The Baby Has Landed

This week I experienced a filmic moment. I had to run to get somewhere when the odds were against me getting there. 


It’s Wednesday afternoon and we’ve left a lot of time. We arrive forty minutes early; it will give us time to sit down in the café and get some lunch. Approaching, we find the road has become a queue, a thoroughfare we can’t cross. We turn around and head to the next car park which has no space. A lady lies her car across a row of vehicles, hoping this stakeout will prove fruitful. On the flip side, we prowl for spaces, looping the loop, doing laps of the track. All is in vain. The time ticks on. 14.10 gets closer. The next car park we go to has all the bays of a landlocked state. In the end we concede defeat. I drop The Girl off at the maternity clinic. I’ve resigned myself to missing it.


You see we’re having a baby. This is our twenty-week scan. We’ve decided against finding out the sex of the baby. When asked by people what we’re having, we simply reply, ‘A Watford fan.’ It won’t wear blue or pink. Yellow and red will be its colours. Although we’re not finding out what's between its legs, we’re excited to see the rushes on the baby production.


Only it doesn’t look like I’ll be there.


All the parking is taken. I contemplate knocking on someone’s door and asking if I can park on their drive. I consider leaving my car in the middle of the road like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, giving uzi eyes to anyone who crosses me. I think about parking in a disabled bay: the heart is willing, but the conscience isn't. In the end I find somewhere at the bottom of the road when the phone rings. 

‘I’m just about to go in. Where are you?’

‘I’m running. I’m coming!’


So like Kate Bush I’m running up that hill. It’s a romcom ending- only the love is secure. I’m dodging and darting between patients, staff, trollies, relatives. Like a rat in a maze, I scratch and scurry for the exit. A text goes: ‘I’m in Room Two.’ I dispense with manners and jump the two person queue, apologising profusely, ‘My wife’s in there. I’m sorry can I go in front?' (I’m already in front.) The receptionist waves me through and there on the bed is my wife, there on the screen our child.


I was only a minute or two late. Everything is checked and measured. At the end, the scan returns to an overview of the foetus. It’s palm opens and closes. The Girl says, ‘Look it’s waving.’ As a child of two teachers, I think it's got its hand up. It’s a lovely moment that to them means nothing, but to the us suggests meaning, a connection of sorts. I turn my head, my wife turns hers, meeting in the middle we smile. It’s really happening. In a few months we will hold what we see. Our lives will change.


In preparation for this momentous moment we’ve been watching BBC Two’s The Baby Has Landed. Initially, I thought I would just watch it as homework, revision of sorts, to prepare me for the big day. Quite quickly though I found it moving, illuminating, entertaining. In many ways it takes the form of Gogglebox in that it drops in on the homes of disparate families. There’s young couple Mo and Syler expecting their first; Craig and Paul who are having their first through a surrogate; childhood sweethearts Shabaaz and Hermisha waiting on their third; and Helen and Nigel readying themselves for their fifth. Some small families, some big then. Some traditional families, some modern. All are united though by one common factor: soon the baby will land.

The first episode mainly features on the preparation for the baby’s arrival. It’s interesting to see how first-timers respond compared to old hands. Mo is under pressure to be in the delivery room. His wavering is making Syler tense. Mo explains how in Egypt the man gets a call when the baby arrives. Syler’s retort: we do things differently here. It’s a revelatory scene that highlights the cultural differences of childbirth. Helen and Nigel are a different case. With this being their fifth, they have the procedure down to a tee. For them having a baby is as routine as getting your car insured. With four children running around, you get the sense that the delivery room will be a holiday, a mini-break from the joyous chaos of home life.


The second episode concentrates on those first few days. What is fascinating is how Shabazz and Hermisha’s boys react to their sister. The boys have been prepped in advance. Mum and dad have made them part of the journey. They’ve bought presents for them too, signed from their new sister – in the same way your mum signs from Santa. They’re so excited to see her. The tenderness they show is a credit to their parents. Although over time you see how the younger son looks for attention: he plays dead so his dad will carry him; he curls up on the bed with mum. He wants to feel their touch. Never once does he complain though. He appreciates he has dropped in the pecking order, recognising the reason why - just wanting to hold on a moment longer. I’m sure the way a child can feel is the way a parent can too: you no longer become the number one priority; you’re rightly displaced by something more vulnerable that necessitates care and attention. This reduction in status though, this humbling, must be a good thing. To cede importance to another is maturity in action.

Hermisha and Shabazz (centre) with their kids.

In the last episode we watched it focused on Craig and Paul. Although the show does follow a trajectory of lead-up, birth and aftermath (is that the right word?), the chronology is staggered so we see different couples go through these events at different times. In a show of selflessness, Mel is surrogate for her friends Craig and Paul. She met one on a flight (they’re cabin crew) where he told her of his desire for children. Mel’s mother was a foster parent, which educated her in the philosophy that taken on more work might lessen someone else's burden. She gives her womb to Craig and Paul. She is headstrong and brilliant, guiding her own children through what surrogacy means. When the babies are born, she hands them over. She does not weep in loss, but joy. She has delivered happiness to another. Craig and Paul cry, feeling guilt over leaving her. Later, Mel’s husband picks her up. She’ll return to her family, aware she's helped create another.


All of the families on The Baby Has Landed are wonderful. You see their fears, their struggles; the teamwork, the tenacity. I wasn’t really broody before. Watching the show could have put me off. Opened my eyes to the sleepless nights, made me recoil that beneath the beauty is a bum, a bum that will shit shit everywhere. But seeing how the parents look on receiving their newborn. Seeing their heart hit their face has brought it home. I can’t wait to experience that. 
(I hope the baby doesn’t come too early though. I’m really not ready.)


The Baby Has Landed is on BBC Two, Wednesday 9pm. All episodes are available on iPlayer.

Poking a Dead Frog

Humour can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind … (Humour) won’t stand much poking. It has a certain fragility, an evasiveness, which one had best respect.

(E.B. White)

Christmas is a time for giving. A poorly chosen gift can make someone feel misunderstood. A well-chosen gift, noticed and valued. A few weeks ago, I received a gift as part of our buddy system at work. (We’re paired up with someone at the start of term and put treats in their pigeonhole throughout the year). In return for my buddying last year, I received a book on comedy writing. I was really moved to be given it because, for me, it was a perfect present. So often in life we’re asked what we want: people feel it better to meet a request, than take a chance and have them react like Brad Pitt at the end of Se7en. "What's in the box? (Looks) OH GOD!" But when someone gets you something that you didn’t see coming, that recognises you and your interests, there is no finer thing.

I love the craft of comedy. I tried my hand at stand-up, gigged three hundred + times, but never got beyond mediocrity. I found the art of stand-up writing extremely difficult. In retrospect my problem was to treat it like conventional writing. I would sit in the library writing pages and pages of monologue, emboldening the punch-lines, checking I had a laugh every other line (something I was taught on my comedy course). The result never sounded right. Through listening to Stuart Goldsmith’s Comedian’s Comedian Podcast, where he interviews comics on their craft, many talk of ‘writing on stage.’ Now this isn’t meant literally. It isn’t performance art where comics turn away from the audience, grab a stool and type up potential routines live to an increasingly enraged audience. What they mean by this is material can be dismissed, elongated and elevated depending on the crowd’s reaction.  A lot of acts will go on with a bullet pointed idea of what they want to say, over time this will crystalise into syntactical form. My approach meant that if I missed a pre-rehearsed line the whole thing collapsed. Simply, I didn’t have the confidence to deviate from the rigidity of writing into the spontaneity of conversation that gives rise to great stand-up. 


Because I couldn’t do comedy, I venerate people that can.  For me, they’re greater than dramatists, worthy of more praise and study. Few think this way: comedy often being overlooked by taste-makers (only seven out of ninety-one Best Picture films have been comedies). With this in mind, I appreciate anyone who takes comedy seriously. In Poking a Frog: Conversations With Today’s Top Writers, Mike Sacks does just that. He sits with a lab partner (another comic writer) and together they put laughter under the microscope, ruminating on its origins, its intricacies, sometimes defining the roots, other times conceding its mystery.

The book is a series of chapters that takes disparate forms. There’s interviews with the likes of Mel Brooks and Terry Jones, short essays from Stephen Merchant and Amy Poehler, bespoke advice on how to write for sitcoms and awards – there’s also a long list of films aspiring writers should watch by Bill Hader. The nature of the book means it doesn’t have to be read in any particular order. I chose to read the chapters about the writers I was familiar with first, nodding with recognition as they discussed scenes, episodes and arcs I know and love; then I focused my attention on the artists I was unfamiliar with; consequently, I now know the role SNL, National Lampoon and The Onion have played in American comedy. As a comedy fan based in Britain, I therefore found the book educative, giving me an insight into how things work across the pond. 


I genuinely enjoyed all the chapters; by the end appreciating how comedy is a broad church that accepts a whole spectrum of lunatic: cartoonists, satirists, improvisers, stand-ups and script writers are all welcome. No heed is paid to race, creed or religion. The only thing that matters is you bring the funny to the offertory plate. If you can make them laugh, then pull up a pew.

Some of the subjects of Sacks' book.

Given I’ve read through the whole thing, I would like to share with you some of my favourite nuggets from Sacks’ investigation and talk about them one by one:

People do not become angry if you’re writing tragedy and you don’t do a good job. But people get extremely angry when you create comedy that isn’t funny – or, at the least, with the comedy they don’t find funny.

(Terry Jones, member of Monty Python)

There is much truth in this. In comparison to drama, just think of newspaper reviews and Twitter comments on comedy. You would think some comics had pissed on the critic’s grandmother, such is the level of vitriol fired their way. And what an impossible position too. Jones rightly adds the caveat ‘or, at the least, with the comedy they don’t find funny.’ When someone doesn’t find something funny, they don’t look at the rest of the room and go, “Well, they’re laughing, so there must be some worth in what the person is doing.” Instead, they throw pragmatism under a bus, decrying: “What is wrong with these fucking people? Why don’t they see what I see?” Comedy brings out the best in an audience, reminding them they’re part of one body, all responsible for each other, united  in laughter; it also brings out the worst, making people take leave of their senses, forgetting that opinions aren’t facts, that not enjoying something doesn’t make it worthless. 

 ‘Good stories beat good jokes every day of the week and twice on Sundays.’

(Mike Schur, creator of Parks and Recreation)

This is so true. There are comedies on television that have a joke every other line – like my model for comedy earlier – however, it doesn’t mean anything if it hangs on something artificial and insubstantial. What really makes people laugh is when characters we care about are put in danger. If a character doesn’t inhabit a recognisable story, then the jeopardy they face feels contrived and unimportant. We laugh at David Brent because the cringe comedy is framed in the body of an aspirant social climber. The joke has more weight and depth because we empathise with his motivation. Two-dimensional characters thrown into revolving comic scenarios might make us titter, but laugh? No, that’s for the stories and characters we’ve bought into.

‘As long as your unconscious is preoccupied with work, you can get into a kind of zone where what seems to be inactivity is progress.’   

(James L. Brooks, creator of Taxi)

This seems like sage advice. The rare time I did come up with good comic ideas was when I was running, on the loo or in the shower. In other words, when my mind was at rest. This sounds paradoxical: to work better when you’re not working. But the only reason this happened was because I’d been at the laptop hours before, spraying graffiti on the screen, eventually leaving the room, sated with loathing and self-disgust. Although I left the car, I'd kept the engine running. Tick, tick, tick, it ticked over. Away from concentrated thinking, my brain joined the dots, forming the picture I wanted.

He (his improv mentor) had two key tenets: one was to always go to your third thought….Another lesson was always to play to the top of your intelligence.

(Adam McKay, Anchorman writer)

This reminded me of Bill Hicks view of comedy: play to the smartest person in the room. This doesn’t mean talk quantum if a physicist is in the room or Nietzsche if a philosopher comes by, it means communicate your truth in an original and creative way. Comedy is a genre that depends on unpredictability. If you can predict the punch-line, then the magic is gone. If a comedian makes a joke and everyone guessed it, should anyone make a sound? My feeling is no. Don’t encourage the bastards. Make them go away and work harder.

Einstein thought something similar too.

These were lessons that really resonated with me, only I wouldn’t have the skill to articulate them so well. I guess that’s what a good book on comedy should do: pin down the butterfly, capturing what's evasive for display. White is right: comedy is fragile. It must be handled with care. Sacks’ book does that, demonstrating the beauty and complexity of the form.


Poking a Dead Frog: Conversations With Today’s Top Comedy Writers is available on all good online bookstores.

Ladhood

Lads! Lads! Lads!


Lad culture reached its zenith – or nadir, depending on your position – in the 90’s. Loaded magazine was flying off the sheves, Baddiel and Skinner were selling out arenas and Chris Evans was too pissed for work. The banter bus was a triple decker and Oasis were on FM. It was a time of brashness and bravado; if you were at all sensitive then you may as well make a bunker of a bedroom, hide out until the decade was over.


Was I a lad during this time? A little. I bought the magazines, phwoared at the tits, elevated/diminished women into sex gods. This testerone was indoors only, an internal randy chimp, laddishness of the mind. Conversely, in public I was sensitive and courteous, didn’t say boo to a goose – or ‘get them out’ to a woman. I knew how I should behave, and more often than not did. The pressure to be macho was there though. The erudition of Cocker drowned out by Damon and Liam. It was an effort to stay clear of lad culture. 

Lads!

Liam Williams explores the theme of masculinity through his BBC3 comedy Ladhood. The origins of the show lie in the Radio 4 series of the same name. There, the first series delved into Liam’s adolescence; the second dissected his university years. It was the best thing I’d heard on the radio in years. The dour eloquence, incisive humour and wicked soundtrack was quite something. However, the new incarnation isn’t a straight to TV transfer. In this version, Williams interposes his adult self into the teenage remembrance.


The first episode begins with Williams in a pub. A guy is chatting to his girlfriend at the bar. Liam isn’t best pleased. His degree falls to the floor, ineloquence spills out. Embarrassingly, he threatens the threat. All of this cock in hand posturing gets Williams thinking, 'where did this machismo come from?' To understand the man at 30, he observes the boy at 15. We’re now back in time with a young Liam and his mates Craggy, Ralph and Addy. They’re chatting about two girls they think are really fit. Today’s Liam watches on, readied to celebrate his mature younger self; unfortunately, this does not materialise. Liam’s disappointed look to camera as he relives his past is Capra's It’s A Wonderful Life- only inverted. In the last few minutes Liam leaves adolescence, returning to adulthood; back to the bar, better equipped to correct his past mistakes, be a better man. At the point where it looks like Liam has learnt the lessons, he does something that upends the epiphany. This pattern of seeming transformation and subsequent failure is a motif that runs across the series. Essentially, Williams is highlighting what he remarked upon in a Guardian interview: that he remains coated in the ‘residue of laddishness, for better or worse. Largely worse.’ A 00’s teenager can read feminist commentators online but will still click on LADbible pop-ups. 

For fans of the radio show, you might want to know how else it differs. Well, understandably some of the poetic language is lost to the visual medium. What has been added by director Jonathan Schey is a stark look at suburbia. In the first episode where Liam’s friend Craggy has a fight; in the second where the boys get pissed in the woods, there’s a Shane Meadows feel to the direction. In these moments the diegetic sound drops out and a dissonant score kicks in, capturing the threat of adolescence, that Lord of the Flies existence where adult can't save you. Given this is Schey’s first major work, he does a fantastic job at realising Williams’ vision.


It isn’t all Generation Y introspection, there’s cracking jokes too. There’s a touch of inbetweeners in the teenage scenes where the lads weigh up their options for Friday night. Being underage rules out a lot of things. Addy has a suggestion though: ‘We could stay in and play Tekken. You know, or stay in and play Fifa. Or stay in and play Metal Gear.’ Ah, those Playstation days where your entertainment was determined by the number of games you had. Also, these are the type of boys that say to girls, ‘How you keeping?’; the kind of lads that taunt, ‘I’m going to take you to the toy shop?’ They are too bright for violence yet too stupid to avoid it. And, oh, the music remains great too with needle drops from Dizzee and Roots Manuva.


So in transferring to tele, I’ve had the chance to love Ladhood all over again. Lads! Lads! Lads!



Ladhood is available on iPlayer

The Crown

Last week Prince Andrew sat down for an interview with Newsnight presenter Emily Maitlis. He was obviously confident: the palace agreed that they wouldn’t see the questions beforehand. With time to prepare, this was never going to be a problem for Andrew. As a Royal, he would have the best PR team money could buy. He would be trained around the clock. Running down the Thames rehearsing his persuasive hand gestures. Flooring questions on where he was that evening. Bounding up Buckingham’s stairs, throwing his arms up in triumph. Andrew was going to deliver the knockout blow against the rumours. No one would be talking about them tomorrow. A blonde airhead is no match for silver tongue and spoon. This contest was over before it started.

Of course, it didn’t turn out that way.


If Andrew was advised on how to answer the questions, he must have done so with his fingers in his ears. He thought it ‘honourable’ to stay at a pedophile’s house, described Epstein’s attacks on young women ‘unbecoming’ and had no memory of having met a waist he held. The Andrew interview was proof positive that you can throw money at an education, but it doesn’t make it stick. It was also evidence that being a person of title doesn’t qualify you for veneration; you have to earn respect, regardless of your class and background.


The royals have a love-hate relationship with television. In the first series of Netflix’s The Crown we see how Phillip wants to take advantage of the medium to celebrate his wife’s coronation. By bringing this seismic event into the nation’s living room, he believed it would fortify the royal’s position in the nation’s hearts. Very few people would ever meet the Queen, but to see her on your screen meant she would feel a part of their lives.


In an episode of The Crown I’ve just watched you see the inverse. With the royals short of money, Phillip proposes they allow TV cameras into the palace, in order to record a quasi-Keeping Up With The Windsors. The 110-minute documentary Royal Family was a hit with viewers at the time. Curious to see how the other half lived, millions watched to see what the family chatted about across the table and in front of the TV. Despite its success, The Queen felt uncomfortable with the final programme, arguing that ‘the best we’ve come up with so far is ritual and mystery. Because it keeps us hidden while still in plain sight. The smoke and the mirrors. The mystery and the protocol is not there to keep us apart; it’s there to keep us alive.’ The mystique surrounding the royals is what perpetuates them; their reputation gossamer, come too close and it risks collapse. It’s why they’re shown enough on television to remind you they are there; it’s why though they avoid the microscope – unlike Andrew. A short look and they're Emperor-like; a longer look and it's The Emperor’s New Clothes.

Before the Kardashians, there were the Windsors.

Even though I’m no royalist, I love The Crown. I enjoy seeing the parallels and shifts with today’s society, recognising how some lessons have been learnt – and depressingly, some mistakes repeated. Take this series’ Aberfan episode. On 21^st October 1966, a colliery spoil tip avalanched into a primary school and other buildings, killing 144. Watching the episode I was reminded of Grenfell. Here, the community had expressed concerns over the growing slag heap, yet nothing was done. Just as residents had voiced objections to the cladding on their homes. At Grenfell, The Queen visited after two days. In Aberfan, it took her eight. The Crown lifts the metronomic clockface of the monarchy, giving you the complex mechanism that makes it tick. In Aberfan The Queen was slow to respond because she feared she would get in the way and detract from the work the emergency services were doing. Harold Wilson, Prime Minister of the time, rightly pointed out that amidst the rubble one needs to see the light. Regardless of whether it is right or wrong, The Queen for many is a symbol of greatness, a source of great pride. In despair they need to see that, to see her, to feel valued and ennobled. It was this lesson that she’s taken into major tragedies since.


The thing I like best about The Crown is learning about modern British history. I find royal history fairly interesting- how Princess Margaret’s relationship with a divorcee was kiboshed is particularly interesting, given how Charles’ marriage to Camilla was ratified fifty years later- but what most interests me is the politics. The first season features Churchill heavily, where you witness his re-birth, ill-health and resignation. A later episode which has him throw a geriatric tantrum over a portrait of him is sublime. This season features Harold Wilson as Prime Minister. Again, there’s modern day resonance with the press speculating on how a revolutionary left-wing leader will serve a person that represents conservative values. The questioning of a Labour leader’s patriotism is seen today with Corbyn, evidence that the times change, but republican-scare doesn’t.

I probably should say something about the actors given they’ve changed this season. Initially, I was unsure about Olivia Colman’s portrayal, favouring Clare Foy’s. Over time I’ve got used to her though, respecting the emotion she’s brought to the role, although still missing some of Foy’s subtleties. Tobias Menzies is a fantastic Phillip, a worthy successor to Matt Smith. Bonham Carter’s Margaret feels a tad like Bonham Carter’s Bonham Carter – she seems to miss some of the fizz and spark that Vanessa Kirby brought to the role. Overall though, the changes haven’t hurt a bit, and in an age of computerised ageing I’m pleased they’ve opted for cast changes as opposed to digital manipulation.


So even if Andrew has made you question the obscene privilege that comes with hereditary rule, I recommend The Crown. It’s not just about an out-of-touch family, diving in gold like Scrooge McDuck. It’s a story of an unremarkable woman that finds herself in the remarkable position of sitting with remarkable people and discussing remarkable events. Even though the show begins with her perched on a throne, it reduces her to a seat in a drawing room; looking to Prime Ministers for guidance and instruction. Peter Morgan shows her as ordinary, not extraordinary. Something as a republican I'm all for.


The Crown is available on Netflix.

  

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