears to running administration and lines at the same time. Wiseau has spent everything on the cameras and forgot to finance what happens in front of and behind them. He also goes through more Directors of Photography than Spinal Tap drummers.

The other narrative though tells the On The Road type story of the coming together of two artistic dreamers on the boulevard of aspiring dreams. Instead of Paradise and Cassidy, it’s Sestero and Wiseau. They meet at an acting class in San Francisco where they become scene partners. Soon though Sestero is getting all the best lines, appearing in Days Of Our Lives and getting call backs for Joel Schumacher productions. Even though Sestero is hardly making it in Hollywood, the fact that he is auditioning puts him at a higher rung than Wiseau. With the petty jealousies and artistic rivalries, it's BBC’s Extras, just directed by Hitchcock instead. For all the unhealthiness of the relationship, the two need each other: Wiseau requires an ego fluffer, Sestero a bed and board backer to fund his LA dream. What starts off as a bromance soon descends into The Talented Mr Ripley with Sestero asking: what return am I getting on this investment? Unlike Wiseau’s film, Tommy puts in a lot less than he gets out.

Reading the book has inspired me to seek out the film adaptation, The Disaster Artist, directed by James Franco. And, of course, seek out the source material, the infamous The Room. 

Hopefully you’ve enjoyed reading this blog; if you haven’t – well – then to quote a line from the movie, “Leave your stupid comments in your pocket.”

The Disaster Artist is available from all good bookshops.

Defending The Guilty

Caroline: What are we doing this for?


Will: Justice.


Caroline: Jesus, no. To win. Where do you get your fire? Were you bullied at school? Did your mum ignore you? Or your dad demean you? Who the fuck are you, Will? Because you need to find that. Because at the moment it’s all a bit …


Will: A bit what?


Caroline: Hufflepuff.

Caroline (Katherine Parkinson) and Will (Will Sharpe)

Caroline has been a criminal barrister for a while; Will is new to the profession. He is her Pupil; she his Master. It is her job to teach him the ropes, the codes, the practises that will secure him permanent work. As things stand, she doesn’t think he's much hope. The problem being - he has too much of it. An idealist, a romantic, raised on Gregory Peck and True Crime documentaries, he believes the law is there to right wrongs. Caroline, on the other hand, has had defendants lie to her for years. For her, law isn’t a moral crusade: she isn’t riding into battle with her white wig and steed to save innocents from police lies. It isn’t about representing them, being a voice for the voiceless, articulating the inarticulate; it’s about representing yourself, having your voice heard, to enhance your position – or at the very least, preserve some ego in the chambers afterwards. At least if Will was Gryffindor, he might have the derring-do to realise his vision, as it is he’s too bland, too grey for the black and white world of wigs and robes.


Defending The Guilty is a six-part sitcom based on Alex McBride’s book of the same name. Originally conceived as articles for Prospect magazine, the resulting memoir lifted the lid on what was involved in being a barrister. Court scenes are portrayed as high stakes poker on TV, yet the reality can be absurd and farcical. McBride’s account reveals the strange cases he’s worked on and the daft conversations he’s had. A kind of This Is Going To Hurt where the dichotomy is guilty/not guilty, as opposed to life and death.

The source material.

In a nice twist of fate, barrister Alex McBride has put his life in a civilian’s hands. Representing McBride in court is Kieron Quirke. Having never worked on a criminal case before, he is new to the profession. His previous experience as writer on Cuckoo and theatre critic means he is, however, versed in the twin arts: comedy and drama. This serves him well, as Defending The Guilty shouldn’t purely be seen as sitcom, since it has more thematic concerns and character development than genre comedy.


Will, for example, at the beginning is exactly how Caroline defines him. He’s nice, if a little bland. We can imagine he’s gone through education with few problems, doing well academically, having a secure girlfriend, with little in the way of setback and trauma. The first few minutes captures his bubbled state. Outside his block of flats, bikes are being stolen. Headphoned Will doesn’t notice. Too lost in music, he doesn’t pay attention to the world around him. Soon though, with Caroline’s harsh truths and the court’s tough lessons, he begins to harden. As the show develops, the Sorting Hat is more likely to put Will in Slytherin than any other House. This is Faust for comedy fans.  

The one place where Defending does conform the sitcom is in the Pupil’s room. In episode one we learn how four pupils, including Will, are competing for a permanent position. In law pupillage lasts around twelve months, after which time you can apply for tenancy. With the pay being incredibly low for trainees (around £12,000) securing permanent work is a must – well, depending on your financial background. Take Liam and Pia, for example: financially they can flourish on a paltry sum, since they’re valued shareholders in the bank of mum and dad. For Danielle though, she's working-class; she cannot survive on what's being paid. As she says to Will – meal substitute drink in hand – ‘I will go through you as fast as this stuff goes through me. And it won’t look good. It doesn’t look good.’ Her £1 all-your-meals drink reminds us that the law profession is barring poorer voices.

Liam (Hugh Coles), Danielle (Gwyneth Keyworth), Will (Will Sharpe) and Pia (Hanako Footman).

So, Liam, Will, Pia and Danielle are vying for one place. Their seniors sympathetically respond by running a book on them. Liam or ‘Lanky Poison Twat’ is favourite. (He’s unbothered by the nickname- appropriating it, giving himself the moniker LPT.) Pia or ‘Hot Robot’ is second. (She has to be reminded that feminists might take issue with the name.) Danielle AKA ‘Angry Chav’ is third. And Will ‘DJ Stupid’ is fourth. The joshing between the young students is redolent of Fresh Meat. 


I guess to sum up, I would urge you to watch Defending The Guilty. To do otherwise would be a gross act of negligence. I’ll let you go off now and trust you'll make the right decision.


Defending The Guilty is available on iPlayer

The Royle Family

I would like to leave this city
This old town don't smell too pretty and
I can feel the warning signs running around my mind

(‘Half the World Away,’ Oasis)


For many Christmases my family would sit around the box and watch The Royle Family (not that one, the other one). We would laugh at cantankerous Jim, sigh for put-upon Barb, shake our heads at Dave, at Denise, feel for tea lady/dogsbody, Anthony. It was our Christmas tradition. Far better watching them than their namesakes. The actual Queen would come on at three in an exorbitant frock and trot out some platitudes about world hunger; Nana Norma, The Queen of Sheba, was the only monarch we were interested in. When Caroline Aherne passed, a bit of Christmas was lost. Just like Morecambe and Wise and Only Fools and Horses, The Royle Family became synonymous with the holiday. In many ways it was perfect Christmas television: it reflected back our lives. Just as we were sat around the box, they were too.

Comedy at Christmas. 

Given I loved The Royle Family, I missed the seasons when they first aired. I’ve written before about how I came late to comedy. I was always a casual viewer until I became friends with Dec in sixth form and Jim in university. Having only seen the specials, I thought it proper to right a wrong and watch the show from the start. So over the last three weeks I’ve been watching an episode just before bed. Doing so has meant I’ve been through the whole Netflix catalogue – of which, there are only a few specials missing. It’s been such a rewarding experience that I feel compelled to tell you all about it.


The Royle Family is the baby of Craig Cash and Caroline Aherne. The pair met on a Manchester pirate radio station in the late 80’s, which also hosted Jon Ronson and Terry Christian. Aherne was bowled over by Cash, declaring him the funniest man she’d ever met. When the station folded, the two discussed comedy projects; one of which became The Mrs Merton Show. Even if you never watched Mrs Merton from cover to cover, you will know the line, ‘So what first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels.’ The lovely Debbie McGee’s only reply: laughter. When you’re faced with a comedian who has an IQ of 176, you have to accept defeat. Aherne’s Mrs Merton was an irascible old woman, an iron fist in a velvet glove; guests just had to accept being put on gas mark 6 and roasted for half an hour. The show ran for four seasons and spawned a sitcom, Mrs Merton and Malcolm: alongside Henry Normal, it was another Cash/Merton production.

It’s The Royle Family though that will be best remembered. Mrs Merton has the mouth, but The Royle Family wears the trousers. It has to be said that the sitcom revolutionised comedy. Other than a few moments, the whole thing takes place in the Royle’s living room. Only Stefan Golaszewski’s Him and Her can boast a commitment to a single setting. Most comedies gather the characters at the beginning, then throw them off on their separate adventures, re-uniting them at the end. The reason for this is because it’s considered too stultifying to have them all in one places; there’s more variety and dynamism in having separate strands for individual characters to career into. The Royle Family has more in common with theatre than sitcom. It says, ‘These are the characters you’re going to spend time with. You will get to know the minutiae of their lives; the scratches, farts and fidgets. Things will be slowly revealed. What are you rushing for?’


For three seasons and a Christmas special, we’re put under house arrest with the Royles. It isn’t until The Queen of Sheba episode that we’re allowed to stretch our legs and take a trip to the hospital with them. Instead like the sociologist in Alan Bennet’s Enjoy, we sit and observe the working-class inhabitants, taking note of their every move and (bowel) movement. Jim is the King; his throne is his arm chair. His wife Barbara, the chamberlain, who manages the household. Without her income from the bakery, the kingdom would fall. There’s the princess Denise who is waited on by her courtier, Dave. Not only courtier, but courier, delivering pay cheques and foot rubs. Then there’s Anthony, the son, but hardly a prince. He is more of a butler, assigned to run errands: regularly frequenting their Royal Warrant suppliers, the local offie, for booze, baccy and chocies. Also, the poor lad makes more tea than the PG Tips factory. Then, there’s the Queen Mum, Norma; a lady who doesn’t live in the household, yet lords and ladies over it. Her age gives her special privileges: any request she makes cannot be denied. To Jim, she is a threat; to everyone else, a maverick, a true Werther’s original. 

The Royles.

Watching the episodes through, I find it hard to find fault with anything: the characterisation, plot, dialogue, timing. The characters are so neatly drawn; I’ve already alluded to how Denise takes after her dad, and Anthony his mum – this level of detail isn’t typical of most sitcoms where every character must be a type. Despite appearing plotless, the story is there too. Each series culminates in a significant celebration: a wedding, a party, a christening. These denouements act as a counter-point to the rest of the series, providing more drama and soul. In these season finales we see Jim drop the mic on his working men’s club routine, revealing the kind man behind the cruel mirth. The dialogue is sublime whether it’s Jim consoling his daughter, (‘I’m glad your wedding is back on. I’m always sad when you call it off,’) or Nana lamenting her age, (‘If I get married again, the something blue will be the veins in my leg.’) And the timing? Flawless. When Anthony’s prospective in-laws come around for meet and greet, the introductions have the rhythm of jazz. It’s incredible.


Last night I rounded off my viewing with ‘The Queen of Sheba’ two-part special. It’s the first episode where the real time format is eschewed for something altogether more filmic. There’s a Johnny Cash score that runs through, a Jungle Book dance interlude, scene and time changes. Disrupting the rules they made makes it stand out. The contrast in the canon feels right for such a monumental moment in the show. Of course, good comedy makes us laugh, but whether it’s Del and Rodders at the auction or Tim and Dawn at the disco, it can also make us cry more than drama. Quite simply, ‘The Queen of Sheba’ is a work of art.

Given Aherne passed a few years ago, there will never be new episodes of The Royle Family. I can think of no finer memorial than the show. It showcases a warm wit, kind soul and sharp mind.

The Crown: my arse! These are the royals for me.


The Royle Family is available on Netflix.

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.