Shaun of the Dead

Rule of Three is a podcast presented by Jason Hazeley and Joel Morris, two comedy writers that have written with Charlie Brooker, David Mitchell and Robert Webb. Their names are probably in your Christmas too, since they’re the co-writers of the Ladybird books for adults - brilliant stocking fillers. I love their show and listen every week. It’s show and tell for adults where a comic writer comes in and shares their favourite comedy with the hosts. By listening to the podcast I’ve finally got around to watching Father Ted, Monty Python's Life of Brian and Airplane; it’s also inspired me to re-visit old favourites: The Royle Family, Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace - and this week, Shaun of the Dead.

A great podcast.

Comedian Tom Neenan makes the case to the boys that Shaun of the Dead deserves a retrospective. Achieving the ubiquity of constant ITV 2 rotation, it’s easy to take it for granted. Neenan really knows his stuff when it comes to Shaun and the sitcom that preceded it, Spaced, so much so by the end I felt there was no alternative but to go back and have another look.


The bones of the zombie movie lie in a Spaced episode ‘Art’ where Simon Pegg’s character Tim hallucinates his game into reality. His living room has become Resident Evil. Surrounded by zombies, he must remove the prefix from the undead. His flatmate Daisy enters, startling him. Throwing his body, he turns his controller on her, shouting, ‘Don’t sneak up on me like that!’ Unperturbed, Daisy asks: ‘Want a cup of tea?’ From tense horror to comic normalcy an idea was born.

Tim playing Resident Evil Pic. Channel 4

From listening to Neenan, I found out what an important project Shaun was for director and co-writer Edgar Wright. So passionate was Wright to work on it he turned down the opportunity to work on Dr Who's BBC1 reboot. Despite the sitcom Spaced being a huge success and having filmic production, this was his first feature. He and Pegg were massive movie fans – obvious to anyone who’s seen Spaced's homage meter – which made their move from television exciting and daunting.


The majesty of the film lies in the planning process. Neenan informs us that Pegg and Wright were methodical and meticulous in their plotting. As though performing a heist, the two talked through possible routes and permutations, finessing and honing their plan. The resulting script is really something. Being an English teacher, I’m in thrall to words, words, words, yet I know structure is what they rest on. Without its silent partner, language is just a load of hot air. There’s a reason why Oscar Wilde is quoted more than he’s read - and that my friends is structure. He has the talk, but not the trousers.


Shaun of the Dead is a play on George A. Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, where survivors of a zombie attack hole themselves up in a shopping mall. This being a British picture our story commences in a pub, The Winchester, which we’ll return to at the end of the movie. A portent for things to come is revealed early with the opening scene of barroom quarrel segueing into town life: shopping trolleys are pulled, checkout items scanned, phones pulled in unison, a football kept up. The zombification of British life is performed in front of us. Romero’s film was a satire on the consumerism of 20^th century culture; this a wry critique on modern life. 

Soon after we’re in the living room, one of Shaun’s flatmates Ed is playing a video game. Shaun tells him he needs to reload. This is a piece of dialogue we’ll return to. Shaun is then returning from work; he bumps into Yvonne, an old friend/flame. She asks him how he’s doing; his reply: ‘Surviving.’ This is a piece of dialogue we’ll return to. Later, we’re back in Shaun’s home that his friend Pete presides over. Pete is pissed with how slovenly Ed is. Enraged, he screams, ‘If you want to live like an animal, go live in the shed!’ This is a piece of dialogue we’ll return too. So much of the opening twenty minutes is echoed in the final twenty. Whilst most comedy films feel like a collection of sketches, this has all the satisfying form of a Stewart Lee routine.


There are great set pieces though in this film, which deserve celebrating. The Cassetteboy-lite slicing and splicing of news footage is a far more interesting way of doing exposition. Further, the scene where Shaun and Ed confront a zombie in the garden makes you re-evaluate the term disposable music. Another garden is the perfect backdrop for a battle scene with a slide doubling for a periscope and a swing ball for a flail. Pegg and Wright really do have the inventiveness of great prop comics. Also, there’s the fight scene in the pub to Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now.’ This is the antecedent to Wright’s Baby Driver where the music neither scores nor underscores the action, but combines and dances with it.

Shaun of the Dead was the first in the Cornetto Trilogy, and like so many triptychs the first is the best. It has a pulsating soundtrack, quotable dialogue, directorial verve; more importantly though it is plotted like a motherfucker. I’m glad somebody made it.


Shaun of the Dead is available on Netflix - and probably ITV2.

The Testaments

The Testaments is the publishing sensation of the year. Just over a week ago in Waterstones' Piccadilly Store Margaret Atwood headlined a festival celebrating its release. Leading fiction authors discussed the writer’s oeuvre, and the all-conquering Guilty Feminist considered how The Handmaid’s Tale even mirrors liberal society: we have the privilege of commanders and sometimes turn a blind eye to the injustices done unto others. At midnight there was a 10-1 countdown, ushering in Atwood's new world. The author then read her first chapter. Told from Aunt Lydia’s perspective, it reveals how nine years earlier her statue was debuted, a monument she describes:

 Clutching my left hand is a girl of seven or eight, gazing up at me with trusting eyes. My right hand rests on the head of a woman crouched at my side, her hair veiled, her eyes upturned in an expression that could be read as either craven or grateful – on of our Handmaids – and behind me is one of my Pearl Girls, ready to set out on her missionary work.

Lydia’s ascension to the pedestal is complete. People can look up to her in human form and stone too. It perfectly encompasses her power and dominion over women: the child ‘clutch(es)’ her hand in faith, Lydia’s ‘right hand rests’ on the Handmaid as a mother would a child or a master a dog, and ‘behind’ her knowing their place are the Pearl Girls. Lydia comments at how this unveiling is met by ‘discreet clapping’ as ‘we don’t do cheering here at Ardua Hall.’ Conversely, Atwood’s reading was met by vociferous applause, being the rock star of our times.



Given Atwood was brought up in the quiet backwoods of Northern Quebec, it’s antithetical her books cause so much noise. No other author has her level of pull and influence. Last year women’s rights activists protesting funding cuts to Planned Parenthood wore the red robes of her central character. From there women across the globe have done the same to express anger at legislative subjugation. In pop culture there aren’t many older people anointed Voice Of A Generation, but Atwood bucks the trend. People queued around corners for her books. An interview with her was beamed into cinemas nationwide. Her book is on course to be this year’s best seller. Not since J.K. Rowling has a writer been so in demand. The big question now is: Was Atwood right to go back? Does The Testament enhance her feted work or desecrate it?

A literary event. Pic. courtesy of Waterstones.

The Testaments takes place fifteen years after the events of The Handmaid’s Tale. At the end of that novel Offred had put her faith in Nick, hoping to be delivered to freedom, away from Gilead’s tyrannical regime. The TV show adaptation by Bruce Miller has led viewers past that point, leaving Atwood in a quandary as to whether to allude to the screen version or ignore it altogether. Interviews have emerged stating that Atwood and Miller were in correspondence throughout the shifting television seasons with the novelist giving the showrunner certain conditions: the first was to save Aunt Lydia from the hangman's pen, the second to protect Baby Jane's storyline. With this book it’s evident why she requested this.


Unlike The Handmaid’s Tale the book has three narrators. The first is Aunt Lydia. Protected in an sanctum within a sanctum, she writes her testimony in Ardua Hall library, a private place that she holds the keys to. Also, we have a transcript of Witness Testimony 369A, a young woman whom was captured by Gilead and raised within its system. Finally, there’s Witness Testimony 369B, a Canadian teenager whom was smuggled out of Gilead. Now looking at those character summaries, fans of the The Handmaid’s are going to jump to conclusions as to who these women are. It must be stated that Offred’s name is never once mentioned in this book; this is a story about two young women and one older one: the future protectors/rebels of Gilead and its architect. By having these revolving voices we learn what it's like to support, oppose and undermine the system. Initially these narratives diverge, but in time they collide with dramatic consequences.

Aunt Lydia doesn't make the cover.

Aunt Lydia’s narrative was my favourite of the three. Unlike the other two women, she intimately knows life before and after Gilead’s formation. This give her a wider understanding of totalitarianism and its implications. We find out early from her how she submitted to the State’s will. She describes her conversion ‘like a recipe for a tough steak: hammer it with a mallet, then marinate it and tenderize.’ Unlike the televangelist Serena Joy, Lydia wasn’t a religious fundamentalist. She became one out of need, not want. When the judges were rounded up and thrown into football stadiums, she had a choice: to denounce the coup and die, or submit and survive. As she put it, 

I needed to revert to the mulish underclass child, the determined drudge, the brainy overachiever, the strategic ladder-climber who’d got me to the social perch from which I’d been deposed. I needed to work the angles, once I could find out what the angles were.

Lydia is the arch-strategist, a Machiavellian tactician who prioritises her own advancement above all else. In an ideal world she wouldn’t browbeat and cattle prod young girls, but this isn’t an ideal world so out goes ethics, conscience and morality; in comes ruthlessness and self-preservation. ‘What good is it to throw yourself in front of a steamroller out of moral principles and then be crushed flat like a sock emptied of its foot?’ Atwood’s Lydia is a warning on how easily a human can become a monster when a uniform is put on them. The fact she is writing in secret though is testament to how humanity can be reclaimed.

Ann Dowd as Aunt Lydia in the TV series. She must have been licking her lips when she read this book. She's in for quite a pay day when this book is adapted. Pic. Jill Greenberg

Out of the other two narrators I enjoyed Agnes Jemima’s, the adopted daughter of Commander Kyle and Tabitha. For Handmaid’s Tale fans this is an interesting perspective as it fills in the gaps we didn’t get with Offred. There we saw grown women being thrown into captivity, consequently railing against their bars, longing for the wild, wild nights of freedom. Here though we witness how Gilead indoctrinates the young through its schooling. The school is not a centre of learning, but method of inculcation. Our narrator speaks, 

I agree with you that Gilead ought to fade away – there is too much of wrong in it, too much that is false, and too much that is surely contrary to what God intended – but you must permit me some space to mourn the good that will be lost.’ 

 A child born in prison won’t think the bars are a strange thing- for them it’s a design choice. Atwood is nuanced in capturing the Stockholm Syndrome of young children.

Finally, there’s Daisy, the teen who lives outside Gilead. Raised by protective parents, she sees her life as Gilead: a punitive place where she’s stripped of her liberty (sometimes she must help out in the shop) and is denied freedom of movement (they won’t let her go on protest marches). Life for her is so unfair. Out of all the characters I don’t think she is etched as well; there’s something a little YA about her dialogue and characterisation. Although her passages are integral for the novel, I longed to return to Aunt Lydia and her Cromwell/Iago plotting and scheming.

The book has quite the Wolf Hall about it.

Ultimately, the novel is a success. It is a different beast to Handmaid’s, moving at a quicker speed with a focus on dialogue and plot over introspection. The tone of it is lighter too. Whereas The Handmaid’s documented Gilead’s rising; this presents its fall. It's less about the stripping of women’s rights, more the chaos of male governance. Unlike the ambiguous ending of the first novel, you'll be in no doubt whether its the light or dark you're heading. Praise be.

The Testaments is out now.

State Of The Union

Yesterday my wife and I celebrated five months of marriage. By celebrated I mean she turned to me and said, ‘Oh yeah, we’ve been married five months.’ To which I sardonically replied, ‘Yep, they said we wouldn’t make it. We proved them wrong.’


In all honesty marriage feels easy at the moment - and so it should. We’re happy at home, fulfilled at work, our families are in good health. It means we can focus on one another, spend time together, ensure the other feels valued. I do appreciate greater challenges lie ahead. How someone feels about their work today might be very different in the future. Other people one day may require greater attention, elevating them in priority, diminishing us. How we respond to those changes will be the true measure of love. I’m confident we will confront the vicissitudes of life together. I can't foresee a time when my respect for her will fade, that my recognition of what we started, what we built isn't remembered. But I’m not naïve enough to think there won’t be difficult tests along the way.


State Of The Union, written and created by Nick Hornby, is an examination of a marriage, further down the line than mine. It doesn’t so much document an itch, but an illness that requires urgent attention. Tom is an unemployed music critic, someone who has been rendered obsolete by technology. Louise is a successful gerontologist and the breadwinner in the family. Their occupations reflect their minds too: Tom is one to pontificate and hypothesize, whereas Louise prefers directness and solutions. There’s also a sense that their social classes don’t align: Tom married up, even his mother said so, and Louise down. Essentially as Tom puts it, they are as opposite as Montague and Capulet, just without the catastrophic violence. 

Hornby. (Getty Images)

Each episode is ten minutes long and focuses on the time before Tom (Chris O’ Dowd) and Louise (Rosamund Pike) go into their therapy session. The first begins with Tom doing a crossword and cross words are what he has for Louise. She apologises for how they got to this point. Tom doesn’t give the answer you would expect: Don’t worry. It’s as much my fault as it is yours. Instead he puts the responsibility on her: ‘You slept with someone else and now here we are.’ Her: ‘Except there’s a bit more to it than that isn’t there. You stopped sleeping with me and I started sleeping with someone else.’ For him, infidelity is the thing. An unmitigated offence to loyal marriage. A gross misconduct charge that could lead to its termination. For her, context is all. Things don’t happen in a vacuum. Her behaviour was influenced by her surroundings; her surroundings being Tom. Neither want to divorce, which is why they find themselves each week in a pub, across the road from their counsellor’s door, hoping to find solutions to these cross words.


The back and forth between the two is tart without being heightened. This isn’t Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf? Rather: Why don’t you give Virginia Woolf A Go? Your Taste Is A Bit Ho-Hum, Humdrum. Just Read Something Different For A Change. More like that. In a middle episode Louise reveals the loneliness of being undesired, explaining, ‘Sex is the one thing that separates you from everyone else in my life.’ Tom’s response is devastating: ‘Well nearly everyone anyway.’ It seems that he can’t get over her affair with Matthew, a fling that wasn’t born out of passion but a need for solace. A sexual misadventure that wasn't about the thing between the legs, but the consequent arm around the shoulder. Both characters are islands, sex the ocean that separates, neither as yet have the answers on how to reach one another.

The programme isn't like this.

Although there are hard questions, we see the spark that brought the pair together early on. Waiting for their session, they see the therapist’s prior appointment leave. Observing them arguing, Tom and Louise provide commentary and analysis, forecasting what the trouble may be. This is a clever device from Hornby as it allows for some levity in earlier episodes when the pain of the couple is all too raw. As the weeks go by and the sessions increase, the couple grow a little more playful, perhaps out of kamikaze spirit, aware that their boat is heading for the rocks, regardless of what they say or do; if all is lost, why not laugh against the dying light. It’s here that the programme moves into The Trip territory with witty rallies between the two. 

Episode six has them imagining life without each other: Louise supposes that Tom would end up with a Naomi, a café owner who missed her chance at children because of a feckless boyfriend. Tom, on the other hand, imagines Louise with a Colin, Roger or Nigel (even the humour is pointed: he sees himself as exciting in comparison to the types of men that Louise is more suited too). Louise notes the barb and challenges. Tom returns with, ‘You wouldn’t turn your nose up at Colin Firth, Roger Federer or – Nigel Kennedy.’ Louise laughs at the last, so Tom offers an alternative. ‘Or Nigel de Jong – he’s a Dutch footballer; he studded a Spanish player in the chest right up here. Terrible challenge.’ Louise isn’t sold. Tom: ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be like that at home.’ Even though socially and culturally the two are from different places, in terms of humour they’re entwined.

O'Dowd and Pike (Photo: BBC)

Once the programme settled into its groove I had so much regard for it. I knew Rosamund Pike was a terrific actor, yet I wasn’t aware of O’Dowd's talent. There are moments that call for erudite Irish charm – O’Dowd’s calling card – however the role demands a well of emotions: jealousy, loneliness and selfishness. This performance will surely lead to more dramatic roles in the future. The only thing that didn’t work for me at times were the analogies. One episode has them liken their relationship to Brexit, another Syria, another dolphins – these are very well written; the issue is you can hear the writing. Where State Of The Union is best is where it feels quick, improvised, free from artifice. This occurs more and more as you go through the series so it becomes less like a play and more like a conversation we’re sitting in on.


State Of The Union is a study of what marriage means after the confetti stops. Watching it with my wife it had me considering our future, and the hope that whatever life throws our way I remember there is power in a union.

State Of The Union is on Sunday 10pm, BBC 2 or the series is available on iPlayer.

Stath Lets Flats

Moving house is one of the most stressful things you can do. This isn’t because of the upheaval of packing away your cluttered junk into neat, contained boxes. It isn’t because of the ensuing grind of returning those neat, contained boxes into cluttered junk. No, it’s because you have to deal with estate agents.

Estate agents are the worst people imaginable. They don’t talk, but spiel. Conversation for them isn't interaction, but transaction. Pinocchio is a film they saw, whose lesson they didn’t understand. They’re bullshit artists: that excrement on the wall is contemporary art, which if anything raises the value of the property. I guess what I’m saying is in a trust exercise you better learn how to fall because you’re heading for the floor. So how on earth has Jamie Demetriou created one that is so loveable and sympathetic?

Estate Agents: a plague on their houses.

Stath Lets Flats is a Channel 4 sitcom, now in its second series. The first series’ initial episodes were co-authored with Robert Popper, a writer of some repute, having written Look Around You and Friday Night Dinner. From episode 4 onwards though Demetriou took sole control of the sitcom, developing real pathos for the letting agent.

The origins of the show lie in Comedy Blaps, Channel 4’s test lab for new comedies. If the five-minute shorts are well received then there’s a chance these creations will see the light of day. Stath released in 2013 showed real promise. Here we had a relatable character. (Not relatable in the sense we were like him, but because we’ve all dealt with letting agents.) He also had that sitcom thing of misplaced self-worth, which follows other narcissists Basil Fawlty, Alan Partridge and David Brent. It’s also a character of the time: as landlords inflate their rents year on year, people are forever packing up and looking for more affordable lettings. This property sad go round is operated by estate agents, people we’re forced to see more and more. The Blap was a success and after a period in development Stath Lets Flats was born.

Watching the first episode back I found myself laughing at all the jokes I missed. It opens with Stath turning up for a viewing. He doesn’t so much park his car as demonstrate what a 45 degree angle is. He has run late. To apologise would put him on the backfoot. Instead he runs past the couple and then back to them, explaining, ‘Sorry, I’m late I just ran over there.’ As if running late would be more understandable than driving late. He then meets a father and daughter: ‘Should we wait for mummy?’ ‘Me and her mum are separated.’ Stath: ‘Oh, God.’ Within minutes these fast cut interactions have established a character that can’t lie, counter to the letting agents code. When Stath actually gets the clients into the property he doesn’t fare well. Whilst most estate agents have the gift of the gab, for Stath it is a curse. When a client questions the damp on the bathroom wall, he is at a loss to answer, until he sees something – toilet paper by the bath. Clutching at this, he goes into government spin doctor mode, unleashing a smoke and mirrors campaign, alleging that the disposable item is to blame: ‘You just don’t want to have the tissue paper on the wall…’ Stath starts well deflecting the attention away from the actual issue of ventilation; however, he hasn’t got the language (as a Greek-Cypriot English is his second language) or the imagination to fashion a good lie, so ends his excuse with, ‘because it’s going to get damp because the wall is damp.’

You see most estate agents are accused of being insincere actors reciting lines. The trouble with Stath is he appears like a man who has just crashed onto stage, having done no research or reading, believing he can still turn in a star performance. When he doesn’t get the deal he becomes angry with the clients. Just as hubris is a trait of all great comic characters, an absence of self-awareness is too. Stath has this absence in abundance. But for all of his faults we like him because he is a failure. (An ability to fail spectacularly is possibly the number one requirement of British sitcom characters.)

Demetriou’s Stath isn’t the only great character in the sitcom. He is joined by his real-life sister, Natasha, to play his fictional sister, Sophie. She is a much smaller personality than Stath, but her delusion is just as big. She dreams of being a pop star and is only inhibited by the fact she can neither sing nor dance. We love her though because she treats people with such kindness, whether it be her brother or his colleague, Al.

Following this thread, it’s worth talking about the romantic sub-plot of Stath Lets Flats. The cringe of The Office was offset by the sweetness of Tim and Dawn’s relationship. It would be difficult for the viewer to sit through David Brent’s toe-curling pronouncements if it wasn’t for the sentimentalism of a love story playing out in the background. Demetriou, a huge fan of Gervais and Merchant, evokes that classic template in his show. Whilst Stath is caught in stasis, forever crashing from one social disaster to the next, his sister and Al’s romance quietly unfurls. Al like Dawn from The Office has a partner, which means their relationship cannot yet be realised.

Over the course of the sitcom Stath becomes more rounded. The introduction of a rival estate agent, backstory and love interest all contribute towards this. By the end of series one you would have grown to love an estate agent – a truly incredible feat by Demetriou.  

Stath Lets Flats is on Channel 4, Monday at 10 pm. All episodes are available on All4.

Fleishman Is In Trouble

Fleishman Is In Trouble begins with Toby Fleishman naïve to the catastrophes that lurk on the horizon. He can’t believe his luck. His phone is overflowing like a treasure chest, ‘aglow from sunup to sundown (in the night the glow was extra bright) with texts that contained G-string and ass cleavage and underboob and just straight-up boob and all the parts of a woman he never dared dream he would encounter in a person who was three dimensional.’

Toby has just come out of a marriage to Rachel, the mother to his two children, Solly and Hannah. From the sexless desert of marriage lies the chance to start again, to dip his toes in the dating pool and get things wet again. For Toby this openness is new and exciting. In the past, women didn’t assert their sexuality. They were passive, waiting for a man to open the door and to call their number. Now here in New York, they felt empowered, weaponised, able to call the shots - Toby can’t wait to bite the bullet. ‘There was something in him that liked the world as his dating app presented it, something that liked to think of New York as a city covered with people just having sex constantly.’

The online world spreads before Toby like a centrefold, a den of iniquity that he can’t wait to enter. As a skilled hepatologist he has worn the robes of Dr Jekyll for too long; in his phone he sees a backdoor, an exit that leads to alleyways promising dangerous excitement. But before he can get too hard at the prospect, he wakes to read a text message: his wife has come in the middle of the night – unannounced – opened his door, and left the kids ­– something not agreed in their separation. This is typical Rachel. Someone who puts herself first and her children second. The kind of woman who thought her husband, a respected doctor, was less than her because he made less money. This is so typical of Rachel. Rachel runs her agency like a devil in Prada, believing it acceptable to treat Toby  similarly. She has such little consideration for his life, his wants, his needs. Indeed, when she was out all hours wining and dining clients, it was him indoors, feeding and bathing children. And where is Rachel going? A yoga retreat. Well, never has a retreat been more offensive, scorching Toby’s plans, demilitarising his penis. 

The upside down image proves significant.

Toby’s rage towards Rachel only increases when she doesn’t come back after the weekend break. In fact, time ticks on and there’s no sign of her. She won’t answer her phone. Her assistant won’t reveal where she is. Rachel is M.I.A. She’s walked away from her duties, betrayed the children, deserted motherhood for her own selfish gains. Toby, meanwhile, has to balance fatherhood, dating apps and patients – he is, as the narrator presents him, a martyr; we completely root for him: the noble knight against the evil dragon.

When Toby goes into hospital he finds his team stumped. A husband has brought his wife in, but they can’t find what’s wrong with her. She was completely fine, just a little careless after her trip back from Las Vegas. Just a bit clumsy, knocking one or two things over, but nothing untoward. Toby knows the problem and wants to teach his doctors an important lesson: ‘Listen to your patient. He is telling you his diagnosis.’ Toby diagnoses it as Wilson’s Disease, a rare disorder that causes copper poisoning in the body. When it comes to patients Toby is an excellent listener; however, what we realise over the course of the book is that the same might not be said for friends, children and – importantly – Rachel.

Herein lies the intelligence of Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s novel. From the start we are completely on the side of Toby, but feel differently when Libby, narrator/friend of Toby, and Rachel’s stories are revealed. This upending isn’t done at the expense of Toby (I still liked him and sympathised with him), yet it makes you appreciate how subjective his view is, indicative perhaps of most male’s view: a woman should celebrate my achievements. Only men have mid-life crises. A woman’s ambition should end with children. Libby’s narration begins with hagiography, canonizing Toby as a modern Saint, but as the book unfurls she downgrades Toby to human being, not wholly good, not wholly bad.

Taffy Brodesser-Akner. Photo: Ali Smith/ The Guardian.

Fleishman Is In Trouble begins as a satire on our technological world and becomes an examination on gender and marriage. It is one of the funniest and smartest books I’ve read in a while. Read it and weep - with laughter and sadness.

Fleishman Is In Trouble is available from all good bookshops.

This Way Up

Sadcom is a portmanteau that’s been developed to describe comedy’s move towards sadder, deeper themes. Seinfeld’s mantra twenty years ago was ‘no hugging, no learning’ – Jerry Seinfeld was of the opinion that a sitcom should put laughter first, sentiment second.

More and more comedies that are categorised as comedy now aren’t providing the same blistering gag rate as early studio sitcoms. I watched Atlanta last year on the back of its Golden Globe win for ‘Best TV Series: Comedy or Musical’ and was surprised by the tone of it. Having watched creator Donald Glover in Community, I expected the sugar rush of rat-a-tat punchlines, instead what I found was something altogether more poignant with pointed reference to race, poverty and fame. The laughs were still there, but coming organically through character, when traditionally they are engineered through plot.

The sadcoms roots lie way back in things like Hancock’s Half Hour where the dour Hancock tries unsuccessfully to make his way in life. This depressed protagonist didn’t subvert sitcom though; the tone is like a Bill Murray movie with the sadness exaggerated, something to laugh at rather than worry over. It has evolved over the years so we’re now just as likely to cry over a comedy as laugh. In The Office Christmas Special the fall of Brent is deeply moving. When Brent finally realises he’s capable of great cruelty, we’re no longer in sitcom territory, a place of hilarious stasis, where characters repeat the same mistakes over and over; no, we’re in a dramatic world of epiphanies and progression, where people can change. 

David Brent evolved in the last episode.

I think there is a place for both schools of sitcom: the traditional, like Father Ted and Brooklyn 99, that exist in a funny universe where everything is powered by funny; if someone stops being funny for a minute they risk jeopardising the planet's very existence - and the modern, like Fleabag and This Way Up, which are set in recognisable worlds whose creations won’t self-destruct if they aren’t funny all of the time. I guess the traditional is one purists get behind, seeing it as perfectly distilled, the very essence of comedy. I’m happy though with a bit of sadness, the sediment that contaminates, because it’s closer to life.

This Way Up is written by and stars Aisling Bea, a face that you will know from panel shows (she’s been a captain on 8 Out Of 10 Cats) and for her stand up, appearing on Live at the Apollo. I first saw her in 2015 at the Edinburgh Festival where she performed Plan Bea, her follow-up to C’est La Bea (that hour was her calling-card which led to her being nominated for 'Best Newcomer.') On stage Bea is a natural clown, more than happy to be the butt of the joke. Her delivery is relentless with jokes coming like a popular kid: thick and fast. Yet for all the dizzy fun, she addresses important topics too.

Her route to Channel 4 sitcom wasn’t straightforward. Her and collaborator Sharon Horgan’s first comedy was rejected by the corporation (it has since been picked up by HBO), not to be deterred she sat down and wrote another one. The genesis of This Way Up came from hanging out with her sister, where she wondered what a comedy would be like with sisterhood at its core. With the support of mentor Horgan, Bea earnt her first TV commission.

The series begins with Aine (Bea) and her sister Shona (Horgan) addressing a member of staff. Shona is unhappy that the facility's website promised a jacuzzi when all her sister got was a duck pond. Over the course of the conversation we learn that Aine has been staying in this treatment centre to recover from a nervous breakdown. The tightrope walking Bea achieves in her writing is inspired: never once is mental illness made light of, whilst at the same time she navigates her material away from the po-faced and worthy. 

A further example of this follows Shona’s complaint. Aine joins her sister, raising an objection of her own. She wasn’t happy with the refreshments on offer and suggests in the future a mini bar is provided. The member of staff laughs - so do we as audience. Aine is mistaking this rehabilitation clinic as a hotel to unwind. Then, Bea takes the laughter from our throats and puts a lump there, having Aine add, ‘One day when I was really low, I would happily have paid double the recommended retail price to eat a KitKat without everyone gawping at me. And ideally in a fucking jacuzzi.’ Here we see the stuff of comedy: observational material (mini-bars cost more than they should) combined with quirky referencing (‘jacuzzi’ is a funny word) to create a good laugh; however what’s special though is how our laughter dissipates with Aine’s broken look. Bea exposes her as a person using jokes to mask pain. It’s a lovely two-minute opening that establishes Shona’s love for her sister, along with Aine’s brittle personality.

The rest of the episode shows how Aine is a multi-layered person; she isn’t defined by her breakdown alone. When she is in class working with foreign language students, she is in her element. Warm, engaging, passionate, she is a model teacher. These bits are perhaps the most sitcomy, redolent of Linklater’s School of Rock: a clownish figure uses alternative methods to get the best from their students. Away from the classroom though we see loneliness seep through her pores. This year’s publishing sensation was Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. The writer Gail Honeyman said she was inspired to write the book after reading an article on millennial loneliness. Loneliness as a subject is rarely addressed in print or visual media, when it is it often centres on elderly people. In many ways This Way Up is a meditation on the theme: how an immigrant can experience it in a country, a girlfriend in a relationship – and in the case of Aine – a single person in the city. Going home to a flat share with people you wouldn’t usually choose to live with isn’t communal living; loneliness isn't being on your own, it's feeling as if you are. Many young men and women in our cities experience loneliness. Thrown from the small town into the maelstrom of the city can be a frightening, bewildering experience. Bea’s comedy focuses on someone who has to remind herself which way is up.

Over the course of the series we follow Aine’s recovery. With each person she interacts with we hope and pray they’ll treat her right, that like the title alludes they’ll handle her carefully. Many are supportive of her. The students that she teaches in class love her. Her new French student Etienne (Dorian Grover) too. Her sister Shona and partner Vish’s love (Aasif Mandvi) is that of siblings and parents. There are a lot of people who love her, yet it’s heartbreaking to see how it isn’t quite enough. The problem is she is more susceptible to knocks than kindnesses. A kind word can sustain her for a minute. But a cruelty can feed her for weeks. The more you get to know Aine the more you’ll want to reach through the screen and handhold her away from trouble. 

Watching, I felt like there was a touch of Mike Leigh in Bea’s work. Aine has the vivacity of Poppy from Happy-Go-Lucky, along with the brave face of Mary from Another Year. Like Leigh, her character feels larger-than-life, a little exhausting, but then after some time, once you've got to know them, you appreciate how truly human they are. 

One I recommend if you like 'This Way Up.'

Bea has produced an illuminating comedy on sadness that has the best hug in episode six. 'No hugging, no learning': what does Jerry Seinfeld know?

This Way Up is on Channel 4, Thursday at 10pm or watch the box set on All 4.

Planes, Trains and Automobiles (and Stagecoaches) or West Side Story: Not the Musical

On April 13^th 2019 I got married to my friend and accomplice. We didn’t go on honeymoon immediately because we're teachers who work for The Man. The Man dictates when and only when we can have our holidays. He denies us the chance to go to Glastonbury Festival, to book cheap flights away, to holiday at a regular rate of inflation as opposed to the Weimar Republic  hyperinflation we must endure. The thirteen weeks of vacation we get is immaterial. Yes, it’s nine weeks more than the typical Brit. Thirteen weeks more than the typical American. For all of that though, we’re awfully hard done by. With this in mind The Girl and I didn’t take a long honeymoon straight after a wedding, instead we waited until we could stretch out our getaway on the great, long sunbed that is the six week break. We had booked to go up the west coast of America, to journey essentially from the Mexico border to the Canada one. It was going to be a busy two weeks, so we would need some relaxation before it began. Thus, this tale begins in the Business Lounge of Heathrow Airport.

Wednesday 24^th July

The Girl and I booked our holiday through Trailfinders, Britain’s best and largest independently owned travel company. (This blog is read on average by twenty people per week. In many ways this makes me one of those social media influencers, therefore by name-checking a company I’m hoping they will offer me some sort of reward in the future. Trailfinders: I’ve always wanted to go on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express train #justsayin’.) Because we booked through a travel company, they buy up loads of hotels and flights, which means although you have less choice, you get a better discount. Going with this operator meant we could fly business, paying a few hundred pounds more, as opposed to many thousand you normally pay. As it was our honeymoon, we decided to fly business, just on the outbound leg mind.

So here we are in a departure lounge that resembles a supersized John Lewis café. Only it’s a John Lewis café with a difference: you have the run of the place. Whatever you want is yours. Food, drink, reading material. No costs. Just go to the trough and have your fill. They do give you small plates though, so my advice to you is bring your own Alan Partridge one. I had a lovely buffet and a can of pale ale, then washed it down with an Edinburgh Festival magazine.

We were then ushered through a separate security gate first onto the plane. Greeting us was champagne and a centre cubicle where we could put the sides up and block out the rest of the world. The best thing was undoubtedly the seats. I’m a tall man with a gangly frame; going on a plane often involves me flatpacking my body into a tight place. Here though, you could make your seat into a bed with sheets and quilts included. After watching Fight with my Family and Can You Ever Forgive Me?, I laid back and thought of all those poor suckers in economy class. For a few hours I was a high roller, a buy-sell bawler, the embodiment of champagne socialist. Then the plane landed and I was back to being a paid up member of the trade union, ready to tell America about the beauty of our NHS.

I didn't want to wear flight socks. My wife insisted.
I wore them. This is compromise. (All pics. The Girl.)

After a short taxi ride we arrived at our first hotel, Loews, in Coronado, just outside San Diego. By the beach it had a resort feel, just the tonic following a long year at school. Following a charcuterie board and a round of drinks, we headed to bed. No need to count states, we were asleep in minutes.

Thursday 25^th July

I awoke early and took my bed to the balcony where I read whilst The Girl slept. On rising she went with me down to the restaurant where I had some doorstop fried bread and contemplated my arteries. It being the first day we vowed to take it easy, so we just walked to the neighbouring beach Silver Lake. After walking to the far end of the beach, a 4x4 pulled up alongside us. The man was in military uniform. ‘Excuse me, do you know you’re walking on a military base. There’s a sign back there that should have informed you.’ We had no idea and saw no sign. It wasn’t in our itinerary to be arrested on espionage charges the first day, so we conceded ground and made our way back to the public beach. On reaching there, we saw one small A4 sign, pegged into the sand, notifying us of military land. If this is America’s homeland security, then they should be very afraid. For two unassuming Englanders to infiltrate a military compound is a worry. It also served as a fitting metaphor for a Trump's regime: an ego built on a pillar of sand.

After busting out of jail, we donned our bathers and lounged by the pool. I got into conversation with Dale, a gas worker from Kansas City. We talked politics in trunks for an hour. (Mental note: new TV idea for Netflix, where I go to beach resorts and interview holiday Joe’s on politics.) Bored of hearing us debate public vs private ownership, The Girl told me to join her for a swim. The water was lovely.

Dry and revitalised, we had dinner at the hotel restaurant. I had booked us a table overlooking the mariner earlier. When asked if it was a special occasion, I told the gent it was our honeymoon. Later into our meal two glasses of champagne were brought over to us. We thanked the elderly waiter, a man that resembled the movie trope of ‘wise, kind old man,’ and he told us it was his pleasure, welcoming us to "paradise." As we looked out onto the boats under the sunkissed sky, it was difficult to disagree.

A light breakfast.

Friday 26^th July

Being based in Coronado, we had to go and see where Some Like It Hot was filmed. The Hotel del Coronado is where much of the film is set. Consequently, we took the hotel shuttle into town and did our first bit of movie gawking. Knowing that Billy Wilder, Marilyn Monroe and Jack Lemon were here was very special. Wilder is one of my heroes, directing Sunset Boulevard, The Seven Year Itch and the great, great The Apartment – to see a famous film location without yet reaching LA really whetted the appetite.

Some Like It Hot.

Next, we took the ferry over to San Diego. On route we saw the impressive buildings as well as some jumping, bounding sea lions. In the city we walked up and over it, seeing the baseball stadium, famous Gaslamp Quarter and the incredible Bilboa Park. Walking back down, we took in the waterfront before heading back to Coronado.

Here, we popped into an old school 50’s diner where small jukeboxes decorate the table and root beer is served cold. We then had at delicious seafood at Brigantine.

Saturday 27^th July

It was time to check out of San Diego and ring the reception bell at LA. First, we had to arrange our method of transport. My brother had told me that hi-tech Uber was the way to go in the old US of A, so after working out the options I joined the 21^st century, within minutes one was there. We then hopped on the two hour train to la, la land; the place where faces and dreams are made.

Arriving earlier than we thought, we had an extra evening to explore. We headed to Hollywood. First, we did the Walk of Fame, looking down on the ground like detectorists, our internal buzzers going off when we saw a name we recognised. Interestingly, the likes of Frank Sinatra and Orson Wells had more than one star. Apparently, if you’re famous in different fields you got more. What was interesting as well was where people have their stars. Outside premium locations like The Chinese Theatre and Dolby Theare, you get a better calibre of star: your Clark Gables and Rita Hayworths. Outside tourist tat and vape shops, you get the kind of people who only their mothers know. Apparently, Harvey Weinstein’s star has been moved to a sewer grate- or the floor of a public toilet- I can’t remember which.

A bit of LA is Watford FC.

Following this, we walked down to Paramount Studios to see the gates that have welcomed the great and the good of Hollywood. Shut out from this fantasia, we were forced to face reality: it was late and we were miles from a metro station. I sent for our chauffeur, Mr Uber, and arriving back our eyes faded to back.

Sunday 28^th July

Up early, we made our way across town to Griffith Park. Griffith park was donated by Griffith J. Griffith, a mining magnate, who possessed a huge fortune and stupid name. Amassing great wealth, Griffith wanted a public observatory to be set up in his name. This might seem very philanthropic of you, Griffith Griffith, but try walking up to your ‘gift’ on a hot LA day. At the top of the hill, I was cursing his stupid name, ready to graffiti his gravestone with the heading, ‘Here lies Griffith J. Griffith. Son of people too lazy to name him properly,’ until I saw the view from the top. The Hollywood sign, stood majestically, a come and get me plea to all aspiring actors, a monument to marvel at. The observatory was beautiful too. Well worth the walk.

At the Observatory.

Later in the evening we met up with my brother’s godparents, natives of LA’s Orange County. Yes, you heard right: my brother’s godparents. My mum and dad saw fit to christen one of their sons but not the other. If you think about this, this is favouritism of the wildest kind. Forget ‘you got him a bike, you only got me a unicycle.’ (I don’t care about the extra wheel.) My mum and dad have given my brother eternal paradise, whereas I've got interminable limbo. 

We had a lovely meal at ‘The Six Chow House’ and my brother had even phoned up in advance to get the table champagne. (It’s the least he could do, given he’s going to have a much happier afterlife than me.) It was lovely chatting to Rita and Leslie. Hopefully I did enough to convince them to be my godparents too. I need to get on that heaven train.

Monday 29^th August

This morning, we headed to Studio City to do the Warner Brothers tour. The Girl and I were debating before we went what studio to go to: Universal, Paramount or Warner. Universal we felt was a bit too actiony for us. We like a few blockbusters, but really our heart is in movie history. Warner seemed to have a nice mix of classic Hollywood and modern sitcom – two of our favourite things.

The tour was brilliantly led by KC, who said we would ‘be her sunshine band for the day.’ She took us on carts round the lots where Casablanca, Rebel Without a Cause and Jurassic Park were filmed. The sets are clever as they can double, triple, extend to being multiple things. For example we saw the police steps where James Dean is dragged up in Rebel- with a bit of magic and signage though this building has been used as an exterior for other films.

We also went to Stars Hollow and saw the Gilmore Girls set with Miss Patty’s dance studio and Lorelai’s house still in its original condition. Having watched the zippy, screwball series last year, to be in it this year was great. Further, we went into the living studio where Ellen is filmed. For us Brits, Ellen is only a minor deal, but in America she’s a huge name. Some of the people on our tours literally fell over themselves once they caught a glimpse of the sofa (the woman was ok. Just some minor bruising. Nothing some ice won't fix).

A really cool bit was where we did the ‘self-tour’ at the end. The Girl and me got our picture taken in Central Perk, went into a sound studio to see how a film is mixed and got to hold an Oscar. I hope me holding an Oscar will inspire other Anglo-Asian men to believe they can break through in Tinseltown. If I can do it, then you can too.

Warner Brothers.

After this, we took an Uber to the Sunset Strip where I got to see the LA Comedy Store, an important landmark for stand up fans. We then enjoyed happy hour at multiple rock bars. The last one we went to, ‘Rainbow Bar and Grill,’ seemed to have a Lemmy from Motorhead theme. I don’t know how pleased they were that I put our first dance on the jukebox: a Johnny Cash-Bob Dylan duet hardly has the pinball ferocity of ‘Ace of Spades.’

Tuesday 30^th July

This was the day we got the Amtrak Pacific Surfliner, so called because it rides the west coast of America. The Girl and I had heard great things about the view from this train so neither of us were bothered that we’d be spending eleven hours on it. We were not disappointed. Paying twenty dollars extra for business class (we were getting the taste for it), we were treated to an executive lounge: free tea, coffee and biscuits. Also, we were escorted down by Amtrak ‘red caps’ to our platform; this involved hopping on a mobility type scooter, veering between posts and columns, straight onto the train. Maybe America’s obesity problem is down to the perks of business class: they won’t even let you walk to the platform.

Once on board we left Hollywood, but not the movies. For along the coast we experienced scene change after scene change: beach, cliff, farmland, quarry and city – all shot in sweeping panorama. With an observation desk housing wide windows we saw the movie of Americana play out in front of us. Personally, I was most excited to go into Steinbeck country. John Steinbeck is California’s great writer; Grapes of Wrath is one of my favourite books and Of Mice and Men is one I’ve taught for years. To see the gabilan mountains and Salinas river, referred to in Of Mice's opening chapter, was a real highlight for me. When something has been part of your imagination for years to see it physicalised was quite something.

The train that hugged the coast.

Later on the train, we went into the dining cart and enjoyed a meal whilst the landscape turned like a flip book before us.

I love a train ride. I have a chance to read and daydream, coupled with my best mate and the best landscape it was practically perfect in every way.

Wednesday 31^st July

We were now in San Francisco’s ‘Hotel Vertigo.’ Named because Alfred Hitchcock filmed Vertigo in San Fran and because the hotel boasts a vertiginous staircase, like the film. We headed out early to secure our departure time for Alcatraz. With this secure, we made our way to Lombard Street or what some of you know it as ‘The Crooked Street.’ Apparently there is one other street more crooked in the world, but as hairpin bends go this takes some beating. The facts it’s beautified with lovely flowers helps too. Cars lined up at the top to go down it: one driver we saw had a GoPro set up so he could film his landmark breaking.

After we took a walk up the bay, along the numerous piers of San Francisco. America doesn’t just do one pier like Southend and Swanage, it has a whole multitude of them. We went up nearly every one, taking in an old fashioned arcade, sea lion gathering and restaurants. When it was time we headed over to the pier housing the ferry that would take us to Alcatraz.

Alcatraz was where Al Capone and other serious mobsters and murdstars were held. Because it’s on a rock in the middle of the ocean, it was seen as impossible to escape. Whilst over in Alcatraz we learnt about two attempted escapes: The Battle of Alcatraz and Escape from Alcatraz. Let me just say, I think Stephen King must have done the same tour as us, as his story ‘Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption,’ owes a heavy debt to these actual events. What I also found fascinating was what happened after the prison closed: Native Americans staged a sit-in to protest against sacred land being repossessed. I had no idea about this. Travel broadens the mind, I guess.

Looks quite nice from here. Probably wasn't nice if you were there in the 30's though.

In the evening we took a night trip across the ‘jealous older brother,’ the Bay Bridge, to Treasure Island where we got a view of San Fran’s skyline. Despite its beauty, I was so cold. Even the hot chocolate I bought could not detract from the biting winds San Fran is known for. Which just goes to prove you can be looking at most beautiful thing, but if you don’t have appropriate clothing it may as well be a sewage plant. Try going to the Taj Mahal at monsoon season without a serviceable umbrella - you’ll see.

Thursday 1^st August.

Are you still reading?

Today, we went to the bike hire shop ‘Blazing Saddles’ to rent some cycles. We had booked some E- bikes in advanced, told that electrical power was the best way of negotiating the city’s crazy hills. Unfortunately, I am no cyclist. A few years ago, I went to Rome with The Girl, and knowing she wanted to take a bike ride, I thought I best brush up on my cycling. I hadn’t been on a bike in over twenty years. As a child most of my cycling experiences ending up with me crying, a stinging nettle affixed to my lip. So three years ago my dad let me on his bike and held onto the back in a way a parent would for a three year old as opposed to a thirty year old man. I just about managed to stay upright. In Rome it was just a big park we cycled around, so it was fine. Today though, I was going across a bridge that I once watched a suicide documentary about. Getting on the E-bike in the shop, I found I had no control. The member of staff said, ‘I can’t let you ride this. You’ll have to have a regular one.’ It’s these kind of indignities and personal embarrassments that keep me humble.

Somehow we got across the bridge. (In all honesty I’m fine at going, it’s slowing down and stopping I struggle with). Reaching the other side, we explored Sausilito, a beautiful place where only people on The Sunday Times Rich List live. Here, the weather is Mediterranean, far removed from the icy blasts you get across the water. Taking our bikes on board the ferry (there was no way I was getting up that hill), we made our way back to the bike shop for a refund. ‘Just out of interest, why didn’t you get an E-bike?’ the assistant asked. My wife stepped in, ‘We just didn’t like the feel of them,’ she said. Most wives complain about picking their partner’s pants off the floor, mine, I imagine, gets tired of picking my dignity.

Our downgraded bikes.

Friday 2^nd August

We were leaving San Francisco and heading to Yosemite National Park. With no direct public transport, we needed to drive. I was assigned to be the driver, The Girl my navigator. Picking up the hire car, we were told to go into a neighbouring garage. Now I had visions of burning down the American highway, blaring out ‘Born to Run,’ whilst our wheels tore through the road like an 80’s Milky Way advert. What I did not envisage was having to ask a man to come over and tell me how to start an automatic car. How was I to know you had to press the break to shift the car into drive? Again, it’s these humiliations that keep my ego in check.

With The Girl reminding me to ‘keep on the right,’ we made our way out of dizzying city traffic onto the highway. After getting to grip with the lanes,-some had seven- I grew in confidence and started to overtake mobility carts. Actually, it became a lovely drive, leaving the highway it was just us for hours, crossing no man’s land, deserted desert terrain, seeking Yosemite beauty.

Paying our $35 dollars to enter the national park, we drove for twenty minutes before reaching our accommodation. I knew nothing about Yosemite. Yosemite was The Girl’s doing. We had booked into a cabin without knowing much about Wawona where we were staying. Our place, the cheapest on our trip, was my favourite. To stay in a cabin in the forest was something I thought I'd never do. Our wooden home was the slice of American pie we were hoping for. They say ‘a happy heart makes a happy home;’ I disagree: ‘a sofa makes a happy home.’ After staying in hotels, the chance to lie back on a sofa with my nearest and dearest, adopting our default home setting was a lovely thing indeed. To cap it all, we had a covered patio running along the back and side of the property. With a gas barbecue provided, we headed to the local store to get dinner.

Home for a few days.

Saturday 3^rd August

We awoke early. (I’ve said this a lot now that it’s starting to look like a shit catchphrase. From now on take it as read that we got up early). Our plan for the day was to go to see the sequoia trees as Mariposa Grove. These trees are huge. Really huge. Like bigger than your house huge. Some grow to three hundred feet too. And think of basketball players feet, as opposed to hobbit feet. The trees were incredibly beautiful, Tolkienesque in their size and grandeur. There was one you could walk through, one that fused at the top ‘the faithful couple’ and a great, big massive one ‘Grizzly Giant’ that if a person would put its balls on the table and say, ‘no ones are bigger than this.’

A pretty big tree.

An hour drive and we went to the general store for food. There, we saw a stagecoach set up, offering $5 dollar rides. The Girl and I jumped at the chance to be taken around the site by a man who went by the name Buckshot. After our horse and trap ride, he told us about being a driver since the age of fourteen, growing up with hundreds of acres, and his brother working the rodeo. He also revealed how he was cowboy cook and served Prince Philip (a horse and trap enthusiast) when he came to America. An interesting man. I wish I got his number; it would be good to have a ‘Buckshot’ in my phone book.

Back at base we checked out a local waterfall and river. Seeing other swimmers, I said to The Girl, ‘Let’s get our bathers and swim the waters.’ (This is how I talk). After consulting the information book at the cabin, she discovered it was safe to do. Swimming in a river made me feel pretty good about myself. Like I was adventurous or something. I have a reputation for being quite sensible, so next time someone says, ‘You’re quite a plain kind of a guy.’ I’ll stick my river anecdote down them.

Sunday 4^th August

We awoke …

We actually woke up really early because we were going to the main Yosemite Village and heard queues can be hours long. We arrived in an hour at 7.45, where few people were there. This gave us the chance to see Lower Yosemite Fall without many people for company. Looking up you can see the Upper Yosemite Fall converge with the lower one to make it one of the biggest and most breathtaking waterfalls in the world.

We then hopped on the shuttle to see El Capitan, the granite monolith that stands about 3000 ft in height. Now I had heard of the structure because it featured in Free Solo, the Oscar winning documentary about ‘free solo’ climber Alex Honnold. I hadn’t seen the film but I heard the awestruck reviews of the incredible lengths that were taken to get this incredible attempt on film. Honnold scaled the rock face ‘free solo’ without ropes in just a few hours. Looking at El Capitan, I couldn’t fathom how this was done. It simply isn’t built for man to conquer. It is the vertical sibling of Alcatraz: impenetrable, unbeatable, a dizzying reminder of untameable nature. On the flight home we watched Free Solo in awe. Watch it. Through your hands.

After, we walked down to Cathedral Beach which put into perspective how beautiful nature was. With my toes in the water, I saw sand, I looked up again and saw trees, from there mountains, and only craning my neck, sky. I had somehow walked into a painting by one of the great masters, everywhere I looked was peerless, pristine. Beyond Yosemite the world was a mess, but here, pure and unspolit everything was right.

The rest of the day felt like I was in a HD fantasy film a la ‘Lord of the Rings.’ I really hadn’t been as anywhere that came close to Yosemites beauty. It inspired in everyone a degree of reverence: there was no shouting, no arguments, no phone calls. There was just a feeling of happiness that we were humble guests in the land of giants.

A good nature picture involves reflection - or so I'm told. The Girl was very smug about her photography skill here.

Leaving, we had to descend our very own crooked street. It’s no exaggeration to say to get down from Yosemite Village you have to drive down the windy, windy roads for 45 minutes. I had to be really concentrated the whole time, only breaking character to see The Girl holding her seat for dear life. One wrong move and we would go the way of Thelma and Louise. For a Hollywood adventure it would be an apt way to go. Fortunately, we survived the mountain and retired to bed.

Monday 5^th August

We…

The final leg of our trip involved us going to Seattle. To get there we had to fly via Sacramento. It was a good, easy drive that only involved one person swearing at me. (I forgot momentarily the fast lane was on the left: poodling along a woman waved her fist at me with a vigour that suggested she wished me, my wife and our family dead.)

After just a two-hour flight, we were in Seattle. A short taxi journey led us to the Edgewater Hotel. The Edgewater is aptly named: it’s on the edge of the water. After checking in, the receptionist asked if we were for any occasion, we said the magic words and were upgraded. Previously we had booked a Garden View balcony, which turned out to be overlooking the front: a car park. Now that it was known were honeymooning, we scored a sea view balcony. As we stepped on, the sea was below our feet. Not literally mind, we weren’t walking on water like Jesus. But beneath the balcony was the sea. I vowed to wake early in the morning to have a coffee overlooking the great blue.

It being late we walked down to a neighbouring restaurant ‘Anthony’s.’ There, we took our seats outside and enjoyed the view. Here, the seafood was quite sublime. I had the seafood chowder to start and salmon and mash for main. The Girl had something; I wasn’t paying attention: if you don’t get to eat it, what’s the point of registering? Focus on your food and luxuriate on your own taste buds is my own advice.

The city at night.

Tuesday 6^th August

We …

Our first stop today was Pike Place, the historic Seattle market. Part of local legend, it was at risk of closure until the local community rallied around it. Now, it’s thriving, a photo opp for tourists and commercial centre for natives. What’s so loveable about the place is it’s performative nature. The traders aren’t just selling their wares, their selling themselves too. The fishmongers are a Greek Chorus, chanting in unison, slinging fish back and forth at one another like an NFL training session; the greengrocer sings the refrain to 90’s MTV tune, and the bakers break the fourth wall to offer you samples. We didn’t need to pay to see a show in Seattle; the market is a show in itself. 

Pike Place: where the market is the hottest ticket in town.

I loved the market. The secondhand bookstores were great. (Buying a book firsthand in America is costly.) We also went to Uli’s where you can get the best sausage in Seattle. (Take your mind out of the gutter Carry On fans.) Here, we had a smorgasbord of sausage (please…) and it was all very delicious.

We then took a whistle-stop tour of the public library, Colombia Centre (taller than the Space Needle) and up, across the waterfront. After a quick change we were back out to go to Pike Place Brewery. Somehow The Girl managed to have a gluten-free meal. As a coeliac, it can be difficult to find places to eat. Let this be a lesson restauranteur: if she can have a gluten-free meal, in a business built on gluten, then you can be more accommodating. I had all the beers. I ordered the paddle of beer so I could try each. I had a bet with myself that I would like the Pale Ale the best. I didn’t. I now owe myself a million pounds. I’ll be paying that back long into the afterlife. Fortunately, I’ve got years in limbo to save up.

Wednesday 7^th August

Well, you know how it started.

Our plan for the day was to head to the Seattle Centre. The Centre is the cultural hub of Seattle, housing the Museum of Childhood, Museum of Popular Culture, Chihuly Garden and Glass – and, of course, The Space Needle.

My brother had recommended the Popular Culture so we headed there first. This museum is as modern as its subject material, being thoroughly interactive, allowing you to pick up and play instruments, scream into photo booths and get on Prince’s motorbike.

The bottom floor is devoted to genre: there’s a room for horror, sci-fi and fantasy. In other words, it’s a shrine to geekdom. In horror we found out about the secrets of scares; how and why we crave fear, and how movie directors create safe spaces to experience our worst imaginings. Then, we were into sci-fi and got to operate the controls on some spaceship. (I think it was Star Trek related). From there, we were into a fantasy world, learning how the geeks have inherited the world, and how this much maligned world has become cool.

The other floors were dedicated to the Seattle music scene, spearheaded by Nirvana and Pearl Jam. I was a big Pearl Jam fan in my teens. And although I now find their music a little earnest, I appreciate their politics if nothing else: they have raised a huge amount for local homeless charities. My favourite bit was the other music sections where we got to go on Prince’s bike from Purple Rain and got to have a play upstairs on all the music equipment. The Girl on the decks really was something. She may look Home Counties but she turns table like an efficient waiter, drops beats like a clumsy Cali farmer and scratches like a savage cat.

The next place blew my mind. Chihuly Gardens is named after the glassblower that created the works of art. Through that technique, he is created technicolour sculptures that are a sight to behold. Losing the sight in one eye means he now has to direct other glassblowers to achieve his vision. The structures are remarkable and I’m glad my dad had heard about it to remind us to go.

All made from glass.

Finally, we went up the Space Needle, a monument to The Space Race. Built in the 60’s to encourage innovation and exploration, it might not be the biggest building in Seattle but it’s the finest. The Girl was a lot braver than I was up there. She leant back on the glass like someone with a death wish. She said to me, ‘Just lie back and think of England.’ And I thought, ‘I’ll just lie back and think of falling 604 ft to my death. No thanks.’ I was brave to go downstairs to the glass floor. To prove my masculinity, I even did a jump. Although this jump wasn’t like Charlie from Busted, more like Big Girls Blouse from Dunstable.

Leaving, we walked arm in arm through the glittering streets to bed.

Thursday 8^th August

After seeing the city skyline from a vantage on the other side of town, we made our way back to the hotel. There, we looked back at all the photos, re-living, re-experiencing the memories of the two weeks. Those memories were bought by you and made by her. I probably wouldn’t have gone up the west coast of America without having someone to share it with. I’m so glad I saw it with her. We’re both so appreciative of your generosity that made it happen. Thank you.