Comic fiction

I am irrepressibly, unforgivably drawn to books written by comedians. I know they’re mostly awful, but I can’t seem to help myself. I think it all started when I read Ben Elton’s Stark, which I will still staunchly defend even though I’m slightly embarrassed about having enjoyed it so much. The law of diminishing returns applies to an almost painful degree to the subsequent follow-ups, but Stark was good.

I have also read:

Getting Rid of Mr Kitchen (Charlie Higson)

It’s Not A Runner Bean, Reasons To Be Cheerful and What’s Going On? (Mark Steel)

The Fountain At The Centre Of The World (Rob Newman)

Time For Bed, Whatever Love Means and The Secret Purposes (David Baddiel)

Paperweight, The Liar, The Hippopotamus, Making History, The Stars’ Tennis Balls and Moab Is My Washpot (Stephen Fry)

The Gun Seller (Hugh Laurie)

Frank Skinner (Frank Skinner)

Without Feathers (Woody Allen)

No Cure For Cancer (Dennis Leary)

Are You Dave Gorman? (Dave Gorman)

Billy Connolly (Pamela Stephenson)

I’m sure there are more; that’s off the top of my head. As you will know if you’ve read them all too, this list is a mixture of fiction, biography, scripts and other collected writings. As you will further know, quite a lot of them are not very good, and some of them aren’t even funny. But that somehow never puts me off, so when I went to see Jeremy Hardy and Jack Dee talking as part of Lambeth Readers’ and Writers’ festival a couple of weeks ago I should have known I’d end up buying more  books by comedians.

The talk took place at West Norwood library, which turns out to have a fully functional theatre tucked away in the back room. After the interviews the floor was opened up to questions, and as I wavered Englishly in the back row, wondering whether I had the balls to raise my hand, someone else got in with the question I was going to ask.

“Is it easier to write a book if you already know how to write stand-up, or are they two completely different skills?”

Jack said that it wasn’t very different for him, because he deliberately wrote his book in the style of his stand-up. Having read it, I can now confirm that this is entirely true. Reading it is more or less exactly like reading a Jack Dee stand-up script, except that occasionally he says something very earnest, usually about god, and you anxiously wait for the punchline before realising he means it. There are some good jokes in between, though, and a cheering photo of Jack aged four wearing exactly the expression he always has.

I found Jeremy Hardy’s book more engaging. For a start, it isn’t a straight piece of autobiography but a family history, so it’s not really very much about him. I know comedians like to talk about themselves, but it’s refreshing when they talk about other people too.

But then, Jeremy Hardy has always struck me as unusually humble for a comedian. Another question someone asked was “which other comedians do you admire the most?”. Jack Dee gave the usual answer, which is always some combination of Monty Python, Spike Milligan, Peter Cook and Morecambe and Wise. This is a popular answer because it says “I only admire the very best, and nobody of my generation is better than me.” So I was completely charmed when Jeremy Hardy chose Mark Steel, Daniel Kitson and Jo Brand. Not only are they his contemporaries, they also all live round the corner from him. He didn’t pick unassailable icons; he picked his mates.

The book is likeable and well-written, and also moral and thoughtful. In the end he decides that it doesn’t really matter who you’re descended from, or where they lived, but that there is real human joy in meeting people and forming relationships with them, whether they’re distant relations you haven’t seen in forty years, children who aren’t biologically related to you but whom you love none the less for it, or just the friendly folk at Arundel Castle who help you look up some records on a rainy day.

I also got both books signed. Well, I was there. I can report that Jeremy wrote “To Laura, love Jeremy Hardy”, but that Jack slightly trumped him by adding a little kiss underneath.

Lost in translation

The beloved and I took a speedboat ride up the Thames yesterday evening. I would heartily recommend it – it’s very exciting – but it does do interesting things to your hair. There were only six of us on the boat, plus a captain and a guide, and once we got past Tower Bridge we went super-fast, accompanied by the theme tunes from Baywatch and then James Bond. It was brilliant, and I was only a tiny bit scared.

Then we ate at Caffe’ Vergnano on the South Bank. I really like it there, but it’s somewhere I have usually gone before a film or a show, so I tend to go early and it’s always fairly empty. Last night we were there later on, and it was very busy. Halfway through our meal they seated a couple so close to us that it was nearly impossible for me to leave my seat without crashing into their table. It added an element of challenge to the evening, but it also gave us the chance to listen in to their conversation. Actually we had no choice: she was more or less completely silent, but he had a great booming voice that drowned out the sound of the trains just feet above our heads. Sadly they were speaking a language I didn’t recognise – I don’t speak many languages, but I can recognise the sound of a lot of them, and this wasn’t one I knew. It might have been Portuguese, or one of the eastern European languages that has nothing to do with Russian.

Anyway, I don’t know how much I would have enjoyed listening to him had I known what he was saying, but listening with no idea what he was talking about was great fun. He had a peculiarly mirthless laugh with which he punctuated every sentence. Because I didn’t recognise the words he was using, I have attempted to reproduce them phonetically, to give you an idea:

Amazon turquoise Lithuanian bathtub. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Malevolent projector foolproof simian pilot. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Christmas fettucine bones, bananas and bra. Ha. Ha. Ha.

It was disconcerting, but also kind of fascinating, and loud enough that it was easier for us to listen to him than attempt a conversation of our own. She sat in silence opposite him, occasionally joining in with the solemn laughter. I tried to imagine what he might be saying. The tone implied that it was probably something like

We have trapped your father in a dungeon. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. If you do not tell us where the jewels are he will die. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. We will show him no mercy. Ha. Ha. Ha.

But I think that was just the way he spoke. He was probably saying

Look at these jokers next to us. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. They are listening to me instead of having a conversation of their own. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. And they both have hair that points vertically upwards. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Style spot

I saw this woman from the top of the 68 bus in Camberwell yesterday evening, and snuck a photo:

Woman in Camberwell

I really love the way she’s dressed, and I envy her her eye for an elegant combination: I probably wouldn’t have seen the potential of any of those items of clothing individually, and I certainly wouldn’t have thought of throwing them all together to create a look of casual insouciance that is only augmented by the two giant bags of Monster Munch.

You can’t tell in this shot, but the jacket is actually a tailored blazer with buttons. I have never known what to wear on cold summer’s days. She makes it look effortless.

Sunshine in Bermondsey

It was both discourteous and misguided of me, I now realise, to assume that it’s always raining in Bermondsey. Yesterday was our final rehearsal for the wedding that we’re playing music at this weekend, so back we all trooped to the Bermondsey Trading Estate, which this time around was bathed in bright sunlight:

bermondsey trading estate

The equipment stood there for about five minutes, while we waited for a cab. When we picked up the keyboard, it was almost too hot to hold. It’s good to have new experiences from time to time.

Days off

I work a nine-day fortnight, with every other Friday off. When I came to this arrangement I thought that I would use the free day for chores and writing, and waiting in for people to come and fix things. I do use it for all of those things, but I also use it to get my hair cut, because I have to get Koto the genius hairdresser to cut my hair. I have crap hair: it is not straight or curly, it’s quite thin, and it’s going grey. Only Koto can give me a haircut that doesn’t look awful within a week. So every few free Fridays, I take myself off on the train and go and visit her in Bromley.

I never used to like Bromley. If you lived in Beckenham, Bromley was the place you went to at weekends because it had a slightly better range of shops, and a McDonald’s, and pubs where you wouldn’t bump into your parents’ friends who knew you were fourteen. Tell someone you’re from Bromley, and they look at you sympathetically. The beloved and I had a drink recently with a friend who introduced us to her new-ish boyfriend, who lives in Bromley, and we spent most of the evening commiserating with one another. Bromley isn’t a place, it’s the punchline to a joke.

But, you know what? Bromley’s kind of OK. The high street is mainly pedestrianised, so market stalls have sprung up, and in the sunshine today it looked like somewhere you might want to go and have a look at:

Bromley High Street

The introduction of PAYG to South Eastern trains didn’t make my journey as easy as it should have done. I forgot to touch in at Herne Hill, so when I got to Bromley South, where there are barriers, I asked the guard if I could buy a paper return ticket to Herne Hill, which would both retrospectively cover the journey I’d just made and allow me to get back again later. Although it wasn’t strictly within the rules, she could see that it was the simplest solution, and fortunately was not of the breed of train guard who lives for being able to charge people a fine for being idiots. So I queued up and bought my return ticket, forgetting that I’d already arranged to go and see my parents after visiting Koto, so I wouldn’t be making the return journey by train. So I queued up and paid for a journey I’d already made, and a journey I was never going to make. These are the ways I fill my time.

I have a hen weekend to go to tomorrow. There will be games. I will post photos next week, if I survive the experience.

Further ramblings

Eight hours after that last post, it looks as though there’s going to be a Lib-Con coalition after all. I think it’s the best option, really: the Tories have more of a mandate to govern than anyone else at this stage, and they get to fuck it up and have to fight another election within a shorter time than a usual parliamentary term, after which the Labour party should find it much easier to get back in, having shed Brown and with a shiny new leader at the helm. Let’s hope they give Vince Cable the reins at the Treasury and just let George think he’s chancellor.

Post-election ramblings

After Labour and the Lib Dems failed to win enough seats between them to form a coalition government with an outright majority, which was what I was hoping for (because although I like Labour best, I was hoping that the Lib Dem influence would be brought to bear in areas in which they have policies I like, like electoral reform and immigration), I was reluctantly ready to accept a Tory-Lib Dem coalition or even a minority Tory government, in the hope that the Tories would get the blame for the cuts to public services which we’re assured are inevitably coming over the next few months, whilst Labour would remain relatively unsullied and hopefully in a stronger position from which to fight another election in the autumn or winter.

(The problem with this scenario is that neither Labour or the Lib Dems have any money left with which to fight another election, whilst the Tories can readily command millions at any minute, on account of – do you see? – rich people vote Conservative. A few weeks ago, just as it all started to go wrong for Call Me Dave, a group of “business leaders” wrote a letter to the Daily Telegraph condemning Labour’s plans to increase National Insurance. This was reported as a blow to the Labour party, but really: is anyone surprised that some of the richest men (yes, they were all men) in the country, whose interests have always been served at the expense of the less well-off by Conservative policies, should publicly endorse those policies? Admittedly, I don’t believe they really think George Osborne would make a plausible chancellor, but that aside there was nothing unexpected in what they said. Anyway, despite the lack of funds faced by the other parties I was hoping that whatever faltering Tory administration we ended up with would shortly be succeeded by a centre-left coalition with a stronger mandate to govern.)

And then Gordon resigned, and everything changed. I like Gordon Brown and I always have done. I think he is a man of integrity and principle who has tried to do what he thought was right. He hasn’t always got that right, but who does? I’d rather an honest politician who admits mistakes than one who doesn’t think he’s capable of getting it wrong, just as I’d rather have a serious one who means what he says than one who smiles and lies his way through everything. Yes, Tony, I’m looking at you.

The sad truth, though, is that whatever I think of him, there are lots of people who don’t like Gordon. And before the election, while Nick Clegg was riding high on the surge in the polls that the televised leadership debates had brought him, he very explicitly said that he would not be willing to do any kind of a deal with a Labour party that retained Gordon Brown as its leader. So if what the Labour party wants now is a Lib-Lab pact (which would still need to be propped up by some of the smaller parties in order to pass any legislation), then Gordon did the right thing. His stepping down last night opened a door to negotiations that weren’t possible before, and the buzz in the (almost exclusively Tory-supporting) papers and online this morning suggests that the most likely outcome might now be a coalition government of the left, rather than of the right.

I’m not sure this is a good thing in the long term. The coalition would be weak, and would also be responsible for introducing whatever cuts are necessary to tackle the nation’s debts, which is something we must apparently do immediately (don’t ask me; the economy is not my strong point). So it would be weak and unpopular, and the path would be paved for another election within a year, which the Tories would almost certainly win outright.

I am also slightly squeamish about the idea of an administration which excludes the party that won the most votes, however much I might dislike them. It’s all very well to say that Labour and the Lib Dems have more in common than either does with the Tories, but you can’t extrapolate from that to say that everyone who voted for one party would be happy with the other. Whereas you can say that everyone who voted Tory would be happy with a Conservative administration. So it doesn’t feel quite right, somehow.

On the other hand, if the Tories don’t take power now, someone will demand scalps. Six months ago, they were a dead cert to win this election. Hilariously, the rumour is that party grandees are furious with Cameron for agreeing to the televised debates, which they see as the point at which the campaign began to lose momentum. That’s right: it all went wrong for the Tories when they had to actually talk about their policies. Poor old that.

Anyway, the likely public victims of this screw-up are either Cameron, whose appeal evidently eluded voters when it came down to it, or George Osborne, who is wildly unpopular and who was officially the campaign manager, so can be forced to take the blame if necessary. If Osborne goes now, he will never be chancellor, and that can only be a good thing. But it would be even funnier if Cameron goes and the Tories’ Eton and Oxbridge great white hope ends up never being prime minister at all. Is that mean? It probably is, a bit, but although Cameron seems perfectly pleasant as a person, he represents a party who are all about being mean, when it comes down to it. So I shan’t feel too bad about it.

Anyway, I think Gordon has played a blinder since Friday, and along with the rest of the country, I await developments with bated breath. It’s nice to see politics be interesting, isn’t it?

Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park

Warning: do not read the below if you haven’t read either of these books, because I will almost certainly accidentally tell you who ends up married to whom.

Having finished and only quite enjoyed Emma, I’m not sure why I immediately picked up Northanger Abbey, but I did and I’m glad, because I loved it. It’s a bit disjointed, but it’s funny and pacy and has characters who are either comically awful or likeable and charming – especially the heroine, Catherine Morland, who is the most engaging heroine I’ve come across since Anne of Green Gables. And for once she falls in love with someone who actually sounds attractive, rather than with a pompous buffoon. Good.

I was less keen on Mansfield Park. For one thing, it’s really long, and though structurally it makes more sense than either Northanger Abbey or Emma, there’s lots that feels repetitive. For another, the heroine is a pissy, prissy little wimp. I kept hoping that her saintly self-sacrifice and po-faced piousness were hiding something more interesting, but no. Fortunately, she gets to marry someone quite as mealy-mouthed and solemn as herself, presumably so that they can spend eternity pointedly disapproving of everyone else. Good for them, but I wasn’t sure the 400 pages it took me to get them there were worth the time I spent on them. And although there are nasty characters, there are no laughs. It reads rather like one of the dreary but morally improving novels which Austen is so wittily rude about in Northanger Abbey. Perhaps she lost her cheek as she got older and more ill.

I still have Persuasion and Sense and Sensibility to read, but I think I’ll give myself a short break from Jane Austen first. Last week I accidentally bought three science books, so I might read one of those next, after which I’ll no doubt be desperate to fling myself back into the world of matrimony and means (one of the books should have been called that. Actually, all of the books could have been called that).

Polling day

Actually, I voted last week, because I applied for a postal vote ages ago in case I ended up somewhere else come election day. But I have just been to have a nose around our polling station anyway, to see whether it’s busy, and I’m pleased to say that it is. It was empty when the beloved visited early this morning, but almost everyone on our estate is either a parent, a drug dealer or a lunatic, and they all have good reasons to be elsewhere at 8am.

I spent quite a long time thinking about who to vote for; more than I have done at any other election. 1997 was easy: it was the first year I could vote, the sun was shining and we were facing a bright new dawn. In 2001 and 2005 I think I voted Green, in the hope that a high Green count in my (safe Labour) seat would persuade the big parties to introduce greener policies. I sort of think that was misguided, now: I don’t believe the big parties care or are guided by how many votes the small parties get, as long as they don’t start to become an electoral threat.

Anyway, the Green candidate in my constituency seems to be madly xenophobic: he thinks we should begin immediate negotiations for withdrawal from the EU, and that the UK should stage a military intervention if Iran develop nuclear weapons. Nutter.

I dabbled for a bit with voting Lib Dem, too, but when it came down to it I think some of their policies are a bit wishy-washy and undeliverable, and the main reason I wanted to give them my vote – their refusal to commit to replacing Trident – turned out to be another damp squib, since their alternative doesn’t sound any better.

So I went Labour again. My candidate is Tessa Jowell, and I don’t mind her too much, even though she lives in Highgate. I can’t blame her for that. I’d live in Highgate, if I could. And after looking into the main parties’ policies a bit more closely I realised that the Labour party, for all the things they’ve done in the last three terms which I bitterly disagreed with, still represent my views better than anyone else does.

Anyway, if you haven’t already, go out and vote. Anyone you like, as long as it’s not the Tories*. I could summarise the social and political and economic reasons why I don’t want them in power, but when it comes right down to it, it’s quite simple: (a) they’re the Tories, and (b) have you seen David Cameron?

The Call Me Dave problem was summarised more neatly than I could do it by a teenager who I walked past as I came back from the polling station. “That Cameron”, he was saying to his friend, “I just don’t like him. He’s too white.” Exactly, I thought.

*I am assuming that BNP voters don’t really read, so won’t see this.