Isolation Diary: Week Three

Sunday 5^th April

Today I spent the morning marking my Year 8 assessments. I used to have terrible working habits where I would procrastinate, work late and wake tired. Although I don’t quite wake up with the milkman (what would my wife say for a start), I’m normally at my computer by 7.30 ready to work. At about 9 I actually start (there’s football news, Facebook feeds and film reviews that naturally take precedence over children’s education).

This afternoon we watched Mystic Pizza on Netflix, a 1988 picture that brought Julia Roberts to the public’s attention. It also features Matt Damon in his first movie role. The film centres on three young women who work in a pizza parlour, two are sisters – Roberts being one of them- the other a close friend. Over the course of the movie we see how they experience the travails of love. Written over thirty years ago, it’s thoroughly modern, reminding viewers women have brains, dreams, libidos too. It’s undeniable there are more feminist movies now than a few years ago, but it’s worth remembering that with Dirty Dancing, Pretty in Pink and Mystic Pizza they were being written before. What’s important is they continue to be written and we don’t see a return to late 90’s/early 00’s where female stories weren’t told.

Julia Roberts in her first major role.

Just heard Boris Johnson has been admitted to hospital. Feel pretty bad about the jokes I made about him two weeks ago.

Guilt Meter: 6/10

Monday 6^th April

My mum and dad have been under the weather so I went to Asda, their nearest supermarket to do the shopping. I normally do our shopping in Sainsbury’s because as a teenager I used to work there and feel a peculiar loyalty to it. The response of Asda and Sainsbury’s customers to Coronavirus seems to be pretty different. Nearly everyone in Asda's has masks and latex gloves. They all appear to have PPE degrees from the University of Infection Control. I myself take a few precautions: I put on my old winter gloves to go shopping because I appreciate a lot of people must handle my trolley, but I don’t wear a face mask, mainly out of embarrassment. I guess that’s very British of me: that I'd rather risk infection than look ridiculous. Delivered the shopping to the front door. No tip was waiting for me in the milk crate. These people!

Had a thought about doing some work when I got in, then had another thought and decided not to. 

Watched Hustlers on Amazon Prime instead. This was a cracking picture that was overlooked at the Oscars (Jennifer Lopez was hotly tipped to be nominated for her star turn, but no nomination materialised). It concerns a group of strippers that service Wall Streets Finest/ Most deplorable. The underground club where they work is competitive because the women stand to make a lot of money from the rich customers. However when the 2008 global financial crisis hits, the club suffers too. To paraphrase a famous quote, 'When Wall Street sneezes, the strippers catch a cold.' With obnoxious men not throwing money around anymore, there’s less for the women to pick up. J’Lo’s character Destiny hits on a plan to fleece the remaining rich men of their notes. What ensues is a heist movie, every bit as compelling as Ocean’s Eleven and The Usual Suspects – only with strippers picking the credit cards of men rather than the locks of vaults. I really recommend it.

Boris Johnson has been admitted into intensive care.

Guilt Meter: 9/10

Tuesday 7^th April

Went to Sainsbury’s to do our weekly shop today. Barely anyone in masks and gloves. Just one chap in a full-on Breaking Bad mask. Not sure if he’s preparing for the apocalypse or a batch cook of crystal meth. A lovely lady welcomed me and taught me how to use the Scan & Go zapper. I hope supermarket staff get a huge bonus come the end of the year.

Came home and did some schoolwork. I used to leave work to the end of the holidays where I would do it through tears and pained grunts, like a shit Marlon Brando howling ‘School!’.’School!’ at the window. Now, I try to start early and weep less.

Had a sitcom kind of an evening. In these strange times you need a bit of comfort food; ours comes in the form of Gavin and Stacey and The Vicar of Dibley. We started watching these from the start: the first is all up on iPlayer; the second has just arrived on Netflix. The ensemble cast in Gavin and Stacey are amazing; Rob Brydon and Alison Steadman in particular.

Rob Brydon is the scene-stealer in this.

Boris Johnson is on oxygen.

Guilt Meter: 8/10

Wednesday 8^th April

Went for a run this morning. In school time I run twice a week. In lockdown I’ve been running every other day. It’s a chance for me to do some exercise, but more importantly it’s an opportunity to listen to a podcast. This morning I had on Rachel Fairburn’s stand-up show, Her Majesty. Each week an hour of stand-up has been released by the brilliant independent producers Go Faster Stripe with all donations going to a Food Bank charity. If you’re into alternative comedy, then I really recommend their website.

Came home and did some work. Finished work.

Watched a new sitcom with lunch: Alma’s Not Normal. (BBC iPlayer) This was a pilot episode written and created by Sophie Willan. Willan is outstanding comic; her show Branded was nominated for an Edinburgh comedy award in 2017. The hour centred on her extraordinary autobiography. Her mum is an addict, which meant she spent time in care. With a disrupted school life, she left with few qualifications. The lack of opportunity led her into being an escort. All of these events are channelled  through the character Alma. This protagonist is smart and sharp, so too the menagerie of relatives and friends that surround her. It will definitely be picked up for a series.

Boris Johnson’s condition is improving.

Guilt Meter: 5/10

Thursday 9^th April

Went for a walk with the Good Lady. Her being pregnant seems to act as a Blanka thunder field that keeps people two metres away from us.

We decided to do some baking together today. Now I haven’t made a cake since my GCSE days. Then, I was tasked with making a series of novelty cakes over a six-week period on the theme of sport. Each week I would return home with a football pitch, ice hockey pitch, rugby pitch, squash court, curling rink, equestrian centre and my mum would say, ‘Why don't they just have you make a meal?’ when what she really meant was, ‘Another fucking novelty cake!’ So I hadn’t made a cake in a while. What my wife and I forgot though is we haven’t had a functioning oven for a few weeks now. Despite it being repaired twice in the last year, it's packed up again. We also didn’t have any self-raising flour – neither bio-hazard Asda or crystal meth Sainsbury’s had any, so we were in something of a predicament. My wife though is nothing but resourceful – she lives with me after all - so she assembled a cunning plan: a plan as cunning as Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox delivering an online lecture on the topic of ‘Cunning’ to the snake from the Bible and that one from the Jungle Book.

We decided to make biscuits in the grill. 

It was a tasty triumph.

Watched Begin Again on Netflix with Mark Ruffalo and Keira Knightley. A lovely film to pass an afternoon, but director John Carney’s best work is Sing Street.

In the evening we got together with our parents for a weekly pub quiz. We lost last week so we made the questions harder. We won this week.

Friday 10^th April

Today the Good Lady had her online baby shower. Her best mates had sent her presents in advance. Even though they couldn’t physically be together, they still managed to do all the games and quizzes they wanted. I was called down for the last five minutes to guess the weight and arrival date of the baby. I said twelve pounds and two weeks overdue just to piss her off.

Played Richard Osman’s quiz this afternoon. I really recommend it. Just sign up here and you’ll get a fiendish quiz every Thursday: https://www.penguin.co.uk/authors/141792/richard-osman.html (Just check your Spam folder as for some reason mine ends up here.)

Watched Love Wedding Repeat this evening. This looked promising because it had Aisling Bea and Tim Key, two of the finest stand-ups working today. What transpired was Richard Curtis' Four Weddings and a Funeral - if he had given full editorial control to a twelve-year-old boy. With its rumination on chance and fortune, it was aiming for the stars, to say something profound and enlightening on the subject of love; unfortunately the ladder it used to get there were terrible dick jokes and confused plotting.   

Boris Johnson is walking.

Guilt meter: 2/10

Saturday 11^th April

Woke up and read for a few hours. I’ve nearly finished The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which won the Pulitzer in 2001. I wasn’t sure about it at first; a mate lent it to me so I was putting my faith in him. Over time though the beauty of the language and power of the narrative has won me over.

Boris Johnson is playing games and watching films in hospital.

Guilt meter: 1/10

Feel like I can joke about him again:

How many Boris Johnsons does it take to change a light bulb? None, he’ll get a key worker to do it, clap them, and then bask triumphantly as if he's responsible for the glow of success.

Isolation Diary: Week 2

Saturday 28^th March

Today was my mum’s birthday so I called her this morning to wish her well. We’d already sent her card in advance, so all that was left was to e-mail over her present: two tickets to see The Hairy Bikers in November. My mum was over the moon. My dad now hopes lockdown will last until December.

In the evening we watched Pointless Celebrities. Despite being recorded months ago before the outbreak, a perverse twist of fate occurred. Fans of the show will know that whenever two sets of contestants score the same points the round goes into ‘Lockdown’ – which means a tie-break scenario. This happened twice today. So host Alexander Armstrong turned to us the audience and went, ‘We’re in a lockdown situation, guys.’ It was as though Armstrong had morphed into a soothsayer, predictor of the nation’s doom, harbinger of our isolated present. I’m going to listen to quiz show hosts more from now on. Stephen Mulhern from Catchphrase probably knows more about the virus than Boris.

Before bed we watched Stronger on BBC2. A moving film that follows a survivor’s recovery from the Boston marathon bombing. Jake Gyllenhaal was terrific in the lead role, and Blackadder’s Miranda Richardson was brilliant as his tough talking mother.

Sunday 29^th March

After doing some work – yep, God rests on Sunday, but teachers don’t- we sat down for a Sunday afternoon movie. A few months ago I bought It Happened One Night because the 1934 picture is seen as the first great romantic comedy. I like a romcom. My favourites are the old ones: The Apartment, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes and Casablanca, but I enjoy a Richard Curtis too. The plot of It Happened involves a rich heiress (Claudette Colbert) on the run from her father. Her father disapproving of her recent marriage, believing the suitor to be a fortune-hunter, wants to annul it. Whilst riding the bus, she meets the journalist Peter Warne (Clarke Gable) whom promises to protect her identity in return for her exclusive story. It is one of three films in Oscar history to win the five main prizes: actor, actress, director, picture, screenplay – a well done for anyone who can name the other two. It's a pretty good film, but it has dated.

Monday 30^th March

Today I went to the shops for the first time in a week. Sainsbury’s is doing the old social distancing now, which meant I had to get in line to get in. Like a marginalised spy, I was out in the cold. The last time I queued outside for anything was when I was 11 and me my friend Anthony went to Earls Court to queue for wrestling tickets. Fortunately when I got inside Saino's there was no grappling for fruit and veg; nor did I have to drop the elbow on anyone for some pasta sauce. Even got a packet of loo roll. When I got home, I climbed the stairs like a turnbuckle raising the rolls aloft as though they were a championship belt.

Watched Only Connect final. Got one question right. This is better than I normally do. Went to bed feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Tuesday 31^st March

Started reading Stephen King’s Misery. With a baby on the way it’s likely I won’t read a book again until 2040, so I thought I’d try and get in a few reads before they arrive. I finished a Pulitzer Prize winning novel at the weekend, Olive Kitteridge, which meant I was in need of a page turner, an aperitif, to follow what had been a substantial meal. The book concerns a writer that's been kidnapped by a fan. She is not at all happy that he’s killed off her favourite character, Misery, and as a consequence forces him to write a new novel where he raises her from the grave. So anyone who is over-zealous with ‘liking’ this blog post expect a restraining order– you can never be too careful.

Wednesday 1^st April

After finishing work, I sat down for an afternoon movie with The Girl. Today she went for A Quiet Place. Neither of us are big fans of horror. I can count on one hand the amount I’ve seen. She can count on one finger. But it was an afternoon of open blinds and comforting sunlight. The environment was safe and would surely cocoon us from the chills. As it turned out, the film was the right level of scary. Some good jumps but nothing too horrific. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it concerns a family living in the middle of a crisis. Something has gone seriously wrong with the world. A malevolent force stalks the earth with bat-like powers of detection. If something makes a sound, the creatures seize on it. So it’s important you stay really, really, quiet. The trouble is the Emily Blunt character is expecting. Obviously the rhythm method failed because this circumstance is far from ideal. Therefore she has to try and have a baby without making a sound. I looked at my pregnant wife during this scene with sympathy. Fortunately, ‘Scientology’ isn’t on her birthing plan so she can use as many capitals, exclamation and asterisks as she likes. It’s safe to say the film isn’t promoting silent births as the way forward, just necessary if you’re trying to keep murderous aliens at bay.

Thursday 2^nd April

In the evening we went on Zoom and did a pub quiz with our parents. Readers of last week’s blog will now that my wife is a fan of a quiz. This week she’s gone a step further and created her own. Three teams (my folks, her folks and us) were given two rounds each to compile. We drew Sport and TV. Our sport round was classic theme tunes to sporting programmes and our TV round involved us acting out moments from British television. So over the internet I had to play Den serving Ange the divorce papers; Basil Fawlty not mentioning the war; Del Boy falling through a bar; and Villenelle’s minder in Klling Eve. As someone who has the acting range of a front doorstep, I worried for the competitors. Fortunately, the lines were so iconic they guessed correctly.

At 8 we broke to applaud the NHS. My mum works in a hospice and has continued to care for people during the outbreak. It was so moving to see my street outside applauding people who do vital work. Normally applause is reserved for entertainers: performers and athletes. To see public servants get the same treatment was really something. It’s important when this all ends we remember to show our appreciation in the ballot box.

The quiz concluded after the applause break with my wife and I sitting in last. (My dad did really hard questions on Science and Nature; I think he was aiming them at Professor Brian Cox and that bald chap whose been telling us to stay in.)

Friday 3^rd April

Today we made the baby’s bedside cot. I’m terrible at DIY. I can’t visualise how things are meant to look. I often leave all building and renovation projections to my wife, failing that her dad or my dad. As soon as I pick up a power drill, A&E are alerted to prepare a bed. But I did want to build my child’s cot. With only 95% assistance, I built the whole thing myself. With its sturdy frame and foam mattress, the little one has a bed that’s better than ours.

Before our walk we finished watching Sunderland ‘Til We Die, a Netflix documentary charting the fall and fall of Sunderland football club. Their nickname ‘The Black Cats’ is ironic as they come. Never has a team been so unlucky in a single season. It makes for great drama though.

Later, we watched Ingrid Goes West. An independent picture starring Aubrey Plaza, better known as playing April in the great US sitcom, Parks and Recreation. The film is about a young woman who becomes obsessed with an Instagram influencer, so much so she ups sticks and heads west to inveigle herself in her life. If you like Netflix’s You, then you’ll enjoy this -it’s more realistic and profound.

Saturday 4^th April.

Went for a run. Finished Misery. Wrote this. Got to the final paragraph. Wrote the penultimate sentence. Ended it with this full stop.

The Isolation Diary

Monday March 23^rd

Light entertainer Boris Johnson put on a sad face and told the nation we have to stay in. To not to go out. To essentially have no contact with anyone, other than the people you live with. My wife looked ashen. Her face seemed to say, ‘For inside, For outside, was not in the wedding vows.' Despondent, she took to her bed.

Tuesday March 24^th

I set some school work and did the marking. The system ran seamlessly. Maybe I can work from home from now on and get the parents to administer the detentions. After the work was done, I sat with The Girl to watch Mindhorn on iPlayer; a film written by and starring Mighty Boosh’s Julian Barratt. Barratt is Richard Thorncroft, a washed up actor in need of a wash. His heyday was in the 80’s where he appeared as the titular in a successful cop show. Now in the present he is called in by the police to help with a murder investigation: the suspect, believing the character to be real, will only talk to him. The film is a lovely bit of silliness. I can’t watch the news at the moment. Jeremy Vine might as well be doing the mortalitymeter, running up a live total of what people have fallen to coronavirus in what constituencies. The best way to cope is to watch things that make you laugh.

Later, we finished watching Mae Martin’s All4 sitcom, Feeling Good. It’s Roxy Music’s ‘Love is a Drug’ put to punchlines. A story about an addict trying to have a healthy relationship with love and life shows how comedy has become more dramatic. It’s hardly Hi-De-Hi! is what I’m saying. 

Caught Boris on the news before bed. He’s looking a bit peaky. I guess having to be concise and clear is getting to him. The withdrawal from long words is starting to show on his face.

Wednesday March 25^th

The kids are still doing their work. Online work means I get to type my comments. It’s probably why they’re doing so well. In normal life I respond in red pen with a level of handwriting a doctor would deem illegible – this is maybe why they’re succeeding: it’s the first time they’ve ever been able to interpret my feedback.

The afternoon film today is Man Up on iPlayer, a romcom featuring Lake Bell and Simon Pegg. The premise? Lake Bell is a Bridget Jones type: a beauty in schlubby clothing. She hasn’t been on a date in years. Through a series of circumstances she ends up - accidentally - stealing someone else’s date. Her suitor: Simon Pegg. The date tracks them in real time across London. It’s a bit like Linklater’s Before Sunset, only written by someone whose got the book ‘Romcom cliches’ by their side. It was fun though and Lake Bell is a great lead.

Later we watched quiz shows: Tenable, The Chase and House of Games. (These are three separate quiz shows. Not one: that title would never get commissioned.) Warwick Davis hosts the first with competitors having to get ten answers relating to a topic. One of the rounds was ‘First ten words of five letters or longer in Bohemian Rhapsody.’ Even if there was a phone a friend option and you could contact Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon, there still would be no hope in hell of getting that answer right. Better is Richard Osman’s House of Games that takes the Taskmaster approach of having reoccurring guests and building lovely competition between them. I’m quite something on the Answersmash round.

Boris is still looking a bit pale. Why doesn’t he just say the word ‘magniloquent’? Going cold turkey from bombastic language isn’t doing him any good.

Thursday 26^th March

Get up. Turn the computer on. Mark. Set work. Have lunch. I’m getting into quite a routine here. If things go on for much longer, I’m going to be institutionalised like Brooks from Shawshank Redemption.

Today we don’t watch an afternoon movie. It’s Netflix and Babies instead. We’re expecting a child soon. (That sentence sounds like we're expecting a parcel to come through the letterbox. On second thoughts maybe that is an apt simile for the birthing process. Hopefully my wife doesn’t read this; she’ll only wince.)

Later, we watch Tenable, The Chase and House of Games. My wife is mad about quiz shows. If she ever left me - which she can’t do at the moment because she would be told to go home by the police, failing that she would have to pay a £30 fine; refusing that she would be forcibly returned, but if she ever left me - it would definitely be for a quiz show host. He could ask her General Knowledge questions all day, which would satisfy her in a way I never could.

In the evening we finished watching The Trip to Greece. Although I finished This Country this week, which in my eyes is the best sitcom in the past few years, I felt the final ever episode of The Trip was one of the great moments of tele. All the tiny assaults between Rob Brydon and Steve Coogan were suspended as the comedy collapsed into poignant, beautiful pathos. The direction of Michael Winterbottom was sublime. The show from beginning to end has been a delicious melange of comedy, literature, food and scenery.

Still no colour in Boris’ cheeks. Someone at least should let him look at a thesaurus. He can’t go on with this clear language for much longer.

Friday 27^th March

Woke at 7 and did the whole school thing up until lunchtime.

Watched Breeders with a bowl of soup. (That’s not a nickname for my wife. It’s what I was eating.) Like The Trip, it’s on Sky One. Again, such a shame more people can’t see it. Martin Freeman and Daisy Haggard are the parents that would die for their children, but would quite like to kill them too. It’s a bit like Outnumbered, but instead of Hugh Dennis raising his eyebrows, it’s Freeman telling his kids to ‘fuck off.’ The outbursts recede over time and it becomes more rewarding- perhaps like a child?

Watched quiz shows with pizza and a beer. It was my first beer of the week. I always have a beer on a Friday. So I had one today to remind me what day it is. I never have caffeine in the week. Only ever have it on the weekends. So I must remember to do that tomorrow. It’s important to have some kind of calendar to our lives isn’t it? Otherwise we’re no more evolved than cavemen looking at the sun – or whatever they did to tell the time.

Today’s movie is Thelma and Louise on Netflix. We’ve had it on our list for a long time. Man, it’s good. It’s #metoo thirty years before it began. Two female leads. Sarandon and Davis. Both beautiful. But never once does director Ridley Scott linger on their bodies. It’s the female gaze from a male director. A feminist re-working of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid where the women run from the law because they can’t trust it to protect them. A classic, important, influential movie.

Turns out Boris has coronavirus. That explains the paleness.

Everybody's Talking About Jamie

Before the curtain came down on the West End, The Girl and I went to the theatre to see Everybody’s Talking About Jamie. It was one we meant to see for a while, particularly because Rich, a friend of ours, is its Musical Director.

We first became interested in going when we saw Rich accompany Rebecca McKinnis on BBC’s Children In Need. The Carpenters chords are rounded by wondrous vocals of hum and belt. It’s Someone Like You for parents. The simplicity and majesty of it is spellbinding. The lyrics too perfectly encapsulate what it means to be a parent. Just this week, for instance, I was watching Sky One's new comedy, Breeders, where the Martin Freeman character says of his children, ‘I would die for those kids. But often, I also want to kill them.’ This intensity of feeling – good and bad – is conveyed in the song with the mother referencing, ‘my pleasure, my pain,' a ‘perfect mistake.’ The twisty language, these oxymorons, show Tom MacRae is quite the lyricist. I would have wanted to go anyway because Rich was in it, but that performance really sold it.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p06s1www

So how did everybody come to talk about Jamie? Well, its origins lie way back in 2011 in a BBC3 documentary, Jamie: Drag Queen at 16. Teenager Jamie Campbell wrote to the BBC with an idea for a documentary: him. The synopsis was simple to explain, but difficult to execute: he wanted to go to his prom in a dress. Remember this is nearly ten years ago: RuPaul is not yet a household name; gender is a two-party state; people are slowly getting round to the idea of men liking men, but can’t fathom why a man would want to dress like a girl. Things are fine if you stay in your lane, but any attempt to cross will cause a tailback of disapproval. As a comprehensive teacher, I can say now there would be zero issue if a boy wanted to go to prom in a dress. Staff would encourage it, many students too; dissenting voices would not be tolerated. This is now; it was not then.

In the documentary Jamie wrestles with his identity, struggling to assert his femininity outside the home. In a symbolic moment, he struts the wall of the front garden. Despite his heels being skyscrapers, he is cowed: he can't bring himself to go over it. He is walled in. Walled by narrow definitions. By snide comments. By hatred. Fortunately, there is a demolition team on hand to help. His mum is unwavering in her loyalty. So too her friend. Dress it up how you like, Jamie is their boy. But for every brick they knock down, there’s his dad; his school; his peers to put one, two, three back up. Like the end of Tetris, when things go a bit mad, it’s a battle to see who will out: brick or player.

The doc it was based on.

The musical arrived six years later in Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre. With music by The Feeling’s Dan Gillespie Sells and a book by Tom MacRae it took the city by storm. And if The North shouts loud enough, eventually London will hear. Nica Burns, a powerful theatre producer, was impressed; she wanted to bring the show to The West End. It has now been there for the past few years; it has just gone on tour (sadly, this will be postponed) and should head to Australia. With a film starring Richard E. Grant and Sharon Horgan due to arrive at the end of the year, it will only get bigger. More and more people will talk about Jamie.

It’s easy to see why the musical is such a success: the mother’s numbers invoke Carole King and Dusty Springfield, whilst Jamie’s have the showstopper pizzazz of Robbie and Beyonce. It’s old and new. Ballad and dance. Tradition and irreverence. A musical has to be more than the music though. The plot and script is the washing line that the dress hangs on. And boy can MacRae write. With a background in television, he does a remarkable job at turning his talents to composing pop lyrics. Take ‘Over The Top’ for example. With Jamie going through an existential crisis, a drag queen offers him a rallying cry:

Over the top my friend
Unto the breach my friend
Rend the unending nightYou've got your armour onYou've had your warpaint doneAnd you'll be a man my son So get out there and fight.

Now that is smart writing. There’s reference to Shakespeare’s Henry V (‘unto the breach my friend’) and Kipling’s If (‘And you’ll be a man my son’), which coalesce to form an extended war metaphor. And war is what we’re dealing with here. This is a cold war, neither about guns and bombs, but confidence and bluster. If Jamie can look down his enemy and give them ‘fuck you’ eyes then the land is his. Nor are we dealing with hyperbole here. People have been beaten for what they wear. Killed for their free choices. MacRae shows the struggle that it takes to be yourself.

Not only are the lyrics sharp, the script is on point too. As a teacher, I’m qualified to judge the classroom scenes. The way the students talk and banter is true to life. Think Bad Education, only written by someone whose been to comprehensive school. The wit, vulgarity and stupidity is all there. When a student doesn’t know who Emmeline Pankhurst is, the reply: ‘she's the Beyonce of her day.’ Another lovely line is when the Father, Son and Holy Spirit is replaced by Kylie and Jason: an invocation to the Gods of camp. It’s a real achievement how the writing manages to be subtle and brazen.

It’s a shame Jamie’s drag race will be stalled for a bit. But the lad has his mojo now. He has leapt the wall and entered the public’s hearts. His eye lashes will only shine brighter when they're worn again.

Jamie: Drag Queen At 16 is on Amazon Prime.

Everybody’s Talking About Jamie will be at London’s West End when it reopens.

Talking Heads

Alan Bennett is an easy man to impersonate. His stock-in-trade is specificity, documenting an English universe of rhododendrons, pantries and chicken in lemon sauce. Combine that with a soft Yorkshire accent and you’ve got a simple caricature for comics to run with. Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon rally 'their Bennett' back and forth in The Trip; Harry Enfield does him as Stalin; and Stewart Lee, in his current tour show, closes the first half by having Alan read Sharknado. Putting low-key Bennet in a high-stakes situation is, of course, very funny. 

This, however, is a two-dimensional view of Bennett. A lot of people confuse his titles for the work. ‘A Chip in the Sugar,’ ‘A Cracker under the Settee,’ ‘The Lady in the Van.’ Wholesome names. Understated. Small. Reserved. Peculiarly British. But like the nation's preserve, marmalade, the sweetness comes from bitter oranges.


I’m talking about Bennett because this week my mum and me went to Talking Heads at Watford Palace Theatre. The show was originally written for the BBC in 1988 and 1998, but was soon adapted for stage. Many people are aware of it because they’ve studied it for GCSE or A Level. It’s perfect for analysis because it’s the very embodiment of ‘show don’t tell’ writing. In a dramatic monologue a character speaks their thoughts aloud; consequently it’s full of digressions, non-sequiturs and minor details. They’re not – it’s important to state - confessional booths. The character does not want to reveal themselves- typically they’re proud and private- but in time they expose themselves. Robert Barrett Browning’s 1842 poem My Last Duchess is an early example of this.

In tonight’s performance we see three monologues. The first is ‘A Lady of Letters,’ performed by Jan Ravens. Irene Ruddock appears to be a pleasant kind of nuisance. Her raison d'etre is the composition of complaint letters. She writes to funeral directors, local councils and even Buckingham Palace. (The dog mess outside is appalling!) There’s a feeling that it empowers her, gives her agency in a world where she has none. She is isolated and alone. (It’s revealed her mother died recently.) It all seems very harmless though with Ravens playing the punch-line, ‘So I wrote a letter’ for hearty laughs. However, Bennett is a devious so-and-so. At drawn-out intervals, he drops in lines about the family across the road. (‘See we’ve got a new couple that have moved in opposite. Don’t look very promising. The kiddie looks filthy.’) At first, Irene seems a simple curtain-twitcher, someone requiring distraction from the humdrum of life. Over the course of the monologue though this drip-drop of information becomes a rushing tap that engulfs. Ravens, a comic performer in Dead Ringers, brilliantly rings out the comedy whilst retaining the horror that lies beneath.


The second ‘A Bed Among the Lentils’ is performed by Julia Watson. It begins with the line, ‘Geoffrey’s bad enough, but I’m glad I wasn’t married to Jesus.’ Soon we learn that Susan is a Vicar’s wife. The opening brilliantly establishes how she’s in a loveless marriage with God and her husband. When you marry a Vicar you’re entering into a trinity – a trinity Susan does not wish to be a part of. She too wears a dog collar, but unlike her husband hers doesn’t empower, but shackles. For him, his job affords him a status. Each week he stands and delivers his thoughts. These sermons are lapped up and licked clean. He is the star attraction. For Susan, she isn’t even secondary: she's well behind God and the flock. As a result, she finds communion in the bottle. Her Jesus is the blood of grapes or the grain of wheat – vodka is quite nice. Again, just as in ‘A Lady of Letters’ we discover her issue quietly. (‘The woman served me. Didn’t smile. I can’t think why? I spend enough.’) With Bennett it can be just the odd line, the moment where the character’s guard drops. From then on, the levee breaks and the truth gushes forth. In time, it isn’t just booze that exposes Susan, but an off-license owner too. Hindu: he isn’t a man of God, but Gods. The bed she finds among the lentils is Susan’s spiritual awakening; a union that brings her more pleasure than marriage and God. Julia Watson’s ascension from defeated wife to reclaimed woman is incredible. A bravura performance.

Watson (left) and Ravens (right)

The final monologue is ‘Soldiering On’ with Ravens returning to stage. Muriel is upper-class and cut-glass. She is mourning the loss of her husband. However, her grieving is typically British. With a lip stiffer than a corpse, she ‘nip(s) into the pantry to staunch the flow.’ To be seen to cry would be to admit defeat. In Bennett’s work the women are tough. They may be drowning, but want to appear waving. He was writing strong women long before other dramatists woke up and realised they’d existed. Even with further setbacks, Muriel soldiers on and keeps on going. 


At 85 and surviving cancer, Bennett seems to have gained inspiration from his creations (his recent collection was called Keeping On Keeping On). Let’s hope that happens; for he is one of the greatest dramatists we have. One ripe for parody and pastiche, yet whose genius can't be imitated.


Talking Heads is at Watford Palace Theatre until 29^th March.

Frankie Boyle's Tour of Scotland

There was a period when Mock The Week was the most exciting comedy show on the tele. At the time there were few panel shows on television. Those that were had a definite theme: the political Have I Got News For You; the musical Never Mind The Buzzcocks and the esoteric QI. It was the first TV panel show that had stand ups being stand ups. For many viewers it was an introduction into the stand-up form. There wasn’t much back and forth being the panelists, little in the way of dialogue; it was the arena of the monologue, where the loudest voice was heard.


The noisiest person in the room was Frankie Boyle. A Glaswegian comic, who with his red cheeks and spectacles, resembled a lost member of The Proclaimers. Someone whom wouldn’t walk 500 miles to be next to you; someone rather whom would walk 500 miles to knocl on your door and tell you 'you’re a cunt.' The best demonstration of Boyle’s nuclear comedy was the ‘Things You Wouldn’t Hear In The …’ round, where comics would take it in turns (as much as comedians can turn take) and deliver their joke. Whenever Boyle made his move, there was a frisson in the air: the studio waited with bated breath; the audience at home clung to their sofas. The anticipation was palpable. Dark comedy had been on the BBC before: The League of Gentlemen and Nighty Night all prefigured Boyle on Mock the Week, yet those edges were smoothed by the filter of character. Boyle was his own man delivering his own jokes – it was not diluted by persona.

I would tune in just to watch Frankie Boyle. Other comics seemed tame and unimaginative by comparison. Arguably, this was down to the topics they had to work with. A mainstream show meant mainstream topics. It’s hard to say something original about Ryanair. Yet Boyle made it work. In time the exhaustive task of generating new material caused the missile guidance technology to err. There were cruel jokes about Rebecca Adlington’s face: she resembled ‘the back of a spoon’ apparently. Following complaints, Boyle apologised by delivering another joke, ‘I worry that Rebecca Adlington will have an unfair advantage in the swimming by possessing a dolphin's face.’ The second joke is admittedly funny. But is it worth making? Millions of people watched the show and for a woman who was an athlete, who didn’t choose the spotlight, it felt like bullying.

Boyle would eventually quit Mock the Week citing creative differences. He wanted to make jokes about serious topics, but the producers wouldn’t let him. This could help explain the collateral damage of his attacks.

His next venture was Tramadol Nights. Like a Goths bedroom, it was blacker than black. Whenever Boyle delivered a skin-stripping punch-line, they couldn’t cut to Russell Howard skipping to dissolve the tension. Of course, the viewing figures were lower; but it was a sign of a comedian wanting to be an artist. Still though some of the celebrity baiting remained. One joke was particularly inflammatory: 

"Jordan [Katie Price] and Peter Andre are fightin' each other over custody of Harvey - well eventually one of them'll lose and have to keep him. I have a theory that Jordan married a cage fighter cause she needed someone strong enough to stop Harvey from fuckin' her." 

Boyle defended it, arguing he was attacking Jordan’s use of her child to maintain her celebrity. For me, this doesn’t hold up. The target doesn't feel like Jordan, but her child. It’s disablist – a joke that mocks the weak.

With years away from the screen, Boyle came back with New World Order. A dissection of the week’s news, it echoed Charlie Brooker’s Screenwipe. It became very much its own thing though because along with news footage, it had smart analysists (the rapper Akala and data expert Mona Chalabi being just two) and end-of-days epilogues from Boyle. This was the kind of format that he was looking for all those years ago when he left Mock the Week. 

Frankie Boyle’s Tour of Scotland is another triumph and another step on the road to rehabilitation. Yes, it’s another travelogue featuring a comedian, yet it’s a look at Scottishness, examining why the nation has even more nihilism in its bloodstream than heroin, its drug of choice. The wonderful thing is to hear from normal people. A battle reenactor educates him on Robert the Bruce, a historian on Mary Queen of Scots, and a hermit on why there's a camper van up a tree. There’s a warmness in the interactions and a genuine desire to learn and understand. Alongside this are monologues to camera (the one on Mary Queen of Scots is particularly brilliant) and clips from his stand-up. It’s the perfect slicing and dicing of all what makes Boyle such a warm, brutal comic.

From mocking the week to attacking the strong, Boyle is now where he needs to be.


Frankie Boyle’s Tour of Scotland is on BBC iPlayer.