Shankly and Kitson

Aim for the sky and you’ll reach the ceiling. Aim for the ceiling and you’ll reach the floor.

(Bill Shankly)

I fell in love with Bill Shankly last year whilst reading David Peace’s excellent Red or Dead. The book chronicles Shankly’s tenure at Liverpool FC in painstaking, exacting detail. Peace doesn’t just write the character of Shankly, he inhabits him, describing every dugout emotion and training ground thought. Each one of Shankly’s games in charge are conveyed via first person match report, enabling the reader to live and breathe every ball. For some the narrative was a step too far: Peace has always looked beyond the headlines, revelling in minutiae, through his books on Peter Sutcliffe, The Miners Strike and Brian Clough; but never had he done it to such an extreme where his characters are shown laying the table or washing up as in the case of Red or Dead. Critics said it was in need of an edit; fans, on the other hand, can cite Atticus Finch on why sometimes the hero is in the detail: “You can never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view … Until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” In Red or Dead then, we don’t just read about the life of Bill Shankly, we live it; which makes it, in my opinion, the best book about football I’ve ever read.

Shankly took Liverpool out of the Second Division and won three First Division titles.

Whenever I fall in love with something, I make it my life’s work to tell my girlfriend about it. (She has only appreciated this practice once in our relationship.)  This time though it paid off.  For the pair of us had already arranged a trip to Liverpool to see artist, thinker and prophet Daniel Kitson. I have seen the comedian Daniel Kitson more times in the last few years than I have some of my own friends and family. Every show he does I endeavour to see. Given he performs two or three different shows a year means this is quite an undertaking. I love The Smiths; I love George Orwell; I love The Office, but there’s nothing in the pantheon of culture I love more than Daniel Kitson. Therefore, noting in his recent mail-out that he was performing a new play at Liverpool’s Everyman Theatre, I asked the girl if we could go. Fortunately, the last night of his show fell on the first day of our holiday. Serendipity hadn’t tasted this sweet since that snow day in April 2012. Anyway, we knew it would be a bit much to go all the way to Liverpool for the theatre, so we thought we’d make a day of it. Aware of my love for all things Shankly, the girl booked us in for a meal at The Bastion, a museum-restaurant housed within The Shankly Hotel.

In entering the restaurant it doesn’t look like much. Sepia washed prints of Shankly adorn the walls, chronologically arranged from his childhood in the remote Scottish village of Glenbuck to his retirement press conference in 1974. But nestled between pillars and centred in the concourse are some incredible artefacts that have been donated by his devoted grandson. There’s the This is Your Life book he was presented with; the 1971 Liverpool FA Cup final tracksuit he wore; letters from his friend and hero, Manchester United’s Sir Matt Busby; along with the shirts he donned as a Preston and Scotland player. Even the chairs have his wit inscribed on the back of them, “At a football club, there’s a holy trinity - the players, the manager and the supporters Directors don't come into it. They are only there to sign the cheques."  

The dining room exhibition.

Such is the restaurant’s popularity for hosting birthday parties and baby showers, most diners are oblivious to the history they are seated with; but for those few football fans that come clutching Liverpool FC bags, this is a pilgrimage, the opportunity to visit a shrine dedicated to their great manager, a chance to say thank you to Bill, a man that blessed the city. 

So on to Kitson. I have written about Kitson before, and needless to say I will write about him again. Daniel Kitson is the comedian who had the world at his feet and kicked it into touch. In 2002 he won the Edinburgh’s main award, The Perrier, and overnight noticed his audience change from the kind that laughed at his ideas to the type that crowed at his swearing. Afraid of the mainstream diluting his voice, he took the road less taken and started performing short stories in theatres and writing stand-up shows titled, Weltanschauung. Essentially, he turned his back on the mob and embraced the people to form material that is humane, philosophical and uniquely funny. If he took the road more taken of panel shows and long tours, there’s every chance he wouldn’t have had the time to experiment with form and content in the way that he has.

It is Kitson’s prolificacy that makes him truly remarkable. Every year he somehow manages to produce a theatre show, a run of stand-up and a Christmas special. Such rapid output in the arts isn’t always regarded a good thing: take James Patterson in literature for example. However, every once in a while a maverick comes along that cannot only create great art but turn it over at a tremendous rate. While other comedians are worrying about what their ‘Edinburgh hour’ is going to be on, Kitson doesn’t have such concerns. Mohammad Ali once said, "I'm so fast that last night I turned off the light switch in my hotel room and was in bed before the room was dark." Well, before the room gets dark, Kitson has workshopped, written and performed another piece of genre-defying comedy. To put it simply, he is a one off. There probably won’t be another one like him.

Recently, Kitson has prioritised his theatre shows over his stand up. He still dabbles in stand up, compering charity benefits to prevent ring rust; however you get the sense that comedy is just fun for him now- unlike theatre that feels like harder work. This is not to diminish comedy: comedy is the hardest thing to do well. Anyone can make someone feel sad; not everyone can make someone laugh. But when you’re born jester like Kitson then maybe you want to find other ways of entertaining the court.

Over the past few years, one of the developments I’ve seen in Kitson’s work is his use of recordings. After The Beginning Before The End (2013), Analog.Ue (2014) and Polyphony (2015) have all benefitted –or suffered – from their use. In Analog.Ue Kitson used a series of reel to reel players to tell a story about an old man and his garage – the ambition of the project (Kitson had to walk the stage turning on the audio players at the exact right time) meant we didn’t get to hear his live voice. This I feel was to the show’s detriment as witnessing his giddy expressiveness first-hand is part of what makes him so compelling. This issue was addressed in Polyphony where he used a number of iPods to tell a story about a man putting on a show, the difference this time was that Kitson stalked the middle circle, interacting effervescently with the recordings to form a magical hour of storytelling. 

In his new show Mouse: The Persistence of an Unlikely Thought, he acts alongside a recording to share the story of William Booth, a writer, whom is struggling to finish his story about a woman’s encounter with a mouse. This writer’s block is exacerbated by a caller, Billy, who has dialled him by mistake, and instead of apologising for the slip accuses him of stealing his phone. (When did you last have your phone? About 15 minutes ago in the kitchen? And have you been out of the house? No. So how do you assume I’ve stolen your phone?) Over the course of the conversation, the two iron out their differences, leading William to tell Billy the story of the mouse. The two soon find they like one another, uniting over a shared hatred of the term ‘daddy duty’ and a shared love of pizza. By the end the question remains: is there more to their similar names and viewpoints than meets the eye?

The phone call between William and Billy is intercut with the backward chronology of William’s descent into loneliness. What with William telling Billy a story, we’re effectively looking at a triple narrative. It is a story then that demands you follow the threads in order to see the joins in this most intricate material. For all of that, it doesn’t matter if you miss a few things- I 'm sure I did. It doesn’t matter because although the structure is highfalutin, the references are universally relatable: the challenge of throwing tea bags successfully into a mug; the love of snacking and the acknowledgement that ‘shit in a soup bowl’ is a great catchphrase. The beauty of Kitson is that he wraps up existential philosophy in examples that people can understand.

Another highlight of the show is seeing Kitson pick up on what the audience is doing. Before going into William's flashback, he has the comic’s instinct to seize on audience behaviour for huge laughs: at our show one woman was stood leaning against the balcony, a position that did not go unnoticed. Her response of a bad back was ok’d by Kitson, who then added, ‘I was just worried that you might be a bold assassin.’ At another point, a man stood up to gesticulate with people above; it turned out they had accidentally spilt water on him. Kitson doesn’t let this opportunity go to waste, clearing up the incident with authoritative humour, opining, “I bet Olivier didn’t have to put up with this shit.” This is what makes Kitson so special: he has the craftsmanship of a playwright alongside the spontaneity of a comedian.

The staging of the play.

Kitson will never be Olivier. He won’t have awards named after him, nor will he be treated by history in the same way. With no physical copies of his work, there's a danger his output could disappear into the ether. Given his superhuman talent, this could be perceived a great shame. It shouldn’t because Kitson is a man that finds dignity in the work itself, not the praise that follows it. Like Shankly, he's always aiming for the sky and more often than not he's scoring a direct hit. Kitson is now in a league of his own. He isn't just at the top table of comedy, he eats with the muses. Who knows what he will come up with next.

• Mouse: The Persistence of an Unlikely Thought will probably appear at the Edinburgh festival.
• Daniel Kitson's early shows are available here: http://www.danielkitson.com/audio.html
• The Bastion restaurant is housed within The Shankly Hotel, 60 Victoria Street, Liverpool

Lady Dynamite

In watching Maria Bamford’s new show, Lady Dynamite, I'm reminded of Ted Hughes’ poem Bayonet Charge: in it, a soldier so overwhelmed by battle longs - ‘to get out of that blue crackling air his terror’s touchy dynamite.’ The soldier is traumatised, his fuse has reached its conclusion; he is about to blow into irrevocable breakdown.

Bamford’s war doesn't involve the fields of battle but the arena of the mind. A comedian with bipolar II disorder, she has undergone psychiatric assessment for suicidal thoughts. Her condition manifests itself as hypermania, a stranglehold of euphoria that is sometimes too difficult to wrestle. The comedian as manic depressive is less common than the press would like you to think. Most are maladjusted, but few are clinically unwell. What unites Bamford with another diagnosed ‘manic,’ Spike Milligan, is a phenomenal work ethic and a surreal lunacy that borders on genius. To be touched by madness is no great thing, but there’s no denying that it gives people a different worldview, which in the right hands can be conducive to comedy.

Bamford then has blown up in both senses of the word. One of the most in-demand comedians in America has been forced to cancel shows in the past because of her struggles with mental health. Unable to fully exorcise this mania, Bamford has harnessed it into brilliant, discombobulating comedy. Hers isn’t the tight narration of other comics; she is the scatter-gun ratatating a flurry of voices into the skulls of adoring audiences. She has the surrealism of Steve Martin, the facial tics of Jim Carrey and the mimicry of Peter Sellers; the fact that the emotional resonance of her material is not undimmed by these performance skills makes her very special indeed. 

Lady Dynamite is neither written nor directed by Bamford, but it is very much her vehicle. Mitchell Hurwitz, creator of Arrested Development, and Pam Brady, writer for South Park, maybe chauffeuring the thing; however it’s Bamford’s mental health story that’s telling it where to go.

The series begins in a way like no other. Bamford parodies the transformative lies of hair commercials by dancing around the city with the manic energy of a pixie dream girl. The reverie breaks when an assistant tells Bamford to get into the van because the show is about to begin. Fans of the fourth wall: this show is not for you. Through having characters discuss narrative sequencing to having them argue over the episode’s message, Lady Dynamite joins Community and Arrested Development in taking a postmodern sword to straight sitcom.

The mad opening to Lady Dynamite.

In Hurwitz working with Brady though, Ivy League smarts are blended with street smarts to create a comedy that strokes your chin and tickles your belly. For example, it is surely Brady whom is responsible for the character, agent to the stars, Karen Grisham. Grisham is a South Park cartoon in a Hollywood setting, shooting obscenities like an automatic Tourette’s gun. Also, Episode 2 where Maria goes out with Shane, a bisexual recovering meth addict, has Brady's handprints all over it. When Shane says, “it’s long time since I’ve been straight in a bar,” Bamford takes this to mean heterosexual when in fact he means from meth. When he goes on to say, "I used to take it in my mouth. I used to take it in the shower and sit on it…" we’re dealing with Cartman levels of penile humour. Regardless of how high or low the comedy goes, an intelligent seam runs through it.

For all the house of card layering of narrative and dialogue, the most special moments are when the show folds in on itself and focuses on Maria’s earlier mental collapse. These flashbacks to Minnesota are moving because they demonstrate her resilience in the face of illness along with the loving support of her family. In therapy Bamford discovers music’s healing powers; consequently she responds by initiating her unsuspecting family into a band and booking them a gig. (This is not a world away from her real life where she once had her dad open for her in a biker club). Another touching moment is where her dad defends her honour in the face of ignorant abuse: "My daughter has Type 2 Bipolar which is defined as long-term depression with agitated hypermania. But it does not define her."

The flashback to Bamford's mania.

Essentially, Dynamite is a show that blows the lid off the traditional sitcom and attitudes to mental illness. It is a weird animal that won’t be for everyone. Stick with it past its disorientating first episode though because there every alienation device is thrown at it – parody, postmodernism and intertextuality – making it more of a cerebral exercise than a comedic one. However, Episode 2 is a rude doozy that through sensitive plotting and insensitive subject matter elicits huge laughs.

My instinct tells me that you’ll either love her or loathe Bamford's sitcom. No one will deny though that it is a work of a febrile mind.  So why not jump in and swim around in it for a while? You might find you enjoy the water.

Lady Dynamite is available on Netflix.

Stefan Golaszewski

When you think of great British comedy writers, whom do you think of?

•           Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant.
•       Steve Coogan and Armando Iannucci.
•       Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong
•       Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith.
•       Julia Davis.

 For me, it’s Stefan Golaszewski.

I appreciate that in choosing a name so few have heard of I run the risk of being labeled, at best, contrary; at worst, pretentious. But liking Stefan Golaszewski is not my bid for hipsterdom. I do not think his programmes are cool, invoking as they do the kitchen sink era of British television. Rather I think his works are tender celebrations of that uncoolest emotion: love. 

Stefan Golaszewski, the quiet man of comedy.

Following in the footsteps of Peter Cook, Eric Idle and Richard Ayoade, Golaszewski was President of Cambridge Footlights. The prestigious organisation acts as a student showcase for theatrical and comic talent; it is the place, for instance, where Fry and Laurie first cut their performing teeth. Here, he met Tim Key, now known as ‘Sidekick Simon’ from Alan Partridge’s Mid Morning Matters, and Tom Basden, a writer who would go on to write for Fresh Meat and The Wrong Mans. The three of them along with Lloyd Woolf would go on to take Edinburgh by storm in their sketch group Cowards. After a succession of Radio 4 series, BBC4 commissioned the show for three episodes. Despite enjoying much critical acclaim, Cowards’ run was not extended; as a consequence the band folded, going their separate ways to pursue disparate projects.

It was a move that would be the making of them. Not since Beyond The Fringe has a sketch group gone on to enjoy so much individual success. (Please can we ignore Monty Python to let my upcoming analogy work.) In that 60’s revue show, Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Alan Bennett and Jonathan Miller enjoyed huge celebrity on both sides of the pond. Following this, Cook and Moore became one of Britain’s most loved double acts; Bennett the nation’s favourite playwright, and Miller the theatre director of The Old Vic. Although the Cowards team are not household names in the same way as Fringe, they have achieved feats of brilliance.

Cowards.

To stretch the analogy, Key and Basden whom now dabble in the double act Freeze are Cook and Moore; Woolf, a writer for Drifters and Witless, is the lesser-known Miller; which leaves Golaszewski as Bennett: a special talent that can make the humdrum hum. Despite working hard to find a relationship between these sketch groups, I do not believe that comparing Golaszewski to Bennett is strained. Yes, the younger man has a long way to go to emulate the oeuvre of his spiritual father; however, his work on stage and screen up to this point shows there is yet a chance he could do so.

Golaszewski began his foray into playwriting when he took his monologues to Edinburgh in 2008 and 2009. His first Stefan Golaszewski Speaks About A Girl He Once Loved is a beautiful lament for a relationship never realised. His second Stefan Golaszewski Is A Widower is a eulogy to a relationship too painfully realised. Both works are quiet acts of beauty, showcasing Golaszewski’s unshowy way with words. Invigorated by the success of these solo works, he undertook his biggest project yet and wrote a sitcom. The product of this, Him and Her, would run for 24 episodes collecting a BAFTA for Best Situational Comedy in 2014. 

It's a toss up between The Office and Him and Her for my favourite comedy; I beg of you not to make me call. Both sitcoms are pieces of perfection. Neither has a dud line, a superfluous scene, a wasted minute: they are lean, trim prized fighters without an inch of fat on them. What is truly special about them is not only are they painfully, excruciatingly funny; they’re also truly romantic. In Tim and Dawn, in Becky and Steve they have the greatest romantic pairings ever committed to screen. People can get all misty eyed at the thought of Bergman and Bogarde in the fog, but give me Steve and Becky watching Morse in their dressing gowns any day.

This week I been re-watching Him and Her: The Wedding with the girl, and we love it even more second time around. In this the fourth series, the characters are taken out of Steve and Becky’s bedsit and relocated to a hotel for Becky’s sister’s wedding. Given squalor is the third main character in Him and Her, it was a risk to move the action away from the Tracey Emin bedroom of the earlier seasons to the more salubrious environs of a wedding day. Here, Golaszewski shows an anthropologist’s genius for social observation as over five episodes he documents a wedding from preparation through to the booze-sodden Somme of a disco. In this season Steve and Becky’s ribald tongues and dirty floors take a backseat to the polluted souls of Laura and Paul – it turns out to be an inspired move. Laura and Paul are Becky and Steve’s opposites: their life is comparatively rich compared to the others; however their hearts are poor. Whereas Steve and Becky would happily lock the whole world out to enjoy the privacy of love, Paul and Laura want the whole world to come and see theirs as though love were a show rather than an emotion. Watching this couple implode over series’ of looking down on Steve and Becky is a wonderful sight to behold.

Him and Her.

This week Golaszewski’s new sitcom, Mum, began on BBC 2. Starring Leslie Manville, Mum begins with Cathy (Manville) preparing for her husband’s funeral. Invading her mourning is a menagerie of family and partners appearing to have all the decorum of a fart in a wind tunnel. Her brother’s partner Pauline is a ghastly snob whom thinks it fit to criticise a widow’s brew on this day of all days. (“Did you do this in the pot, Cathy?”) On top of that she has to contend with her son’s dopey girlfriend, Kelly, who says things like: “Can I borrow some knickers? I just thought I best be wearing some. ” Thankfully her full heart makes up for her empty undercarriage. All of this whilst having to deal with her belligerent in-laws makes Cathy’s clandestine smokes understandable. Like Steve and Becky, she is surrounded but longs for seclusion. 

The early signs are very good. I think Mum has the makings of being another beautiful work by Golaszewski. Admittedly, it doesn’t have the vulgarity or outlandishness that made its predecessor so compulsive, yet in exhibiting older actors and deeper themes there’s a real chance this could be his most meaningful work to date.

Lesley Manville as Cathy.

Ultimately, I know Golaszewski isn’t an easy name to say, but for all his achievements in comedy it really should be one on everyone’s lips.

Mum is on BBC 2, Friday 10pm

Grayson Perry: All Man

What does it mean to be a man?

The theme of masculinity intrigues me. In some ways I’m a typical male: I enjoy football, like a pint and … well that’s about it. My best mates are blokes but the majority of my friends are female. If given the choice to spend time talking to a guy or a girl, I would choose the latter. Talk with women tends to be more collaborative, less competitive where there isn’t the need to compete for public attention like a bad episode of Mock the Week.

I’m not an advocate for masculinity. I think this is because I’m very lucky to have a dad that didn’t foist any gender expectations on me. My dad is stereotypically strong: he left his parents and six siblings to move to England as a young man. Also, whilst living here his parents died within a very short time of one another. In response to this I remember him hurting, but I don’t remember him crying. (I’m not saying this a good thing). On the other hand, he is a very sensitive man. A perennial worrier as a child I would go to him with my concerns and never be laughed away and told to man up. 

Ideas of masculinity.

As a student I struggled at uni, I had gone from being the boy wonder of the comprehensive to the nondescript of the redbrick. My essays had never seen red pen until they found academic scrutiny. From the top of the class to the bottom of the seminar group within months, I found the adjustment very difficult to cope with. As I wasn’t good with girls, grades were what gave me my status and esteem. Despite having very good friends, it wasn't long before I felt very alone. On phoning home I said to my parents that I was struggling and felt like a failure. Instead of telling me to ‘man up,’ my dad told me to concentrate on my own personal development and not compete with others. Knowing that my dad prided self-improvement over pecking orders was what I needed to hear.

As a child my dad would take me to football and his actions on the sideline were a metaphor for his parenting. I was never a good footballer; I was distinctly average. I had a good footballing brain but not good footballing feet. I could see a pass but I couldn’t make it. Imagine Andrea Pirlo in his dotage and you’d be close. Even though I wasn’t any good, my dad never shouted at my mistakes as though they personally embarrassed him; instead he'd share in it, putting his arms round me, consoling defeat with chocolate on the way home.  Essentially, he’s never kept me or my problems at arms length; he’s embraced them and said ‘what’s yours is mine. Let’s do something about them.’

I thought I was Pirlo.

I’m very lucky to have my dad as a model of masculinity. I believe men like women should be strong. There’s no point hiding when things get tough. You have to confront challenges and tell them to ‘fuck off.’ At the same time, I think men like women should be sensitive. Empathy shouldn’t be something synonymous with homosexual males; heterosexuals should show kindness and compassion too. There have been many times in my life where people have said that I'm too sensitive as though it were a slur. Shouldn't sensitivity be a good thing?

Grayson Perry’s All Man is a three-part study on the theme of masculinity. Each week he will look at men who are happy to ally themselves with masculinity. This week, he was in the north-east to interview cage fighters on why they feel the need to risk themselves physically for their sport. The general reaction seemed to be that life was tough in the region and therefore you had to be tough to respond to it. Perry digs deeper into this psyche, revealing that the need to be hard might be rooted in their forbears: many jobs in the north-east of England were rooted in tough manual toil (shipyards/ the pits), with these jobs now obsolete there isn't the work for sons to emulate their fathers; as a result these sports are adopted to fill the macho hole gouged by Thatcher.

Perry and cage fighters.

Perry is a Turner-prize winner, but his way with people makes him a fine journalist too. Born to working-class Essex, his down-to-earth accessibility allows him to infiltrate his subjects’ lives and gain the experience needed to produce art. Saying that, he is not without bias. The topic of masculinity is personal one for Perry as he was brought up by a vicious step-father. A brutalizer whom the young Grayson feared, he imbued in him a deep-seeded mistrust of maleness. As a result, Perry pokes the bears of the steel cage, challenging them on their life choice- instead of biting back, they point to a life of care homes and grief as to why they are competitively vicious.

More sadly, Perry visits Thelma, the mother of Daniel who took his life aged just 18. She and his friends described him as happy-go-lucky, someone loved and adored. For whatever reason, his life spiralled downwards with no one knowing. His mum on visiting the coroner’s was told it was the 15^th suicide that month or ‘an epidemic’ as she describes it. It leaves Perry to conclude that maybe the cage fighters have found a compromise: like their fathers and grandfathers, their toughness at work allows them to be sensitive at home. But for the men that don’t have this outlet, they’re literally being left for dead by a society that has told them to favour suicide to talk.

At the end of the episode, Perry produces art works based on the people he’s met. The subjects and their families find the results emotive, evocative and ennobling. I was very moved to see ordinary men eternalised in extraordinary pieces. In fact, Perry reminds me of Dickens in the way he walks amongst the people for inspiration: he isn't an artist that exists in an ivory tower; he’s down here, getting dirty with the rest of us. 

The distillation of Perry's experience.

Ultimately, this is an urgent documentary, a distress signal from the rough seas of masculinity; a cry to prevent another man overboard; a warning to avoid another ‘man up.’ Men, watch it and weep.

Grayson Perry: All Man is on Channel 4 this Thursday at 10pm.