The League of Gentlemen

“Hello, Dave!”


I’m sitting in my Year 11 maths class. An unfortunate looking teacher walks through the door. This is the cry that greets her. It’s so ridiculous and random that it can't hurt her – it’s a non sequitur forged in surrealism, made from nonsense. My friends around me laugh because they know where it’s from. I laugh because of the incongruity: a colourful outburst in a a grey classroom. I don’t know where the reference is from or what it means. It’s taken me 15 years to understand what I laughed at that day.

The League of Gentleman was on my friends radar for years. Out of my schoolmates, Ian, Dec and Coxy were huge fans. At university Jim had the VHS on the rack (him and Phil would often quote lines from it). Even though I admired this league of gentlemen and their comic sensibilities, I never felt compelled to watch. I’d seen the front cover and assumed it wasn’t for me. I was always of a mainstream disposition. During school my favourite comedies were Friends and Only Fools and Horses, comfort sitcoms that celebrated friendship and family. Even though my tastes would change, taking in more obscure fare like Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace and Nathan Barley, I never felt the urge to visit The League...

The League of Gentlemen is a long way from Friends.

I think my indifference to The League... was down to two factors: one its sketch show format; the other its characters. As far as I was concerned The League was a revolving door of grotesqueries, demonstrating no through-line or continuity. The thing I love about sitcom is it has a depth sketch can't achieve. Great sitcom is about more than laughs. Our great comedy characters are imbued with a tragedy that increases over time. In the first few episodes these creations initially appear monstrous, failing quite spectacularly in the business of civilisation. After a series though their humanity unfurls so you no longer see beast, but human. Fawlty, Brent and Partridge aren’t so different to you or me: they’re confused by the world and resentful they’re not doing well in it. (If you’ve never felt this way, you’re a liar.) So The League of Gentlemen seemed like a sketch show for sketch show people. I wasn’t welcome there. For me, sitcom was a Sistine Chapel, an artistic wonder celebrating theme and character. The sketch show- conversely- a child’s painting, a slapdash slather of caricature. 

When it comes to The League …, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

This week I watched The League of Gentlemen Anniversary Specials – and loved it. Given I’m already a fan of the individual members work, I don’t know what took me so long. I’ve enjoyed Mark Gatiss’ modern re-working of Sherlock, looked forward to Jeremy Dyson’s Ghost Stories and marvelled over the ingenuity of Shearsmith’s and Pemberton’s Inside Number Nine.  Stupidly, I’ve watched the solo projects before the thing that made the group famous. It’s a bit like listening to Niall Horan’s ‘Too Much To Ask’ and not being aware of One Direction’s oeuvre- well, only a bit like that.

They're visionary solo artists. I imagine the band was pretty great too.

The League of Gentlemen is a sketch show, and yet isn’t one as well. It’s a sketch show in a sense that characters come in and out of view, rarely crisscross with one another and enjoy a catchphrase or two. It isn’t a sketch show in the sense that these nightmarish cartoons develop into three-dimensional personalities capable of growth. For most sketch shows, continuity is the key; it allows the viewer to anticipate what’s coming next- and be satisfied when it does. However, in The League of Gentlemen there is a greater emphasis on characterisation, which means the character comes before the catchphrase.

The first episode in the comeback opens with a callback to the first ever episode (I’ve since watched the first series). There are further nods to the past with a ‘Lost’ poster being particularly redolent. For first timers like me though, there is much to enjoy. The sight gags at the start are inspired, with shop signs lamenting, ‘Bra Shop: Gone Bust,’ ‘Sam’s Soup: Stock Reduced’ and ‘Tyres: Everything Slashed.’ These puns are in the great British tradition of gag writing, but they also hold contemporary relevance: this is Broken Britain, a town The Big Society forgot. Later, we see townspeople queuing up at an ATM ‘Food Bank’ for their processed cheese and spam. The creators of The League … said their show was never political, but it feels that way now.

Episode 1 of the original. Episode 1 of the anniversary special.

After we back in the taxi with Barbara, who in the first series was going through the process of gender reassignment. Twenty years ago, her character was played for husky voiced laughs. Now with transsexual rights in the media, she’s been repositioned as a strong heroine. With Benjamin taking the same cab journey he took in the first series, he gets into a conversation with Barbara about the preferred pronoun (he/she). Barbara’s response:  ‘Well if you don’t know, you can piss off out of here, I’m not telling you.’ Although the Royston Vasey asylum hasn’t changed, the creators have; their worldview brings the show kicking and screaming into the twenty first century.

Contemporary relevance is shown further by the main plot-line of the series. What makes The League of Gentlemen so unique is that it imposed narrative on the form. Previously the sketch form had no unity; it was rooted in chaos. The League’s first series had the story of a proposed road linking Royston with its neighbours; so although the characters didn’t leave their small world of shop, pub and job centre, they shared an overarching concern. In this series it’s the boundary line that’s concerning residence. 

Royston’s crime figures are too high, as a result authorities want it subsumed, removed from history. Tubbs and Edward, the local shopkeepers, are the type of people that make today’s Leave voters look like Gina Miller. Their characters are so shut off from the outside world, they perceive the step to their shop foreign – worse, un-local. In our post-Brexit world of insularity, they’re the final Russian Doll: they don’t care about the nation, they care only for the town. So when they hear of how Whitehall Nazis plan to annex their land, they cry foul play and promise to ‘take back control.’ In a recent interview with The Radio Times, Steve Coogan, a Remain voter, confessed he had his doubts over giving his character, Alan Partridge, airtime. Partridge’s closed-bordered view of Britain has now become a reality, so wouldn’t there be a danger that viewers would think that was his creator’s views? Coogan argued that the best way to ridicule Brexit was to have an idiot speak effusively about it. You get the feeling The League…, in Tubbs and Edward, have done the same. Brains will be spilt as the rebel army defend their homeland, but they’ll also be stroked as viewers appreciate the satirical overtones.

The Gove and Farge of Royson Vasey.

Since watching the three anniversary episodes, I’ve gone back to the beginning and started watching from the series one. It’s a wonderful feeling when you discover something new, yet realise how old it is. It means there’s the series, film and maybe even next year’s tour show to catch up on.

It would have been nice all those years ago to have understood what my mates were laughing about in maths. But there’s no points having regrets. After all when it comes to classic comedy, ‘you can’t go back, but you can visit.'

The League of Gentlemen Anniversary Specials are available on iPlayer.

I, Daniel Blake

"I am not a client, a customer, nor a service user. "I am not a shirker, a scrounger, a beggar, nor a thief. "I'm not a National Insurance Number or blip on a screen. "I paid my dues, never a penny short, and proud to do so. "I don't tug the forelock, but look my neighbour in the eye and help him if I can. "I don't accept or seek charity. "My name is Daniel Blake. I am a man, not a dog. "As such, I demand my rights. "I demand you treat me with respect. "I, Daniel Blake, am a citizen, "nothing more and nothing less." 

(Daniel Blake, I, Daniel Blake)

Above is the concluding passage of Ken Loach’s I, Daniel Blake; a diatribe against the state’s  manhandling of benefit claimants. It’s a speech that has been whirring around in my head since I heard it Friday last.

I, Daniel Blake came out at the end of last year and was met by relief - or suspicion - depending on what side of the political divide you stood. For the left it was a clarion call for the right to understand what their punitive measures were doing to people. For the right it was socialist dogma, something that didn’t ring true, biased to the core without the rigour of journalistic fair play. I remember watching BBC’s Film 2016 programme with the brilliant reviewer Danny Leigh. Guest hosting was The Sunday Time columnist Camilla Long, who in her paper review challenged the veracity of Loach’s story. She couldn’t believe that this type of society existed where a single mother is moved out of a city and relocated hundreds of miles away. She couldn’t countenance that an older person would find it difficult to log onto a computer to do jobseekers paperwork. Because of this, she couldn’t understand the film’s attack; consequently, couldn’t empathise with the characters. The fact that she did this was with such dead-eyed certainty made her appear cold-hearted and ill-informed. Aware of the furore her opinions had caused, Danny Leigh made it his film of the week. Long’s ruffled expression was the thing of great television. After that, I knew I had to see it.

Camilla Long (far left) and Danny Leigh (far right).
The seating positions don't necessarily correlate to their political views.

A year on and I eventually sit down to watch the film that shook the Commons. I should start by saying that I, Daniel Blake is didactic. It isn’t measured, even-handed or fair. It has an agenda, a view, a purpose; one it doesn’t shirk from showing. Only one kind employee of the Job Centre is shown. Only one Work Capability Assessor is portrayed – an idiot, incapable of being human, let alone assessing one. Only two benefit claimants are featured – both heroic. Undoubtedly, this is a biased film – and you know what? It needed to be- if it weren't people would never have discussed it. In a 2015 Independent report they found that more than 50,000 families had been shipped out of London because of soaring rents. Six months on from Grenfell more than half its citizens are still in emergency accommodation. So yes Camilla Long, it’s feasible that Katie, the single mother in the film, could be relocated out of the city. Further, take real-life human, Colin Traynor, a 29 year old man suffering from epilepsy; he was deemed ‘fit to work,’ only to die appealing the decision. So yes Camilla Long, it’s the case that a doctor can tell someone to avoid work – like Daniel from the film – whilst the state orders otherwise. Not every person on benefits is as noble as Daniel and Katie, but what every person on benefits are is human and deserve to be treated as such. 

They were promised to be rehoused in three weeks.

The film begins with Daniel being assessed. He’s asked a series of absurd questions – none of which relate to the heart complaint he complains of. From the questionnaire, he’s deemed 'fit to work.' The thing is the game is rigged. (An undercover journalist recently found assessors were under pressure to fail claimants so as to free up money for the State.) With a Government called Austerity, it makes more sense to take from the poor than the rich. The rich vote Conservative. The poor vote reality television.  If you cut the throat of the voiceless, no one can hear the screams. So Daniel is put in a bizarre position where he must look for work, even though trained medical professionals say that if he finds it it'll kill him. Whilst at the Job Centre, he meets Katie, a London mother of two, about to be ‘sanctioned’ for arriving late to her meeting. She tries to explain the reason why she’s tardy, but the world won’t listen. The decision as to whether she will be punished or not will go to ‘the decision maker.’ You heard right. A 'decision maker' is an actual job title. A decision maker. What kind of Kafkaesque bullshit are we living in where people’s ability to eat depends on some kind of Deal or No Deal invisible banker-wanker?

£1.10 of every £100 spent on benefits is fraudulently claimed. By my reckoning this means a good proportion are getting what they’re entitled to. People have lost their jobs because of the economic downturn. They are without work because of ill-health. They’re unemployed because their partner has left them, making the balance of childcare and work difficult. As for the small minority of claimants who cheat the system, chances are they aren’t making as much as you or I. Most people are honest, and for those who aren't I don’t think their behaviour means everyone should be punished. I don’t want to live in a society where people’s means of survival is down to a fucking decision maker. This Orwellian load of shite needs holding up for the kind of barbarism it is; because every person, regardless of the content of their character, deserves to be spoken to by a person, not some Wizard of Oz hiding behind a curtain.

This job title is an inhumane travesty.

As the movie unfolds, we see how Daniel and Katie support one another. David Cameron would no doubt call this ‘the big society in action.’ Loach rightly would term it ‘a failure of the State to look after its citizens.’ Daniel helps Katie by using his carpentry skills to establish her home. Katie helps Daniel by providing him with the family he’s missed since his wife’s died. Their friendship is compassionate and encouraging, everything the system is not. Despite the compassion they show for one another, it’s no replacement for money. You can’t put love in a meter. Affection doesn’t fill your belly. Kindness can’t quench a thirst. Consequently, the two slide into poverty. With no food in the cupboard, Katie goes to a food bank –as half a million people in Britain did last year. The subsequent scene in the movie will make you feel ashamed to be British.

Katie Morgan (Hayley Squires) and Daniel Blake (Dave Johns)

Ken Loach’s 60’s film Cathy Come Home led to the formation of Crisis homeless charity. It was watched by twelve million people, making many re-consider their feelings on homelessness. In an era of multi-channels, it’s unlikely I, Daniel Blake will have the same impact. However, it’s a start. This diatribe addresses the bedroom tax, challenges the stereotype of the poor, and makes you realise that mothers are going without basic necessities - food and sanitary towels- to clothe and feed their children. This is happening in your country, in your town, in your schools. It can't be ok.

I'll end by paraphrasing, J.B. Priestley and his virtuoso play An Inspector Calls:

 One (Daniel Blake) has gone - but there are millions and millions and millions of (Katie Morgans) and (Daniel Blakes) still left with us, with their lives, their hopes and fears, their suffering and chance of happiness, all intertwined with our lives, and what we think and say and do. And I tell you that the time will soon come when, if men will not learn that lesson, then they will be taught it in fire and blood and anguish.

In our wealthy country food banks shouldn’t exist. Whilst they do, please give to them.

I, Daniel Blake is available on DVD

The Death of Stalin

A few years the Conservative government pushed hard for an Anglicised version of history. Former Education Secretary Michael Gove argued that the history of the British Empire wasn’t widely taught in school, and when it was its portrayal negative. Gove is right in some respects: the British Empire was hidden away in the school curriculum. Like sex, it simply wasn't British to talk about it. We knew it existed, but it wasn't something for young ears to know about. I differ to Gove though: the reason we don't learn about it is out of shame, not modesty.

The empire that we were taught most about in school was the Soviet one- a brutal epoch that saw rights curbed; freedoms curtailed. Nothing like the British Empire, we thought: Britain gave the world its railways. If it wasn’t for us, the closest they’d have got to rail travel is doing the locomotion. But those crazy Commies. They used their train tracks malevolently. Sending opponents to Siberia to work the labour camps. If we’re judging the Empires by rail-lines alone, it’s clear the British were much kinder. This was my secondary school logic. Now I’m a bit older I just realise the British were better than the Soviets at controlling the narrative: people think the British Empire was benign because its consequences didn’t befall its people, the hardships happened to others in distant lands; the Soviets, on the other hand, killed their own. If you shit on your neighbour's doorstep, you won't smell the stink. If you shit in your own living room, your housemates will ask questions. Whether you recognise it or not though, a turd remains a turd. An empire isn't a great thing whomever is operating it.

Thankfully, this man is no longer in charge of British history.

The Soviet Empire was formed following the Second World War when Georgian born, Joseph Stalin, set about establishing an Iron Curtain. With the British Empire dwindling, Churchill saw the threat in Stalin accruing more and more power. (As with Hitler, Churchill was good at recognising despots). During his thirty years in power, historians put Stalin’s death toll at 50-60 million. His Iron Curtain an iron fist that pummelled one to the ground. Some died from starvation, victims of his economic policies. Some died from gunfire, victims of his maniacal purges. With his brainwashing and political cleansing, Stalin was impossible to topple. Only death, that great equaliser, could overthrow him. When he died, the citizens of the Union did not know what to do. Living under a tyrant for so long gives you two choices: live in love or live in fear. Many chose Stockholm Syndrome. So- quite perversely - they mourned the passing of a nightmare. Those, on the other hand, who hadn’t fallen for the captor were too frightened to rejoice: the Grim Reaper, after all, isn’t a revolutionary leader- just because Stalin died didn’t mean his replacements didn’t share his vision. After Stalin's death, no one knew how to react. This uncertainty is the backdrop to the film, The Death of Stalin.

The film begins in a concert hall. There is the sound of wondrous classical music. Then, there is the sound of a telephone. The producer picks it up and is told that Stalin wants a recording of the concert. The only problem is they haven’t been recording it. Now, to any strong and stable leader you could say, “Sorry, Theresa. This is a live production. It's ephemera that can’t be packaged and distributed. It’s beauty exists only in memory.” And Theresa would probably say, “Don’t worry. I’ve come to accept disappointment.” She would then put the phone down and move on to her next failure. However, Joseph Stalin wasn’t a man you said ‘no’ to. Joseph Stalin was a man you said ‘yes’ to, regardless of whether ‘yes’ was possible or not. So the producer tells the Kremlin that they have the recording ready for them; all they need to do is pick it up. Having dug his own grave, the producer must now set about saving his skin by demanding the orchestra play again. With tensions high, the conductor collapses, throwing the whole recording into chaos. Officials are sent on a life and death mission to find a conductor before it’s too late. With a conductor now in place, the recording can be done again. Everyone breathes a huge sigh of relief. They’ve been granted a reprieve: Stalin won’t kill them … today.

'Play like your life depends on it.'

This first scene establishes the terror that Stalin wielded. Everyone was terrified that one wrong word, gesture or action could signal the end of them. I appreciate that this doesn’t sound like the basis for great comedy, but in Iannucci’s hands he shows how brittle Stalin’s ego was; how farcical his trusted lieutenants. Indeed, the scene I described above was actually more ludicrous in real life: officials actually had to recruit a third conductor: the first fainted (as above), the replacement was drunk, thence the third and why the concert goes ahead. Iannucci then had to edit history to make the Soviet Empire’s wildest excesses seem less absurd. You get the feeling in fifty years time, when a film is released on Donald Trump filmmakers will have to do the same.

After the concert hall, it isn’t long until we see the titular happen: the death of Stalin. When a giant oak falls in a forest, a thud soon follows. The same was with Stalin. Away at his residence, he collapsed to the floor. The guards outside the room heard the sound, but feared entering the room without permission would be the death of them. Instead it was the death of Stalin. Not found until the next day, doctors were too late to revive him. Despite one final sign of life, he died. With Stalin dead, his Committee were plunged into active inertia. The communist chicken had been cut, but his political body remained: their running to and fro, caught in a landslide of prevarication and hysteria is the backbeat of this satire.

The curtain comes down.

A band playing on without their lead vocalist inevitably causes problems. Having backed Stalin for so long, it’s understandable that some want to honour his legacy and perform the same tunes; it’s also understandable that some want a volte-face, an opportunity to change focus and sing a different song. This power struggle is the hilarious centre-point of a film where grown men make seismic decisions on the hoof, and political alliances are formed in the toilet. If you enjoyed The Thick Of It, you will find much to love here.

Despite the political gambles Stalin’s cronies make, Iannucci never forgets the stakes at play. He shows how Beria, Stalin’s spymaster, used complete power to abuse women. He reveals how Molotov’s flip-flopping hurt the people closest to him. He depicts how Khrushchev’s climb to power came off the back of dead civilians. These are horrible men all guilty of terrible crimes. By laughing at them we take away their power.

Putting the 'ire' into satire, Armando Iannucci

Through The Death of Stalin, Iannucci has defaced Soviet history. Instead of staring wide-eyed at this rogue’s gallery, we leave the cinema thinking what infantile buffoons these men are, whose tantrums though caused the loss of innocent lives. 

At a time when Trump and Kim Jong trade insults over Twitter, the film is a warning to stay alert and pay attention.

Death of Stalin is still open in select cinemas.