Back to Life

George Lazenby didn’t. David Moyes couldn’t. Donald Trump isn’t. Back to Life has.

How do you follow someone, something, iconic that's defined a generation? It’s one of the hardest things to do. Fresh in everyone’s mind is what’s come before: their brilliance, their ingenuity, their class. You’ve been thrown into history too soon. Better if there was a gap, a go-between, to ensure you weren’t juxtaposed against one of the greats.

Back to Life has been put in the TV slot vacated by Phoebe Waller-Bridge. Fleabag achieved what The Office did in 2001, achieving the impossible, writing a second series that surpassed its first, improving on perfection. In doing something original with the fourth wall, in creating a character that captured millennial angst, Waller-Bridge showed she could reflect life and push on art. It was a phenomenal achievement, demonstrating how TV can equal theatre in terms of innovation and experimentation. So how do you follow that?

Fleabag: not an easy programme to follow.

Daisy Haggard’s Back to Life is proving something of an underground hit. It hasn’t been trailed as much as Toby Jones’ Don’t Forget the Driver (which is also great), but for me it’s the TV show of the moment. This week The Girl and I shot through all six episodes on iPlayer. We did consider watching them live on Monday nights, but we were so impressed by the opening we thought it right to watch them all.

The opening episode begins with Miri cutting her fringe. She makes a mistake; tries to even it out; thus making it worse. The camera cuts to a job interview – an interrogation where the ‘no comment’ get out is denied. Nathan presents his findings: ‘Your CV it’s quite gappy. As in there’s a gap in it. It’s mostly gap. In fact it’s all gap.’ Miri hasn’t worked since Fat Face in 2000. Why has she not had a job since? A mealy-mouthed excuse follows. ‘I was travelling.’ The camera cuts to Miri collecting her possessions from prison. Miri hasn’t been travelling; she has in fact been doing quite the opposite. She’s been holed up stationary for the past eighteen years, unable to move a muscle; the only world she's seen is the one from her cell window.

From here, we go back to her release from prison. Her mum and dad greet her. We know they will be entertaining as Carol chides her husband on his hat, “You look like fucking Guy Richie.” On the journey home, Miri breathes her head out of the window, inhaling sensory freedom. Now at home she goes into her bedroom, finding it’s been kept how she left it. Prince, David Bowie and The Naked Chef adorn the wall. Looking at Jamie Oliver, she says, “Thank God, he’s still with us.” Miri, like her parents, has a great sense of humour. Pulling a box out, she observes ancient artefacts: a Discman, printed pictures, a Tamagotchi. The little machine won’t start up; “Rest in Peace,” she retorts. With a wry sense of humour, Miri belies the prisoner stereotype: she has a personality agreeable to all.

The thing is she’s been sent away for eighteen years. You do not serve a stretch for stealing pick n’ mix. Consequently, she receives telephone, online, letterbox and graffiti threats. The community has closed ranks and want her out. Miri doesn’t have many people to turn to. Her childhood friend Mandy is persona non grata (she didn’t visit when she was in prison), her ex-boyfriend Dom is now married with children, even her mother doesn’t appear to trust her (hiding the kitchen knives in top cupboard). Whatever Miri has done has got people scared. No one is buying the idea that prison can reform and rehabilitate: as far as they’re concerned, she is the Bride of Chucky, Myra Hindley, a Kathy Bates character all rolled into one.

Over the course of the six episodes, clues as to what Miri has done are drip-fed. The series has been executive produced by the writers behind The Missing and their influence is felt here. As although it has the beats of comedy, at its heart is a murder mystery. Haggard puts the success of the plotting down to co-creator, Laura Solon. Solon won the main Edinburgh Award in 2005 and went on to adapt Hollywood film scripts. The pair have been firm friends for years, working on BBC sketch show Man Stroke Woman back in 2007. Across the pond, Haggard shared her script ideas, with Solon giving notes for improvement. These skype chats have produced a comedy about a murder that neither descends into spoof (Touch of Cloth) or grotesquery (Nighty Night), instead it pulls off the difficult feat of being serious and funny.

Solon and Haggard worked together on Man Stroke Woman.

For all of Miri’s struggles to forge a new life, she does experience kindness. Nathan, the chip shop owner, takes a chance on her. Like Miri, he isn’t welcome in Kent. The reason is less dark. He’s bringing the worst symbol of hipsterdom to Hythe: leather aprons. An upmarket fish and chip shop is as wanted as a returning killer. Another person who befriends Miri is her neighbour Billy. The two meet when Miri is making a phone call in the garden. Billy isn’t the most socially confident, but his goodness is clear. The only thing coming between a romance is a Brontian madwoman in his attic, raining a volley of cunt curses on Miri. Over the series a Punch-Drunk Love relationship develops between these misfits.

I really loved Back to Life. It occupies the same time slot as Fleabag but shouldn’t be treated the same. Yes there is darkness, comedy, a search for identity, but Back to Life wears its heart on its sleeve from the start; it’s less arch and ironic. Haggard has created something special here, proving the best way to follow greatness is not through imitation, but by being yourself. Back to Life is a laugh-out-loud crime-drama. How many of them have you seen? My guess is none. So watch this one.

Back to Life is on BBC One, Monday 10.35. Alternatively, all episodes are on iPlayer.

The Making of the Women's World Cup

Once upon a time my brother worked for a publication called My News. Its raison d’etre was to provide community news and promote small businesses. Kieran’s job meant leaving the office to report on parish news, council meetings and charity efforts. All important, all vital. However, the one thing that really piqued his interest was sport. During the 2009-10 season he was tasked with reporting on his local team, Watford FC Ladies. A huge fan of football Kieran had never, however, been to a women's game. He was thoroughly entertained. A seven-goal thriller. Unfortunately, all seven went to the away team as Chelsea trounced Watford.

From there a love affair was born. Or more accurately a relationship, as it hasn’t been a passing fling that died a death when he changed jobs, rather a constant in his life for the past ten years. Along with his friend Hamish, they established the UK’s first women’s football podcast. When Hamish moved, Kieran worked with experts from around the globe to provide an in-depth look at the world game. From here, he’s worked with TalkSport, BBC World Service, The Independent and Evening Standard to offer insight into this ever-growing sport. 

If you think he's handsome, you should see his brother.

None of his media accreditations have been achieved by nepotism or luck, they’ve all been garnered through hard work. He’s flown himself around the world, often at his own expense, to report on the game. But don’t for a second think I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for him. When you do something you love, it’s not a sacrifice, rather a pleasure. He has and would do it for no money. (I hope your current employers don’t read that sentence, bro, otherwise your pay cheque might look a bit smaller next month.) Just as fans travel around the world supporting their team, Kieran does the same. First and foremost, he’s a fan. Secondly, a journalist. Probably an entertainer third. (I couldn’t help the David Brent reference.) He loves the women’s game because it is as competitive as the men’s but played with a spirit that befits it. There is less simulation, tribalism and disrespect. There is more personal sacrifice and dedication. With the money being less, you have to really want it.

This love and knowledge of the game has coalesced and led to the formation of The Making of the Women’s World Cup, a book about the origins and evolution of the beautiful game within the biggest tournament of all. The book is co-authored with Jeff Kassouf, a leading light in women’s football journalism, responsible for The Equalizer, a website dedicated to North American soccer coverage. With Jeff in the US and Kieran in the UK, how did these two forge a special relationship? Initially, the pair met through Twitter and then in person at a soccer conference in Baltimore. Striking up a bond, these febrile brains plotted a book on women’s football. With Robinson publishers on board, an imprint of Little Brown Book Group, the two lads have combined to produce a winning tale of inspirational women and teams.

With Jeff being an expert on the American game, he has written most of the chapters chronicling the US’ brilliance. With Kieran knowing less about America, he’s contributed to the sections on England and the rest of the world. The book has a foreword from Kelly Smith, who is only behind Rooney, Charlton and Lineker as England’s greatest ever goal scorer. After that, the book is told out of chronology: a good decision in my eyes as it allows for the writers to crisscross and overlap, adding depth and layers, without succumbing to repetition. Also, it gives it a choose-your-own-adventure feel where you can start with the chapter that most interests you and move through the book how you like.

I chose to start with Jeff’s chapter on ‘The Early Years’ of the Women’s World Cup. What I read re-enforced what we already know: sport, society and politics is intertwined. The racism we’re currently hearing in grounds is indicative of the pernicious rhetoric we hear from today’s politicians. The sexism that female footballers endured was symptomatic of a world where women didn’t have equal opportunity. It wasn’t until 1991 when the first Women’s World Cup took place. Unlike today, FIFA weren’t overly enthused by it. Having Mars company on board as sponsors, they used the confectioner’s as a quasi-stalking horse. If the tournament was successful, FIFA would take credit for it; if it wasn’t the sweets manufacturer would count the cost. As a result, the first World Cup was officially called the ‘First FIFA World Championship for Women’s Football for the M&Ms Cup.’ Even Kim Jong-Il, a fan of big titles, would feel this a little wordy. On top of that, the tournament was truncated into two weeks and 80-minute matches. Clearly, the women weren’t being treated the same as men; the battle for recognition was only just beginning.

The sexism women are subjected to is a trope that runs through the book. When reading about Marta, the greatest player of all time, we read about the challenges she faced to gain acceptance. Born in Dios Riachos in the Alagoas state of Brazil, the region was rife with prejudice. In one sorry tale, she is forced to withdraw from a tournament because an opposition manager refuses to field a team if she plays. As a result, aged just fourteen she travelled three days to play for Vasco de Gama, Rio de Janeiro’s team. From here, she moved to Sweden to play professionally. These tremendous sacrifices got her to the World Cup final in 2007. It’s a travesty that a person who went on to become the world’s best had to leave their childhood, their home, their country to realise their potential – it’s also inspirational, a true sign that greatness cannot be suppressed.

There are so many inspirational stories in the book. One that enthralled was the story of the Japan team. In March 2011, the nation was hit by an earthquake killing twenty thousand, leaving hundreds of thousands homeless. Darkness had descended on the land of the rising sun. With the World Cup just months away, football didn’t seem so important. Japan are a wonderful team on the eye. I saw them in the 2012 Olympic Final with Kieran and was so impressed by their tika-taka style of play. Although they were beaten that day, their use of the ball was sublime, a joy for footballing purists. Poetically, Japan went one step further in 2011. Coming back twice from behind in the final, the game went to penalties. There, Saki Kumagai kicked the winning penalty to take Japan to World Cup glory. Sport cannot rebuild a nation. It can’t reawake the dead. But it can provide dignity, restore pride, when all hope is lost. Even America’s players had to concede that eleven players can't compete with the will of a nation.

So I really loved reading the book, and not just because my brother co-wrote it. I love football and get a kick out of the people who kick it. With sponsorship coming in, participation growing, there will hopefully come a day when we won’t have to hear about sexism in sport. If that day comes, this book will serve as a testament to the people who fought so hard for the chance to play on the biggest stage of all.

The Women’s World Cup kicks off in France on 7^th June, twenty four nations will compete in ninety minute games, with 720,000 tickets already sold. Proof that we’ve come a long way from 1991. It seems if you build it, they will come.

The Makings of the Women’s World Cup is available to buy here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Making-Womens-World-Cup-Defining-ebook/dp/B07K6NR5XF

Wedding Day

The day started early. I heard a knock at the door. It was my mum with a cup of tea and a biscuit. She placed them next to the bed, then gave me a hug and a kiss. Moments later, there was another knock at the door. It was my brother. He came into the room and gave me a hug. I then went downstairs to put sugar in my tea (you just can’t get the staff these days) where my dad was there to give me a hug.

“What happened to the great British reserve?” I asked. “I’ve had three rounds of hugs and kisses and I haven't even sat down.'

They all gave me a look as if to say, “Today isn’t the day for stiff upper lips, for straitjacketed emotions. Today, our borders are unprotected. We will not close off our castle, raise up the drawbridge, stand isolated from others. Instead we will embrace our Europeanness, accepting all, embracing strangers, kiss without quotas, hug without tariffs. Tomorrow, we can go back to being little Englanders, but today we’re the world.” (This was the very look they gave.)

After a breakfast of bagel and jam, I went upstairs to get into my suit. It was really nice to wear something that fitted me properly. Because of running I’ve lost my gut; this means most trousers hang off me like maternity bottoms. My waistcoat also looked pretty dandy. (In a diva episode I asked the groomsmen not to wear theirs, so I could stand out a bit in the photos. This was - as far as I’m aware - my only Groomzilla moment. I mean it’s fine I demanded they call me ‘Sir’ for the day and only speak when spoken to, right?) I also had my dad’s cufflinks on. These were special as these were the ones he wore on his wedding day. He and my mum have had a happy marriage, so I hoped these talismans would serve me well in mine.

Suited and booted, we had some photos outside on the decking, and were ready to go. On the way to the venue I wasn’t struggling with nerves, but my ears. Every now and then my ears confuse the ground for the sky and succumb to pressure. For the whole journey I was struggling to hear a thing and try as I might I couldn’t get the damn things to pop. I tried yawning during one of my brother’s anecdotes. (A difficult thing: he’s been travelling the world working for FIFA.) I tried chewing on an Opal Fruit (yes I know they’re called Starbursts, but I like a name that’s less showy – hence my surname.) I tried holding my nose. (This was fine for the car, but not something I could do at the venue. This gesture could offend my guests.) Fortunately, I’ve been to a lot of weddings. I know the beats and rhythms of the ceremony so well that I could probably do it without listening. Just say ‘I do’ when you’re looked at, and everything will be fine.

Our intention was to arrive early, have a cuppa in the pub nearby, then make our way to the venue. However the pub was closed. My brother and me said they were missing a trick what with wedding season being in full swing. If the pub trade needs advice on how to increase profits, then me and my brother are your guys. Consequently, we waited in the car park for my uncle and cousins to arrive. After a quick kiss and hug, we made our way down the lane to Coltsfoot.

On arriving there was a sign welcoming people to our wedding, accompanied by a stick illustration. I sort of resembled a Golliwog on the drawing, although I was not troubled by this. If my girlfriend wants to commit her life to me, it’s unlikely she is a racist. Or maybe she is, and her guilt is so intense that marrying a mixed-race man is her way of quelling it. No, she’s definitely not a racist. I’m sure of this.

Exiting the car, I was quite overwhelmed. At parties I’m the man who stands on the sidelines, holding on desperately to the person I’ve struck up a conversation with. If they go to the bathroom, I hold onto their leg, crying “Please don’t leave me!” So I found it strange to suddenly be at the centre of things. One minute I was in the car with my mum, dad and brother – just a regular Joe, a Mr Pooter, a nobody, then all of a sudden I was on the red-carpet at the Academy Awards: (“Who are you wearing?” “Debenhams Suit Hire.” “Can I have a selfie?” “Of course.” “How are you feeling about your chances?” “Pretty good. She’s been planning it for 15 months, so I’m confident she’ll turn up.”) Experiencing everyone’s good will towards me was special and very humbling.

We went into the bar area where my brother got me a glass of whisky. I thought about having a pint (of beer that is), but I had visions of getting it down me, and The Girl having to marry a man that looked like the end of a night, as opposed to the start of the day. I was then asked to go over and meet Barry and Brian, our registrars for the day. I did have some misgivings about Barry. I once went to see a fantastic comic called Barry Fearns who did a whole routine about how ridiculous his name is; how no one can take a Barry seriously. This was in my head when I met our Barry. I thought, “This is the biggest commitment of my life and presiding over it is a man called Barry. It’s like having a Chuckle Brother conduct a symphony.” Barry and Brian were great though. Grounded, warm and funny.

The time was now. I stood at the front in a bit of a daze. I could hear again. (Fi lent me a mint that seemed to do the trick.) The sound of the detectorists theme tune rang out, I felt the touch of the kings and the breath of the wind, I knew the call of all the song birds, They sang all the wrong words, I’m waiting for you, I’m waiting for you. And then the bridesmaids appeared, beautiful in burgundy, with smiles suggesting a happy secret about to be revealed. Tailing them was my wife-to-be. I knew nothing about her dress. It was the best kept secret since 'Who shot Phil Mitchell.' When watching Say Yes To The Dress I was ordered not to comment on any of the styles or designs. (I kept my end of the bargain by not watching any of the episodes.) She wanted what she wore to be a surprise. And it was. A lottery win, a special birthday, an injury time winner all rolled into one. Gliding up the aisle to the aching swoon of Dec’s Angel, she was everything and more. Elegant couture framing natural beauty. Breathtakingly beautiful.

Although we were flanked by our nearest and dearest, my eyes were only for her. I knew other people were in our orbit, but she was my sole focus and interest. After our first fantastic reading - Jim doing John Cooper Clarke’s I Wanna Be Yours - we said our vows. In all honesty I can’t remember the sequence of events; it’s all a bit of a blur. But I do remember Hayley, the harpist, accompanying Clea on ‘Your Song.’ I should say at this point that it’s purely coincidental that we asked Clea to sing a song from the man that financed Watford to the 1984 FA Cup Final. Until this week, I didn’t even know Elton John was once Watford’s chairman. Honestly had no idea. Honest. honest. The rendition was so tender and perfect, encapsulating perfectly the song's coda, ‘How wonderful life is while you’re in the world.’ Clea’s mum, Linda, then read a scene from When Harry Met Sally. (Not that scene, the other one.) And with that we kissed; our lives were wed. We walked down the aisle, husband and wife, to Lulu's 'Boom Bang-a-Bang.'

The Girl and I were then ushered away from the handshakes and back pats to have some photos. Sarah, our photographer, was booked because she had done such an outstanding job at Clare's, the bridesmaid's wedding. I thought I would be embarrassed about being asked to pose for kissy-kissy shots. Typically, my photo face is less Casablanca and more Dumb and Dumber. But the beauty of my wife, the sense of occasion, the direction of the photographer, meant I found it easy to channel my inner Bogart and plant roses on her lips.

We were then beckoned into having group shots. This was a lovely moment as it allowed us to have pictures with our family that we don’t see as much as we would like. Also, the friends whose texts and meet-ups sustain us during busy working weeks. We had a lovely photo where our guests made a Guard of Honour for us to walk down, which they then proceeded to make like West Ham fans and blow bubbles at us. (I’ve since looked at the lyrics to the 100-year-old song – and boy is it bleak. I’m forever blowing bubbles/ Pretty bubbles in the air/ They fly so high, nearly reach the sky/ Then like my dreams they fade and die.) Hopefully, this isn’t a portent for our relationship. Hopefully, we will flourish and prosper and not fade and die too soon. Although as a warning against ambition, of dreaming too big and aiming too high, it does suit West Ham - those boys aren't doing much in their new stadium.

After a drink or two, we were ready to be received for dinner to Carole King's 'Where You Lead.' (Usually I’m not received for dinner. The Girl just shouts up, ‘Your supper’s getting cold,’ and I run downstairs.) People stood up for this and wouldn’t sit down until we sat down. I should have conspired with The Girl to stay standing for longer, to see how long we could stretch the people’s patience, but I thought better of it and gave the lambs a chance to graze. Food was great. I had salmon to start, lamb for main and something vegetarian for dessert. (Just 2/3 of my meals and I’ll be a vegetarian.) Following this, we were ready for our speeches.

Andy, my groomsman is a Deputy Head and comedy MC, so he had no problem in getting our cheeky guests into line. Rod, the bride’s dad, went first. His speech was fantastic. He shared ‘it was an accident’ stories about The Girl, before moving onto a bat story that could be an origins story for Batman - if Bruce Wayne was a girl brought up in the Home Counties by public servants. It was then my turn to do a speech. Given the beginning involved mocking my in-laws; the middle ‘I'll have what she's having’ innuendo; and the end contained references only the wife would get ("Hello to Jason Isaacs"), it went well. This shows a Groom’s speech is a cakewalk. You know nearly everyone, so it can’t go badly. I could have done a 10-minute presentation of potential Brexit scenarios and it would probably have gone fine. With The Girl doing a lovely speech thanking my friends and family, my brother stepped up to ‘roast’ me. One of his opening lines was a doozy, the joke of the evening ("Bro, you’re now going to have to pretend to laugh at me for the next five minutes. After all, it’s what I spent the whole of your comedy career doing for you.").

 I turned to my wife and said, “He didn’t, did he.”

She said, “He did.”

When a joke is that well engineered, you have to just accept when you’re beaten. The rest of the set poked fun at my commitment to schooling and approach to carb-loading:  let's just say it had nothing to do with pre-marathon training. But his piece de resistance was his conclusion. Because of his contacts in the media, he managed to get a voice message from Countdown’s Rachel Riley and Strictly’s Pasha Kovalev. Now, I have a bit of a crush on Riley, but The Girl is a Strictly superfan. To have a message from one of the stars of the show turned a ‘ten from Len’ into a 11 out 10 day. It was a lovely speech, so too The Girl’s and her dad’s.

With the room reset, the stage was now set for merriment and mischief. Before the wild hedonism of the disco, a first dance had to be performed. When it comes to dancing, The Girl and I are chalk and cheese. She did ballet for years and has taught dance in school. I, on the other hand, have the hips of a geriatric and the movement of a corpse. If Daniel Day Lewis was to play me in a movie, no amount of method acting would prepare him for my left feet. I love dancing, but I am completely and utterly woeful. It was, therefore, regretful that we chose a four minute song for our first dance. We would have been better with The Ramones ‘Blitzkreig Bop’- I could have just pogoed for two minutes and be done with it. Of course, it didn’t matter. I twirled The Girl, she twirled me. I was lost in love. 

With ‘North Country Fair’ fading, we segued into Hall & Oates ‘You Make My Dreams’ (‘What I’ve got’s full stock of thoughts and dreams that scatter/ You pull them all together/ And how, I can’t explain, Oh yeah, well well you/ You make my dreams come true'). We had gambled on the music. I resolutely said I didn’t want a DJ because I don’t trust them. At my brother’s friend’s wedding the groom had specifically said, “No Black Eyed Peas,” and what did the DJ do? Played them as the third song. Fortunately, our risk paid off. We had great lights from Matt at work, along with a great sound rig from Dec. 

I’ll never forget that last hour of dancing, where we had mass sing-alongs, congas, high kicks, huddles. I’m still laughing at our singing to 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. Garth and Wayne have nothing on us. Louis Armstrong closed the disco. And I shared Louis' sentiments.  During his vocals, I looked around and saw all the interlocking hands: couples, family, friends. I saw my family with hers; hers with mine. And I looked at the woman whose hand I was holding. My friend and future. My reason and purpose. My chin up and well done. And I thought to myself, What a wonderful world.

Married At First Sight

“It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.”

(Freidrich Nietzsche)

In December 2017 I got down on one knee and popped the question. She said yes and my future was sealed.

We first met in August 2013 when I was an aspiring stand-up comedian. (I never got beyond aspiring.) She was a passionate teacher working long days; I was a failing artist wasting long nights. Consequently, we didn't see much of each other. Texts and calls were our lifeblood. And when we did see each other the happiness couldn't last; Monday loomed large, glowering on the horizon. In time priorities changed. As my love for stand-up waned, my love for her unfurled. In May 2015 we moved into a one bedroom flat, providing our relationship with its first true test. Would we live back to back or cheek to cheek? In March 2017 we bought a house.

Over the years we’ve suffered loss, endured failure, been humbled, chastened. We’ve brought out the best in each other, and, now and again, the worst. I think I know her inside and out, what makes her tick, what makes her tock, yet when it comes down to it people are islands; they have their own mind, a place of one’s own, that is for them and them alone. Evidence of this is our 54/80 score on a Mr and Mrs quiz. (She said she cheered more loudly at Watford matches than me. It was this kind of muddled thinking that cost us huge points.) When it comes down to it, I want to know her more, increase our score, whilst recognising 100% is undesirable. (Knowing your partner that well is unhealthy. It suggests you’ve been hit by an obsession virus so hard that you're quarantined from the outside world.)

So I want to spend the rest of my life with her – it’s as simple as that.

I give this backstory because for the past few weeks we’ve been watching Married at First Sight, a Channel 4 programme based on the Danish series of the same name. Now in its fourth series, we’ve watched every one. The premise is this: the modern world isn’t conducive to love. In these fast times of broadband and jump cuts, no one wants to get to know each other. People move quickly: swiping their phone one minute, wiping their dick the next. With sex calling shotgun, love and commitment take the back seats. What to do then when you can’t find someone who shares your goals? You turn to science. The show is like Bear Grylls does eharmony. On that dating site you answer a series of questions; the idea being you’re then matched with a compatible suitor. Only on Married at First Sight you aren’t just paired for a potential date, but an actual marriage.

In the past few series the marriages have either ended in divorce, separation or cold feet so pronounced the aisles been left vacant. Yet show applicants persist: its experts insisting science is the way forward. Now, there is a school of thought here. A lot of the participants say that finding someone for themselves hasn’t worked, so it’s better someone else tries. Reductively, I think some view it as arranged marriage. The thing is it isn’t. In South Asia where arranged marriages are common, they are not done this way. Incorrectly, Westerners see arranged marriage as going in blind. You turn up on the day and hope for the best. The reality is many couples go in with their eyes wide open. Their families have a sense of one another, canvas opinions, co-ordinate meetings and seek their children's consent. And with so many marriages being organised this way, it’s a part of someone’s cultural identity, as expected as sleep. In many countries it would be far scarier if you were given complete freedom on who to wed: all the permutations and combinations would prove dizzying – like being tasked with Brexit. 

Not entirely true.

The problem with the Married At First Sight method is that it falls between two stools: it doesn’t have the sociology of the South Asian system or the psychology of the Western system – instead it carries the heavy stench of capitalism. The advertisers get rich, and the couples count the cost. Putting people who have grown up within one marriage system into another is not going to work. The relationships are doomed before they start.

This series matches Steph and Jonathan. Both lovely people. She works in nursing; he in public housing. The science says they should go together like Trump and non-disclosures; however, it’s more like Donald and Mexicans. As soon as they are married, Steph puts up a wall. Jonathan, despite his best efforts, can’t topple the thing. Steph isn’t to blame – the concept is. She likes a party, whilst he likes a board game. The adage ‘opposites attract’ should apply, right? Well it does if it naturally transpires. As it is, the burden of marriage weighs too heavily. The couples don’t flourish and like caged birds flap for escape. It appears Steph doesn’t treat Jonathan well, but finding two people that work in a flawed system is something no personality test can prepare you for. If I annoy my wife-to-be, she knows it won't be forever. In a true arranged marriage, the cultural expectation means you'll forgive someone. In Married it's full on immersion that your mind can't compute, consequently you can't give it time.

Jonathan and Steph.

For all of my reservations, it seems like the other participants Jack and Verity are getting on pretty well. As we head into next week’s final episode, maybe I’ll be left eating some humble pie. 

Married At First Sight is on Channel 4, Wednesday at 9. Previous episodes are on All4.

I'll be on holiday from the blog next week as I'm getting married. Ainsley Harriott will be standing in.

Fleabag Series 2

Since Fleabag first aired in 2016, creator Phoebe Waller-Bridge has become an international star. Adapting Luke Jenning’s Killing Eve, as well as appearing in Sola: A Star Wars Story, means she is heralded both at home and abroad. For a while it seemed she wouldn’t return to her calling card, feeling there wasn’t the story to warrant a continuation. It appears though a change is as good as a rest; as now Fleabag is back on our screens, bigger and bolder than before.

When we last saw Fleabag she was broken. Every member of her family had dismissed her, rejecting her as vain, selfish, dishonest. All through the series she had been semi-successful in keeping a lid on her emotions. However, the toil and trouble of her past could not be quieted forever; her guilt was always going to boil to the surface. At the end her detached cool lies in a heap; her lies exposed in a flood of tears and mascara. Her friend Boo did not take her life because of a boyfriend’s betrayal, but because of something much worse: Fleabag's. Our heroine had spent six episodes calling people out on their shit, yet was full of it too. Spending hours with her meant we could forgive and forget. The problem is she could not.

Series two opens with a callback to the first. That one began with an address to camera, ‘You know that feeling;’ this one: ‘You know when.’ This doesn’t just feel like superfluous stylism as it does in some sitcoms, rather the representation of Fleabag’s loneliness. Her family don’t share her sense of humour, nor her spiritedness; therefore, she turns to us. If her friend Boo were alive there would be fewer turns to camera. Essentially, we’re the conspirators, the allies, the naughty friends, missing from her life.  Her breaking the fourth wall is less a display, more a reveal. 

She soon catches us up on what’s happened in the intervening 371 days, 19 hours and 26 minutes. It seems she’s taken up exercise, salad  and abstinence. Our Fleabag is fighting fit and resisting all temptation. Cue a family meal with a priest seated at the table. He isn’t like any priest. He’s young, handsome and swears like a heathen. At first Fleabag is unsure about him: is he for real? Over the course of the meal she appreciates him as smart and rude. More like her than the woman he’s marrying. (Marrying in the priest sense, of course. The woman he's marrying? The wicked Godmother played deliciously by Olivia Colman.) That’s why the family have gathered to celebrate the couple’s engagement, and that’s where the episode stays. 

This is not a bottle episode though. (TV parlance for an episode that is shot in a single setting, consisting of just regular cast members, usually because of budgetary or time constraints.) No, this is a showcase for Waller-Bridge’s writing and her sister Isobel’s baroque music. The exit music of the first series is sublime: scuzzy, dirty and boisterous- like the character. The opening music to this is grand, ambitious and operatic; a suggestion that the punk aesthetic will be displaced by classical weight. And whilst the first season dealt in concerns of the flesh, this is more invested in the soul. The priest’s presence means there’s talk of religion and faith; there’s also a meditation on existence when Fleabag’s sister mourns in the toilet (“Get your hands off my miscarriage,” she yells). The tone is darkly funny, yet the priest gives the comedy depth.

Andrew Scott (left) and Phoebe Waller-Bridge

Four episodes in we’re seeing a friendship/relationship develop between the Priest and Fleabag. The interplay between Waller-Bridge and Scott is divine. I’m particularly loving the mischief this series is having with the fourth wall. Whenever Fleabag turns to it, the Priest notes her absence and challenges her on it. ("Where did you go?") This Priest really is all-knowing.  Although her treatment of religion is irreverent, it isn't disrespectful. Yes, in the Priest's service the camera lingers on Christ’s naked torso, mirroring Fleabag’s mind; sure, there's a scene where she reads the Bible in the bath; guilty, she also finds the robes a bit of a turn on – but for all the conflating of sex and religion, the character is genuinely interested in redemption. It’s just the path to redemption comes in hot form.

If series one was tits out rock ‘n’ roll, the follow-up is more contemplative. Typically, the sitcom doesn’t change direction; its familiarity is what keeps people coming back. Fleabag though has an ambition beyond formula. Because of this, it rejects stasis and strives for development. For all the early press about Fleabag being ribald, the show is as funny with its clothes on as it’s off. For me, Waller-Bridge has surpassed her first effort and produced something even more brilliant. Quite an achievement when the first series was so good. (Character breaks out of blog subject to celebrate with readers.)

Fleabag is on BBC1, Monday at 10.35. All episodes are available on iPlayer.

The Language of Kindness

On Friday my mum worked her last shift as a nurse. For the past few years she has worked in a hospice, providing end-of-life care to patients.

She first started nursing when she was eighteen, over forty years ago. Born in Swanage, a quiet seaside town, she moved to suburban Edgware. My mum was living away from home for the first time and her dad had not long passed. The loss of a father, the move to a new town, the start of a new job meant she had to grow up fast.

Training to do anything then was not as easy as it is now. The hours were long with few concessions afforded to students. You had to observe carefully and learn fast. The Sister's rule was law. Iron fists hiding velvet hearts. Meet their standards or meet your Maker. The choice was yours. My mum got through her practice and met my dad. He was in hospital with malaria and saw her on another ward. His Florence Nightingale. The lady with a lamp that lit up his heart. In a fit of romanticism he went over to the nursing quarters and asked her out. They’re still married today.  

"Florence, would you turn that bleeding lantern off. I'm trying to get some sleep."

From there, they moved to Watford where she worked in the hospital for over twenty years. Working with the elderly, she provided dignity when their age could not. Tired and spent by ward work, she moved to a rehabilitation clinic, nursing people of different ages. Her final job was a real challenge. The euphemisms of ‘they had a good innings’ didn’t always apply here. She was seeing young children say goodbye to mothers and fathers. It’s hard to keep going when you’re surrounded by such sadness, but that in many ways is the true test of a nurse: when the Fates have been so cruel, treating kind people with such contempt, it’s down to you to show- however powerless- goodness reigns. The opportunity to give people the best goodbye in the worst situations was a responsibility she never took lightly.

A few months ago, my mum lent me a book, The Language of Kindness: A Nurse’s Story by Christie Watson. I’ve been meaning to start it for a while but I thought this week , given mum was concluding her own story, would be particularly apt. Watson’s first novel Tiny Sunbirds Far Away won the Costa First Novel Award in 2011. Whilst writing her debut she was working at a London teaching hospital. It isn’t until recently that she’s decided to hang up the fob watch and pursue her career as a writer full-time. This book, her third, is a rumination on her time spent working as a nurse.

Author and book.

For the young Christie nursing wasn’t on the horizon. She trumpeted the idea of law, photographer, conservationist and even Jazz trumpeter. Nursing wasn’t the life she saw ahead of her – why? Because it was already in her. Her mum was a social worker, who in one scene brings her work home with her. During a training placement, she invites a group of adults with learning disability into her living room for a drink – they end up stopping for dinner. At first Christie, aged fifteen, is unsure. Over the course of the evening she sees these are no Boo Radleys, quite the opposite, there is tenderness and kindness here: a textbook lesson in not to judge a book by its cover. On quitting school she volunteered for The Spastic Society (what is now known as Scope). Here she was persuaded to induct in nursing (at this time it came with a grant. Imagine that. A grant to support people into an under-staffed, under-paid profession. They were really on to something then). And this was the beginning of a tenure that would take her through hospital corridors, up and down floors, to provide a comprehensive guide as to what it’s like being a nurse.

With This Is Going To Hurt by Adam Kay and Admissions by Henry Marsh, it’s about time nurses' voices reached the mainstream. The aforementioned are superb, offering a behind the curtains glimpse into life as a consultant; however what isn’t always heard is the place nurses play in a patient’s recovery. Their role in the theatre of medicine is less about showmanship and more about craft. They might not have the biggest speech, but their role in the ensemble is vital. A doctor may take the final bow, receive the ovation, sign the autographs at stage door, but in the wings are the people who keep the show on the road.  

Great reads as well, particularly Kay's.

Christie’s book is a marvel because it moves seamlessly between memoir, treatise and polemic. She drips in philosophical quotation and portentous statistics to make her book more than an autobiography. In reading I learnt some things that were truly shocking. For example, I knew suicide was the biggest killer of young men, what I didn’t know was domestic violence was the biggest killer of young women. I discovered that the Government want 21,000 more mental health nurses, but aren’t prepared to pay a grant to attract them. I learnt that over a million people are expected to have dementia by 2025. Christie’s drops in these hand grenades, then runs for cover behind her anecdotes. The result is we learn by stealth. You never feel it’s preachy, whilst recognising that something has to be done.

Her journey across specialisms means she is well qualified to talk about many areas of nursing. However her concentration in intensive care give her stories real gravitas: this is life and death. In one memory Jasmin, a little girl, is in with smoke inhalation. Her mother is already dead. Aware that she hasn’t got long, her aunt asks for a priest. He’s not going to make it in time. Christie assumes the role and baptises the child. Despite being trained medical professionals, priest isn’t the only role they have to adopt. Nurses are cleaners, administrators, mathematicians, dream-catchers and counsellors. Although it seems like nurses deal in biology, psychology is as important. To keep someone’s spirits up in the sterile atmosphere of a hospital is perhaps the heaviest lifting they perform.

I’m grateful for this book as it has helped me understand the woman who raised me. What she’s done for others. What she’s done for me. I salute Christie for celebrating this noble profession. Nurses like my mum have read it and felt proud of the job they do. And in a world where they’re under-appreciated, these pick-me-ups are needed more than ever. Ultimately, Christie's memoir is a phrase book on kindness; a reminder we must do all we can to support those already fluent in it.

The Language of Kindness by Christie Watson is available now.

Home

Yesterday was an ugly day for society. A member of the far-right opened fire on a New Zealand mosque killing at least forty-nine people. The Australian Senator Fraser Anning said, “whilst this kind of violent vigilantism can never be justified, what it highlights is the growing fear within our community, both in Australia and New Zealand, of the increasing Muslim presence.” Further he went on to describe Islam as the “religious equivalent of fascism.” How a man can blame growing fear then contribute to it beggars belief. Today, Anning was egged by a teenager –even vegans will concede, I’m sure, the egg was not wasted.

But this is where we are. We’re living in a time where people seem devoid of empathy. Now politicians aren’t ostracised for pillorying minorities, but elected.  This is exacerbated by social media, which gives people free rein to say what they want about strangers. We’re living in ignorant times where cowards speak in caps lock drowning out tolerant voices. It happened a few years ago with the migrant crisis. In this climate of hate, the columnist Katie Hopkins said migrant boats should be blown out of the water. Men, women, children fleeing terror – and that’s your response. Around the same time, Nigel Farage launched a Brexit poster that depicted a queue of refugees with the headline, ‘Breaking Point.’ If there was an image that best illustrated the unkind times we live in, it is this. Victims of war being treated like a swarm of locusts. The dark episodes of history have not been learned; we’re in danger of repeating them again.

In the foreground: a person unwelcome in Europe.

Humanity can be found in strange places though. Channel 4, a broadcaster known more for edgy comedies, has produced a feel-good sitcom on immigration. Penned by Rufus Jones, the show’s genesis lies in a 2016 Guardian article. In it, the journalist Helen Pidd wrote about inviting a Syrian refugee, Yasser Al Jassem, to stay. She met him through a friend and was upset to hear how he had two options: sleep in a homeless shelter or an overcrowded house. Not wanting him to take either, she created her own and had him stay with her. Together, the two struck up a friendship, which saw Pidd invite Yasser to spend Christmas with the family. The article never felt like virtue-signalling because she outlined the challenges of sharing a house with a stranger: would he be ok with her eating a bacon butty? Could she express disappointment that he hadn’t sourced a paid job? (He was volunteering every day.) Where do you source an halal turkey? Yasser too spoke of his surprise that he had a female landlady, something that wouldn’t happen in Syria. Jones read the article and enjoyed the odd couple dynamic: a premise was born.

Home begins with the Peter, Katy and John returning from a family holiday in France. There is some tension here. John is less than impressed with Peter. He’s not at all sure of his mum’s new boyfriend, making his disdain pretty plain. Katy brushes this off as adolescence – or as she describes it – 'three years of Pornhub and silence.’ Pulling into the drive, they’re home sweet home. Vacating the car, Peter hears a sound. A sound coming from the boot. Champagne doesn’t sound like this. Piqued, he goes around to investigate. His hunch is right. There is a man in the back. There’s a terrorist in the boot. This, however, isn’t a alt-right children’s book, but a living, breathing manifestation - or so Peter thinks. Frightened, he locks the car and scurries to the front door to call 999. The immigrant has an ace up his sleeve though: Peter’s champagne bottle. If Peter makes a wrong move, the upholstery gets it. Middle-class to the core, he drops his weapon and negotiates with the 'terrorist.'

Youssef Kerkour is Sami (centre). Rufus Jones plays Peter (right).

The man in the boot is not a terrorist. He is Sami. He has come on a long journey to be here. Yes, he’s disappointed it’s Dorking, but frankly anywhere is better than home. He escaped Syria with his family but became separated in Italy. He has travelled across the world to be with the family, yet Peter is reluctant to lay out the welcome mat. The lovely irony in the sitcom is that Peter is as much a guest in the home. His surname is Guest and he feels like one. Having only been in a relationship with Katy for ten months, he’s trying to make it his home as well. He, therefore, sees Sami as a threat, perhaps an unwanted mirror too. Katy, on the other hand, bonds with Sami: she’s happy to learn that he’s a teacher just like her. She also warms to his personality: he has a wonderful line in sarcasm, describing how school in Syria hasn’t been so good lately what with children playing ‘truant.’ An argument later outlines the couple’s differences:

                   Katy: He’s lost and alone and he needs our help.

                  Peter: He’s not Paddington.

                  Katy: That’s exactly what he is.  

For Peter, Sami is the headline in the right-wing press; for Katy, a feature in a broadsheet. He wants to take back control, whereas she wants to open borders. The Paddington reference is no accident either: Home owes a debt to Paddington. There are moments in the first episode that allude to the film, what with Sami causing mischief in the bathroom and kitchen. It has the parallel of the woman and child warming to him, whereas the man sees him as a rival. Although being an adult sitcom, it has bite too.

In the second episode there is a brilliant scene with Sami in the newsagents. The shopkeeper Raj is talking him through British newspapers. On one pile he puts the papers that likes ‘Sami,’ on the other ones that don’t. Sami asks, ‘which ones sell the most? Both are disappointed by the answer. In a thirty second scene, Jones lays bare the root of racism: so long as vitriol outstrips compassion, we will live in a society that makes scapegoats out of innocents.

On this my 200^th blog, Home is a reason to be cheerful. It promotes kindness and understanding at a time when people are getting away with lies and bigotry. As To Kill a Mockingbird’s Atticus Finch says, ‘You never really understand someone until you consider things from his point of view …until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.’ For thirty minutes every week, there’s a small corner of Channel 4 where we can do that. Being in Sami’s skin is a valuable place to be; I urge you to climb in.

Home is on 9.45pm, Tuesday on Channel 4.

Previous episodes are available on All4