Stag!

This blog is sponsored by self-pity, the company today I keep. You see, I’m feeling worse for wear, a little sorry for myself. Every bit hurts. My head? Lost in space. My stomach? Tossed to sea. My mouth? Jesus in the desert. I’ve been on stag this weekend, and this is why I must pay. I didn’t feel like this on Saturday. There, I felt on top of the world. The bee's knees, the cat's pyjamas; a booming economy – Blair’s Britain, The Roaring Twenties, The Celtic Tiger, – the good times were here and they were here to stay. I was out shooting shit, drinking beer, eating burgers, laughing at bedtimes. I was untouchable. Now of course, I regret this arrogance. For every election win, there’s a sexed-up dossier. For every Gatsby party, a fallout. A bubble will always burst. A boom, bust. But what one must remember: it's good fun before that happens. 

Here is the story of the stag: a tale like all good tales: one that begins unhappily and ends triumphantly.

Friday 27^th October

The school bell rings and we’re out the door, pushing the kids out the way to get out the gate first. We’re in a rush because we’re against the clock. The plane is at eight and we’ve got A roads and motorways to negotiate. The Stag is in great spirits. It’s the end of half-term. Eight weeks is a long time when you’re having to crush classroom coups and instil autocratic rule – the boy thoroughly deserves his break. We get back to his and have a beer. The other boys arrive twenty minutes later and the party is ready to leave town.

I worried we might come unstuck on a Friday night, but the Gods are smiling and we get there with no problem. After a quick check-in, we meet some of the other boys in the pub, order a burger and have a few drinks. Time is getting on now. I, at this point, have no sense of time. Typically, I’m ultra-cautious when it comes to flight times, but in a group I don’t worry about a thing. I’ll just ride on the back of their coat-tails when they decide to leave. “Think we best get going now, lads” Paul says. The Stag still has a drink in his hand and says, “I’ll just finish this.” (You can take a Jonnie to the airport, but you mustn’t make him drink.) Most of the group have now gone. It’s just four of us left. We chat happily for a bit longer and then decide to go. I still have no idea on what time it is. I’m in a state known as post-school, pre-holiday euphoria, a timeless universe unencumbered by slot times and departure boards. We make our way down. Sam and I go into Smiths to get a drink and a Cadbury’s Twirl. Stag and Jonny wait outside. The connecting train we get on does not move. It does not move for quite a while. The phone rings: ‘Boys, you need to get moving fast or this flight is going to take off.” Stag’s face turns to ash. Still the train doesn’t move. That timeless state I was in before no longer exists. I feel time in my head, heart, fingers and toes. We’re properly in the shit. I bite into my Twirl - it doesn't taste so good now.

Finally, we get to the gate ten minutes before take-off. But there’s no staff member, only a closed barrier there to greet us. The boys have tried to make a case for us, explaining that our train was held and delayed, but Ryanair won’t listen. I think the lads should have said, “Look, there’s a brown dude back there and you don’t want the PR that comes with not letting him on the plane. Not after last week.” Unfortunately, there are no race cards to play, nor any of Queen of Hearts to take pity on us. We’ve screwed up and we won’t be getting on that plane. The first night of the Stag Do will take place without the Stag. It’s now a ‘Do,’ which isn’t nearly as good.

The first night: we didn't make it.

We’re taken back to Arrivals, in what will go down in history as the shortest holiday known to man, where we debate what to do. Jonny makes the darkly comic joke that we’re now in a plot-line of Planes, Trains and Automobiles – Sam and I laugh, but it’s too soon for the Stag. We brainstorm Exit Strategies: other flights, trains, coaches – and even a taxi. “A taxi to Edinburgh from Stansted. I’ll check that for you, Sir. (Sound of typing) That will be £800.” With a seven hour drive, it’s not worth it in both senses of the term. Jonny proposes that we go to his in Highbury and have a night out. We’ll then get the train at seven in the morning. Everyone agrees this is the best option.

We have a good time. The Stag even catches up with an old uni friend. And the rest of us get to know each other; now bonded in collective stupidity. By 1 we’re home in bed. Alarms are set for 5. “We can’t miss the train,” we parrot at each other. Someone makes a joke about it being funny if we missed transport right through to Sunday afternoon, arriving in just about enough time to join the others for the return flight home. This time the Stag laughs. (His cloud is lifting).

Saturday 27^th October

“Wake up! Wake up!” Sam is calling this to me. It’s 5.10. Why didn’t my alarm go off? I set it for 5. I look at my watch and realise I set it for 5 in the evening. (Me and Time weren’t good bedfellows on this trip.) The Stag will not move. We try every method to wake him. Call, coo and coax: nothing works. At 5.30 the rest of us are ready to go, but the main man is out cold – there’s more life in a morgue. Finally, we get him to his feet, throw an orange juice down him and push him out the door. We’re forty-five minutes early for the train, but then we were two and a half hours early for the plane and still missed that. To be on the safe side, we’re the first to board. We’re on our way.

It’s a lovely journey up. If the train was a bit cheaper, it really would be the way to travel. You get a comfier seat and more leg room, and if someone’s being a dick they can be chucked off without the guilt of hearing their screams through the clouds. On the way up we saw some landmarks (The Angel of the North/ Tyne Bridge) and some beautiful vistas (picturesque beaches and seas). At 11.30 we arrived in Edinburgh City Centre, fifteen hours after our flight had taken off. If you ask me that’s too long for a short haul flight. Ryanair really need to raise their game if they’re to compete with other low-cost airlines).

Those wings aren't very aerodynamic. Hopefully, technology is improving in heaven to get angels to destinations quicker.

We made the short walk down Princes Street and turn right to head up to our apartment, which is a stone’s throw from Edinburgh’s Stand Comedy Club (the best place in the land to watch comedy). The boys weren’t laughing though when we arrived. They had been in an overnight joke where they were the punchline. There was no hot water or heating at the accommodation. An engineer had been called, but was unable to fix it. The boys had slept in sub-zero temperatures with no radiator to warm them, no shower to revive them. (I didn’t mention that Jonny’s London flat was well insulated and heated. I didn’t mention that I got too warm in the night and took my t-shirt off. I didn’t mention that I slept soundly and needed a volley of shouts to wake me. It’s the least I could do).

So before we had got our feet under the table, our feet were out the door, as we moved base for the Hilton Hotel. Checked in, we quickly made our way to our activity. Stuey’s uncle – an Edinburgh native – kindly took us across town to World of Football. The plan was to play Bubble Football, which for the uninitiated involves putting on a huge bubble and then attempting to play football. Now, I was worried about this. The last time I did it there was more bubble than football. When I went previously, the football lasted for five minutes, and what followed can only be described as an untelevised episode of Jackass. We were pitted against each other, one on each side of the hall, and told to run into each other as quick as we could. My body is not built for collision. On impact, my body was launched through the air like an hadouken! victim in Street Fighter 2. Fortunately, that game was not played on this Stag Do (sorry I didn’t suggest it boys, but self-preservation before self-destruction is my mantra).

Man down.

After having a bubble playing bubble football, we got back in the minibus and made our way back to the hotel. Having had a bit of downtime, we congregated at the bar for a little light lubrication. Then, we were onto the City Café Diner for burgers and beers, before heading out for a trawl and crawl around Edinburgh’s pubs and bars. Given Stuie knew the land, he took over navigation and was responsible for choosing a good variety of old and new. My favourites were in the Old Town on the Grassmarket though because that’s where the party was in full swing. One bar had live music and another had the kind of 90’s pop that you’d hate to listen to at home, but love to listen to on a night out. 

At this point the party went its separate ways. We went on to Dropkick Murphy’s where live musicians banged out covers from the likes of Thin Lizzy, The Pogues and Oasis. A fire alarm then sounded at 2.30, which meant we were forced to evacuate the building. On gathering at the assembly point, we were told to go home, that the club was closed. Is the fire alarm just a Scottish ruse to get patrons out the door quicker? Some of the boys I was with then became familiar with the lesser-spotted Lithuanian unicorn. Budding Attenborough’s, they trekked across town to see them in their natural habitat.

Sunday 28^th October

We go downstairs and have breakfast. The Stag tells me five times how great watermelon is. “It really rehydrates you,” is a catchphrase that I don’t think is going to catch on. After filling our bellies, we check-out and take a short walk for our whisky tasting. Daniel, our guide, is quite the expert. Five whiskies are lined up in front of us, offset by a centred glass of water containing pipettes. His talk is a tale that covers the whole of time and space. He begins with Aristotle and his discovery of distillation, which was important for better drinking water. After about five minutes, he gives us a little preview for what’s coming later – like on Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares – before saying, ‘But I’ll tell you about that after you’ve had your next glass whisky.” We go through each whisky with his connected talk covering how the Catholic Church, Napoleon and bootleggers had a big role to play in its evolution. He makes the subject incredibly interesting, so much so he’s inundated with questions. “How many distilleries are there?” “What’s the oldest whisky?” “Is there any money in collecting them?” Then Sam drops a bomb. “I like Jack Daniels. What do you think of that?” There’s an audible silence in the room. Someone has sworn in front of teacher. A boy has blasphemed in Church. Daniel composes himself and replies, “Jack Daniels? It is what it is.” Daniel has killed the popular brand through cliché. He has denied it the dignity of an adjective. He will not lower himself to describe it. This is a whisky talk, thus Jack Daniels is excluded. He moves on.

Jack Daniels did not feature.

The next time, we have the same whisky but with just a drop of water. It gives the drink a totally different feel. Daniel tells us that whisky should be drunk on its own or with just a tiny bit of water. You get the feeling that if someone put ice in Daniel’s whisky, he would kill them and plead ‘self-defence.’ I loved the whiskey talk – it was worth every penny to hear someone so informed talk about a topic they clearly loved.

On leaving, we stopped in Byron’s (yes, I had burgers on back to back nights. I really should have done the early part of the month, then I could have called it Octburger. There’s always next year) and the Stag toasted us on ‘the best weekend he could have had.’ We then had just a bit of time to walk up to Castle, before making our way home.

This time Ryanair decided to delay our flight, which given the option of doing it on the outbound flight or the return, then I’m really pleased they chose this one. Finally, we did make our way home where the lovely Michelle picked us up.

All in all, a great trip with brilliant company. Specials thanks to Stuie on organisation, Paul on hotels, Pip, Michelle and Stuie's uncle on driving (I sound like a big band leader, so I might as well end on me) and myself for my role in fucking up our outbound flight. Cheers all. I had a great time. Just writing this has made me forget the aches and pains. See you at the wedding.

The Princess Bride

Last year The Girl and I were at the Rex Cinema, Berkhamstead, when a trailer came on for The Princess Bride. At the end of it The Girl turned to me and said, “That looks shit.” (She has a legendary potty-mouth. Joe Pesci in Casino has nothing on her.) I said to her, “It’s meant to be a cult classic. Maybe it’s the trailer that’s shit and not the film.” (My sense of perception is legendary. I thought Noel Fielding would be good on the Bake Off from the start.)

Somehow – I don’t remember how – I discovered there was a book of The Princess Bride. I always prefer to read the book before watching the film; I think it’s the best way round. You’re welcome to disagree, it’s a free country after all– except for car parks. The book is incredibly funny. It's not often I can say that about a book. Generally, I’m distrustful of any book that has ‘hilarious’ written on it - normally they contain one joke that requires a classical education to understand. The authors I find genuinely hilarious are P.G. Woodhouse, Sue Townsend and Joseph Heller; others may reach ha, but rarely achieve ha-ha.

Catch-22 is a comic masterpiece.

The Princess Bride is ‘written’ by William Goldman, the screenwriter for Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and All The President’s Men. He is something of a renaissance man when it comes to the pen, as he’s written across mediums in theatre, film, fiction and non-fiction. The reason I put ‘written’ is because Goldman has created a framing device for The Princess Bride, alleging he is only responsible for the abridgement, that the story truly belongs to S. Morgenstern.

Goldman is a cheeky scamp. He has created the author of Morgenstern to allow him to interrupt the novel at various points to explain why certain edits have been made. In a past interview Goldman cited Tolstoy as one of his inspirations; a writer famous for his longeurs on farming methods: are Goldman’s edits then a dig at authorial indulgence? Whatever the intent it’s smart and funny.

He begins the ruse by telling us about where he first heard the story. He was a child, off school, suffering from pneumonia when his dad read him A Princess Bride, the classic tale of true love and high adventure by S. Morgenstern. As a boy he was enthralled by his dad’s reading. This enthrallment stayed with him into adulthood when he set about sourcing it for his own child. Excited by the thought of his son’s reaction, he was disappointed to find that his boy wasn’t interested. Goldman could not understand why. It was inconceivable that anyone could find the story boring or uninteresting. This was a story of no other, ‘of fencing, fighting, torture, poison, true love, hate, revenge, giants, hunters, bad men, good men, beautifulest ladies, snakes, spiders, beasts, chases, escapes, lies, truths, passion and miracles.’ Look at all those commas: there had to be something in it for everyone. On reading the book, Goldman begins to understand his son. There are indeed long, tedious passages. Why did he not know about it? His dad must have skipped those bits. The reason why Goldman had such a fondness for it was because his dad acted as unpaid editor and chopped out the bits he didn’t like. This gets Goldman thinking: why don’t I abridge the book in the same way my dad did, so others can enjoy it too? The end product is The Princess Bride.

The 'good parts' version abridged by William Goldman. Funny bastard!

The story begins with a meditation on beauty. A reflection on who is the fairest of them all. Soon we’re being told about Buttercup, a milkmaid, whose beauty is well … inconceivable. Her looks should have been the result of a union between pre-snakes Medusa and post-reunion Gary Barlow; as it is Buttercup’s parents weren’t much to look at. In chapter one we learn how she beguiles every man she meets, ostracising her in the community for ‘stealing away’ the boys. Unbeknownst to her, news of her beauty has made the royal court. The Prince’s father nears death, which puts the heir in need of a wife. Soon the count is at the milkmaid’s door, sizing her up for palace clothes. Buttercup is unaware of this; the only thing she pays heed to is the count’s wife eyeing of Westley, the family farm boy. At night Buttercup goes to bed and has terrible dreams about the pair in love The next morning everything has changed. The boy she used to scorn, she now loves. She goes to him and confesses all: 

“There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. My mind begs you to ask it something so it can obey. Do you want me to follow you for the rest of your days? I will do that. Do you want me to crawl? I will crawl. I will be quiet for you or sing for you, or if you are hungry, let me bring you food, or if you have thirst and nothing will quench it but Arabian wine, I will go to Araby, even though it is across the world, and bring a bottle back for your lunch. Anything there is that I can do for you, I will do for you; anything there is that I cannot do, I will learn to do.”

This passage is so beautiful I was close to having it as one of our wedding readings. I love the bit on Arabian wine. The passage is indicative of the book. Melodrama undercut by humour. It’s all sounding slushy and syrupy until you get to that bit. The specificity of ‘bring a bottle back for your lunch’ is so good – the stuff comedy is made on. I even love the over-the-top exaltation of arms, ears and knees. Love does make you feel giddy, so why shouldn’t you exaggerate it.

Westley, in response, slams the door in her face. The expected kiss does not happen. Buttercup gets on her mope-ped and rides home. But fear not. The next day Westley returns the knock and confesses all: 

“I have not known a moment in years when the sight of you did not send my heart careering against my rib cage. I have not known a night when your visage did not accompany me to sleep. There has not been a morning when you did not flutter behind my waking eyelids.”  

For a parody on the fairy tale genre, it’s seriously romantic.

The kiss between Westley and Buttercup doesn’t lead to the relationship we hope. As soon as their lips wave hello, their mouths sigh ‘goodbye.’ Westley seeks his fortune abroad to provide Buttercup with the life she deserves. Unfortunately, the letters sustaining the relationship stop. Westley’s boat was taken over by a famous pirate – the result? Death. Consumed by grief, Buttercup accepts the Prince’s offer of marriage on the condition they never love.

From here, romance turns into fairy tale. The princess-to-be is kidnapped by a gang of thieves. The nation of Guilder, rival to Florin, is suspected. With the Prince being a renowned hunter, the chase is on. A man in black is also on the tail: who is he and what does he want? The three kidnappers are a wonderful work of comic invention. A Sicilian mastermind, a Turkish brute, a Spanish swordsman; all three characterised with brio and zaniness. There are twists and turns along the way with risk, rhyme and redemption all featuring.  

The three villains. Yes, Andre The Giant is in the film.

The Princess Bride achieves a really difficult feat in being both ridiculous and romantic. Throughout the novel Goldman plays oxymoron with the reader, achieving serious silliness and daft intelligence all the way. 

This week, I bought the film off eBay. We’re going to watch it tonight. I’ve got a good feeling it’s better than the trailer suggests. Maybe the trailer was Morgenstern’s doing. Because with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and All the President’s Men, Goldman clearly has the gift for writing.

The Princess Bride is available in all good bookshops. 

The Clock

“What time is it?” The Girl bursts. She’s been holding onto the joke for forty minutes. 

I laugh too over her brazen cheek. She knows what she’s said is totally unoriginal, that everyone in attendance would have thought it and probably said it, but she does it anyway.

We’re laughing because we've gone to see an exhibition on time. Unfortunately this week I don’t – aptly- have the time to go into detail on exactly how wonderful this piece is, but I will touch on it really quickly to give you something of an idea.

Completely free. Comfy sofas when you go in. Old and new movies. What could be better.

In 1995 Christian Marclay produced a video cut of telephone scenes from movies. The piece was only seven minutes long, but pre-YouTube it would still have been an undertaking. Years later, he has an idea to do something bigger and bolder: to reflect human time through film. If a viewer's watch says ’12.00,’ then the film will show a scene from, say, High Noon. ‘That’s easy,’ you might think. ‘Just have breakfast scenes in the morning and bedtime scenes at night.’ But Marclay’s film isn’t an approximation, a loose gathering of a day, it’s time specific. If your watch says, ’12.00,’ then there will be a short clip from High Noon, which will then clip into another movie that has a time piece with 12.00 and so on - until the next minute arrives and the process starts again.

While we were at the exhibition yesterday from 11.10 to 11.50 we saw a drunk Billy Bob Thornton waking up in Bad Santa. About twenty minutes later we were in detention with The Breakfast Club. Towards the end of our time Stan Laurel was trying to pacify a screaming clock; his decision to take a hammer to it segued into Robert Powell smashing through Big Ben in The Thirty-Nine Steps.

We watched this scene at 11.42

This is where the skill of the piece lies. It’s one thing to find scenes that match our time, it’s another to make it work as an interesting whole. There was one clip of Pierce Brosnan looking at his watch that lasted a second, but The Thirty Nine Steps cut was stretched out over minutes. What surprised me was how hypnotically tense the whole thing was. In the forty minutes we were there someone was being sentenced to death row whilst another faced torture. Marclay’s work was always going to be heavier on tension than laughs because in the movies time, more than man, is the enemy. The slacker comedy of Apatow is unconcerned with the clock, raising a middle finger to it, whereas heist movies and dramas constantly make reference to time, to precipitate and escalate drama; the idea being that our heroes might meet their match in the shape of everyday - or mortal - time.

Over the course of forty minutes we saw hundreds of movies, all because of the painstaking research of Marclay and his team (it took years to put together). And it’s wonderful. For movie fans it’s great because you get thrown back and forth through celluloid history, and for everyone else it’s just a fun trick to see. Personally, I was totally drawn in. I can’t wait to go again. At a different time. And see something altogether different.  

The Clock is at The Tate Modern and is completely free until 20th January

Little Volcanoes

This week my dad started work as a volunteer for a local hospice, driving day patients to and from their appointments. He joins my mum who works as a nurse in the same place, providing end of life care for the terminally ill. My mum has been a nurse her whole working career, and it was her I thought of when I listened to Cathy FitzGerald’s award-winning documentary, ‘Little Volcanoes.’

FitzGerald has been producing programmes for the BBC for a few years now. Her documentaries are disparate, showing no thematic thread, examining topics that range from reindeer racing to yellow cab drivers. Reading that she has a DPhil on the works of Dickens might explain her inquiring mind: the Victorian writer was as much anthropologist as novelist, showing an interest in every corner of life, documenting it in all its pain and glory. FitzGerald strikes me as being led by a similar desire to understand human behaviour. An earlier work ‘Skylarking’ exemplifies this. A meditation on the skies, it contains contributions from a prisoner and a paraglider. Where else do you hear those voices juxtaposed? It’s her originality that make her totally necessary, as she doesn’t choose well-trodden topics.

Cathy FitzGerald

Her work set in Pilgrims Hospice, Margate, is one of the finest pieces of radio I’ve heard. Its beauty moved me to tears. Over the course of the half an hour we hear from nurses, volunteers and patients. Zoe begins by reminding us that tenderness is the cornerstone of all nursing. She describes how at night she has to calm patients. ‘How?’ she’s asked. Sometimes it’s just by being with them, holding their hand. It makes you realise that as adults we’ve still got one foot in childhood. When something goes wrong we look for reassurance. We understandably regress to a younger state of fear and confusion. A handhold on a cliff face can be a life saver. It can pull someone from their nightmares, returning them to solid ground.

We meet other members of staff who speak about how validated they feel cooking and entertaining the patients. A cook shares how she received a thank you note for a meal she made. Hearing the pride in her voice was so touching. I imagine cooks aren’t paid great money in the care system, but she felt valued by the people she served. People who were having dignity stripped from them were bringing dignity to people whose work often goes unnoticed. Later, a volunteer brims with excitement, recalling a patient that found respite in their art sessions. It really shows the power of care: how bringing a little happiness to someone can make your work feel meaningful and worthwhile.

Interspersed throughout are the patients themselves. There’s Frank who was born poor, but through charm gained the patronage of the rich. Personally, he doesn’t care about death, but he cares about what it will do to his family. This is similar to Christine who in pre-empting death has written letters to the water and electric board, so as to save her children the grief. There’s Bill who has lost three wives: the first to adultery, the others to death. He loved them all. There’s Pat who loves music. Fitzgerald asks her, “If someone were to write a piece of music for you, how would you want it to make you feel?” Her thirty second description contains a whole life. Also, there’s Sally. Sally is the lady who gave the programme its title. Even though she’s ill, her concern is the health of a nation. She asks her neighbours for advice – not because she needs it, but because she recognises people feel important when they give it. She’s aware that people are ‘little volcanoes,’ all bubbling up inside, vessels of magma, that can be cooled by kindness or erupted via slight. Ultimately, people need to be treated with dignity, otherwise the effects can be catastrophic.

Essentially, ‘Little Volcanoes’ is about what it means to care, whether that be personally, professionally or philosophically. All of the people in the documentary – staff, patients, documentarian – do this by living a life that shows a regard for others. I’m very proud of my mum who's devoted her life to caring.

Caring ... what could be a more beautiful word?

Little Volcanoes is available here: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0bjz99z

This Is Spinal Tap

Marty Di Bergi:
Hello; my name is Marty Di Bergi. I'm a filmmaker. I make a lot of commercials. That little dog that chases the covered wagon underneath the sink? That was mine. In 1966, I went down to Greenwich Village, New York City to a rock club called Electric Banana. Don't look for it; it's not there anymore. But that night, I heard a band that for me redefined the word "rock and roll". I remember being knocked out by their... their exuberance, their raw power - and their punctuality. That band was Britain's now-legendary Spinal Tap. Seventeen years and fifteen albums later, Spinal Tap is still going strong. And they've earned a distinguished place in rock history as one of England's loudest bands.

Above lies the introduction to This Is Spinal Tap, the 1984 rockumentary that reflected musical excesses and prefigured mockumentary comedy. The docu format hadn’t been used much – if at all – in comedy up until this point, but here the film begins with 'director' Marty Di Bergi (the name an amalgam of Martin Scorsese, Brian De Palma and Steven Spielberg) introducing his subject. The hints are there that the band are in free fall. Di Bergi, after all, is new to filmmaking; his specialism rests in dog commercials. The list of the band’s qualities are reduced to the bathetic (‘punctuality’). Further, the prolific output (‘seventeen years and fifteen albums later’), suggests a disregard for quality control. They’re not defined as England’s greatest band, rather ‘one of' England's loudest band.’ Even though the jokes are there, they’re subtle. So much so that many thought the band were real on release. They believed  that this was a documentary as opposed to a mockumentary. The same happened to Ricky Gervais and Stephen Merchant’s The Office when it was aired in 2001. Its influence? This is Spinal Tap.

We join Spinal Tap in the late fall of 1982 where they’re about to embark on their first US tour in six years. Hopes are high with new album ‘Smell the Glove’ in the can. This is Tap’s chance to take America and capture college territory. Their route to annexation? Hare (brained) metal. Tap are a band that produce songs like ‘Big Bottom,’ boasting such lyrics as ‘My baby fits me like a flesh tuxedo, I love to sink her with my pink torpedo.’ When Shakespeare wrote rhyming couplets, this is not what he had in mind. Rife with ribald innuendo and tortured puns, their songs are Carry On movies put to riffs.

The rejected cover art for 'Smell My Glove.' The band were surprised it was considered sexist.

Spinal Tap are a band in trouble. Formerly, they were playing in arenas of 10-15,000; now, they’re struggling to fill 2000 capacity venues. Their band manager reasons, ‘their appeal is becoming more selective.’ This is a lie told to all band’s past their peak. You haven’t lost fans, you’ve streamlined them. You’ve shaken off the casual listener, refined your base. Writers and stars Harry Shearer, Rob Reiner, Christopher Guest and Michael McKean are aware of what turns musicians into monsters: the fear of employees to have artists confront reality.

With no one being truthful with Spinal Tap, they’re allowed to spout rock n’ roll cliché after rock n’ roll cliché. Everything from how they dress to how they talk to how they stage smacks of trope. This is even spoofed when singer David St. Hubbins and guitarist Nigel Tufnel discuss how their earlier band name was The Originals, until they realised another band were called that, causing them to rename themselves The New Originals. This in a nutshell is the band’s problem: they think they’re at the vanguard of metal when in fact they’re a a genre tribute act.

3/4 of the band in picture. The drummer wasn't available.

Let’s look into those clichés more. First, there’s the costume. Clad in spandex, dressed in hair, Spinal Tap have gone to the same rental outfitters as every other metal band. Then, there’s the set design. This is the era of concepts where huge sums were spent on staging. Led Zeppelin had a giant Stonehenge for their 1979 concert and Iron Maiden had a twelve foot mascot stalk them in 1982. The bigger, the better. So Spinal Tap think as well. With this in mind, they incorporate theatrical elements into their performance. In the track ‘Rock n’ Roll Creation' the lyrics centre on a life before sound. The band are contained in wombs, readied to be birthed into rock stardom. There’s one problem: one of the hatches won’t open. The bassist Derek Smalls can’t get out. What should look cool now resembles an asphyxiation plot. Eventually, the horror of being trapped cracks into full-blown comedy. When he breaks free, the comic timing is sublime.

And then there’s the talk. Nigel Tufnel is the kind of idiot that makes Liam Gallagher look worldly wise. He has the hands of a maestro and the mind of a car accident. Whereas every other rock stars stupidity goes up to ten, Tufnel’s got a special dial taking his to eleven. In my favourite moment, we see him playing a beautiful piece on the piano. He describes how it’s inspired by Mozart and Bach. When asked, ‘what’s this piece called?’ He replies, ‘Lick My Love Pump.’ When it comes to intelligence, the band are a filling short of a sandwich.

This Is Spinal Tap is reflective and retrospective, pricking the era with good-natured satire. However, its influence on the future needs stating too. The jokes that close the film are huge influences on The Office (Brent’s ‘How would you like to be remembered?’ is redolent of St. Hubbins’ epitaph line, and Brent immersing himself in role play ‘There’s been a rape up there’ invokes Tufnel imagining life as a salesman). Further, the brilliant Flight of the Conchords owe a debt to the movie as they are Tap’s low-fi equivalent.

Most people have a love of comedy, music and film: this is 82 minutes where the three perfectly intersect. If you haven’t seen it, then you must. More than Monty Python, I would argue it’s the thing that’s most influenced the sitcoms you watch today. A mark out of 10? I'd give it an ...

(This Is Spinal Tap is available on DVD.)

Killing Eve

Tomorrow night the nation will settle down to watch Bodyguard, a brilliant thriller from Jed Mercurio. There is no denying that Bodyguard is a sensational piece of television, recalling - at least initially- the first season of Homeland where the viewer questions the motivations of a returning soldier. Now it appears to have shaken off its inspiration, becoming a conspiracy drama about what powerful men will do to hide their secrets. For a programme conceived five years ago, it appears to reflect Putin and Trump’s current approach to governing.

For all of that, the show we’ve been enjoying most in our household is Killing Eve. Originally authored by Luke Jennings, the story started out as a series of e-books. Through good fortune, the novella was read by an agent that thought it suited for TV. Soon Jennings was tapping Phoebe Waller-Bridge on the shoulder in the hope of recruiting her for his adaptation. Waller-Bridge's work on Fleabag showcased her ability to write strong female characters, something entirely necessary for Jennings's work. Together, the two have produced a truly idiosyncratic piece of television. Despite Waller-Bridge’s writing being the selling point, Jennings and his wife too have contributed to the show's look and narrative. The end result is a piece that feels fresh and vibrant.

The book it's based on.

Although the programme isn’t BBC in the strictest sense (BBC America is a subscription service), the show boasts corporation talent. Waller-Bridge is joined by Fleabag creatives, Vicky Jones and Harry Bradbeer, while Jody Comer (Doctor Foster) is co-lead. With American money behind them, these Brits have benefited from the special relationship, given their show an aesthetic state funding could not. When I think about British shows that can match Killing Eve for style, I can only think of Utopia and The End of the F***ing World: these too had unique music choices and quirky direction.In other words, it's rare to see auteur works on terrestrial TV.

To illustrate what I mean, I’ll talk about episode one, which opens with the centred font ‘VIENNA.’ This capitalised scene setting has a Tarantino whiff about it, signalling the style that'll go with the substance. The opening sound is ‘Xpectations’ by Unloved, seduction put to electronica, The Jesus and Mary Chain updated for millennials. It’s the breathy tease for the burlesque to come. We open in an ice cream parlour. A little girl is eating from her bowl. Opposite an attractive woman does the same. The child smiles. The woman believes it’s aimed at her. Looking across though, she realises it’s directed at a man. Reviewing his smile, she imitates it, sending one the girl’s way. Checking her watch, she wipes a trace of blood from it. Collecting her bag, paying her bill, she makes her way out. Exiting, she tips the girl’s ice cream bowl over her - revenge, after all, is a dish best served cold. The smile she wears now is natural, not studied like it was before. This is a woman that takes pleasure in other people’s pain. She is the smiling assassin.  

A lovely font style.

As for the substance, we’re then introduced to Eve. She is having a nightmare. Her screaming is wild and pained. Understandably, her husband is concerned. ‘Eve!’ ‘Eve!’ Coming to, she reassures him. It was nothing: she’d just fallen asleep on her arms. This establishes the humour of Killing Eve: among the nightmares, there will be levity. Later in the series shepherd’s pie, cheese puffs and a cake will dissolve tension, reminding us that this is, first and foremost, entertainment. Eve is different to the woman in the ice cream parlour. Her attractiveness is concealed behind a Debenhams wardrobe. Hers is a serious job, requiring a serious wardrobe. She works at MI5 and has been called in at the weekend to investigate a murder in Vienna. A man was killed in the street by a switchblade; a kill that happened so quickly it could only have been professional. Eve infers that it was probably a woman: they wouldn’t be recognised as a threat and could therefore get close to their target. The only witness is the partner of a man who appears to be speaking in tongues.

This one Saturday will change Eve’s days forever. When another man is killed in Tuscany, Eve’s theory seems true. Thus, a cat and mouse game begins. With Eve, the substance, against Villanelle, the style. Realising that she’s being tracked, Villanelle grows interested in Eve, wanting to know more about a woman who’s devoting her life to catching her. As for Eve, her respect for Villanelle grows the more she investigates her: she is in awe of her adversary's ability to shape-shift into different guises, adopting different costume and language to seduce and ensnare. If Eve is abandoning her paradise of a happy home to find the killer, it’s because Villanelle has tempted her to do so. Eve then has bitten the apple  - there can be no going back. Is the title then a portent? Will Eve meet her maker? Or is it a metaphor, a comment on how Eve must shed her skin, her past life, to become more powerful?

A headlock or a hug? Jodie Comer (above) and Sandra Oh (below).

The leads it should be said are terrific. Jodie Comer is a revelation as Villanelle. I first saw Comer in the underappreciated My Mad Fat Diary where she played the protagonist’s best friend, shifting seamlessly from cruelty to kindness. This breakout role though gives her the opportunity to stretch her range, allowing her to go from detached psychopath to vulnerable orphan. Her rendering reminded me of Arby (Neil Maskell) from Channel 4’s Utopia, a maniac with humanity buried deep. As for Sandra Oh, she’s been a television star for a while, primarily in Grey’s Anatomy. Prior to this, I’d only ever seen her in Sideways where she was both spirited and sexy – qualities her character grows into here. Having two female leads in a programme of this sort isn’t normal. After all the 90’s equivalent of this show is Heat, where Pacino and De Niro spend the movie stalking the other, ready to pounce when the other slips, to score decisive checkmate. In this age, it feels completely natural to have women in these roles. If anything it elevates the drama because it doesn’t descend into machismo and bluster, instead it's a cerebral dance where Eve’s character must learn to lead.

So with the Bodyguard drawing to a close, why not follow Villanelle over eight episodes? Like Eve, you might just grow to admire her.

Killing Eve is available on iPlayer  

Withnail and I

It’s 1969. Peace and love has come to a close. Flower power has gone to seed, fallen to the acid rain of LSD. The trip free lovers embarked on has ended rancorously. Death at Woodstock. Murder at Altamount. The cold war heating up. Things threatening to go nuclear. London still swings, but from a noose. As for domestic politics, Harold Wilson is about to be evicted. In his place will be the Tories. If fresh starts and new beginnings are Eton schoolboys, then hell may well be imminent.

This is the context for Withnail and I, Bruce Robinson’s superlative film on a country that has breathed its last and died an ignoble death. I’ve loved Withnail and I ever since I saw it at uni. A few years ago I bought the script – and read it regularly for laughs. Last night my brain hadn’t come down from a week at work, so I slipped it a beta blocker in the form of this night-time read. If you’re a fan of Withnail and I, then I really recommend the script to you because the stage directions are as good as the dialogue.

Take how Robinson describes the characters at the beginning: Marwood is described as ‘milk white with insomnia.’ He’s ‘seventy-five per cent good looks and the rest is anxiety.’ How succinct is that in getting across the dichotomy of Marwood’s headshot splendour and mental chaos? Then, there’s Withnail, described as ‘pale as an oven-ready chicken….He wears a tweed overcoat. Corduroy trousers and brogues. There’s class here somewhere.’ I love how that sentence closes: ‘somewhere.’ Among the squalor is respectability. Like Richard III buried in a scruffy council car park.

I (Paul McGann) and Withnail (Richard E Grant)

Withnail and I are two actors reduced to the state of bums. They have been ‘resting’ for so long that they’re in danger of rigor mortis. I is Marwood, the narrator of the story (his voice-over populates the film); the more talented/reliable of the two. Withnail, on the other hand, has the Sunset Boulevard problem of the pictures being too small for him. A great actor must immerse themselves in a role, reduce their character into someone else’s - Withnail is too mercurial for this. He is too big for the boards, too big for the box. Withnail wouldn’t just chew the scenery, but the crew, lighting rig and cast too. As a result of their unemployment, they set up their own business, a partnership, a liquor trade of sorts, where the bottom line is drinking – all covered by the investment firm ‘social security.’

The characters of Marwood and Withnail are based on Robinson and his friend, Vivian. The friends were out of work actors so filled their time researching the life of alcoholics. In the introduction Robinson shares his diary from the period. One entry dated November 1969 says, ‘I can hear Vivian groaning in the other room. I can’t believe this one. It’s almost biblical.’ This is Robinson’s stock-in-trade describing base behaviour with literate language. Later on, he’s reminded of how Vivian countered hangovers by drinking a bottle of scotch, reasoning ‘the only way of dealing with a hangover was to drink your way around it.’ The phrasing is so elegant and surprising that it’s no wonder these personal experiences were turned into a film twenty years later.

Vivian Mackerrell was the inspiration for Withnail

And what about the story? Well, given Withnail and Marwood live in a flat that has terminal cancer, it’s no surprise that they’re desperate to get out and breathe some fresh air. Their passport to freedom is Withnail’s uncle, Monty, an eccentric homosexual in the old tradition. A former actor he’s every bit the luvvie imbued in the history and language of theatre. He, therefore, takes a shine to the two boys. In them, he sees himself. Particularly in Marwood. In Marwood is where he sees himself. With the keys claimed, the boys head north to Cumbria. Mission? Detox lungs: reclaim pallor.

“We’ve gone on holiday by mistake.” Monty’s green idyll though is a long way from Eden. Pulling up at the drive, they soon discover paradise lost. The hot tap is purely for decoration, the draught is not the preferential definition and the larder is stocked for poverty. To make matters worse, the people they meet aren’t the ‘drinking cider and discussing butter’ kind, instead they view the pair as interlopers, characters that have taken a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong story. Like Oscar Wilde turning up in Wuthering Heights and expecting to be greeted warmly by Heathcliff. Pretty faces in the arse-end of nowhere.

On holiday.

This fish-out-of-water gives rise to so many funny incidents. There’s Marwood trying to evade the attention of a bull (‘Run at it shouting’), an altercation with a poacher in the pub (‘Don’t threaten me with a dead fish’) and Withnail trout fishing with a shotgun. When Monty turns up later, the class farce comes a bedroom one with Marwood trying to evade another randy bull; this time in human form.

For all the askew dialogue and situations, there’s genuine pathos too. Both have dreams of being actors. Each wants to escape the reality of their circumstance. When Withnail boxes himself into a phone box to make a call, we see his desperation and frustration. His hope of playing the 'Great Dane' is going to the dogs. He can’t even understudy a minor role let alone attain the biggest. It’s difficult that his best friend is an actor too: any success Marwood gets will only make his failure more profound. It’s in his interest for his friend to fail – if he doesn’t then their tandem will topple.

Withnail and I is my favourite film. It’s widely regarded as a British cult classic. Which begs the question: why is something so funny just a cult concern? In terms of Withnail though, this is poetic. The film ends with him reciting Hamlet to the wolves in Regents Park, as opposed to the public of the West End. He was never meant to get popular acclaim. Sometimes the most interesting characters in our lives don’t. Unpolluted by fame, uncorrupted by success, he’s real. Monstrous, but truly real. There's no theatrical fakeness about him. For that, I raise a pair of pints to Withnail and all of life's dreamers.

Withnail and I: The Original Screenplay was bought from Fopp in a 2 for £5 deal years ago. I don’t imagine the deal still exists. You may have to look online for a copy.