There is no question Dylan Moran has built up a devoted fan-base over the last decade, born out of the ability to remain articulate and, for the most part, painfully accurate, whilst noticeably inebriated.
Around the time of his sitcom, Black Books, Moran had already perfected this character. The overtly cynical drunk, taking astute observations about the world around him, and turning them into sharply worked diatribes, that appeared random and off the wall, whilst actually being cemented in something that was instantly identifiable to people. His audience loved to imagine that he spent the majority of his days stumbling around his house, despairingly cynical of the world around him, similarly to his Bernard Black character.
In Moran’s new show, “Yeah, yeah,” the comic makes no secret of the fact he is comfortably approaching middle age. Somehow, one gets the impression that Moran is no longer as nihilistic as he makes out. The sketches about family life are predictably pessimistic, but underlined with a barely-disguised contentedness that perhaps slightly undermines the skit that he has become so accomplished at.
Representations of male/female relationships are of the woman as Mary Shelly, and the man the Frankenstein they have created. Despite this, it is also evident that Moran is actually very fond of his wife and children. This scarcely matters. It is clear from the knowing sideways glances couples exchange throughout his pessimistic observations, that people recognize the situations he creates, and coupled with his superb delivery, it makes for hugely enjoyable stand-up.
A section on dinner parties is familiar ground; the superfluous formalities (“No, I wouldn’t like the tour. I’ve got a house full of shit, why would I want to see yours?”) and awkward conversation are well illustrated and material appropriate to the educated middle-class that no doubt make up the vast majority of the crowd.
The suggestion that David Cameron’s inability to know what to do with his Big Society is best demonstrated by the two hand gesture of being unsure where to put a box down, gives an example of the rare ability he possesses to observe an apparently innocuous action and use it as a metaphor for something topical and relevant.
Elsewhere, there is talk of people from London having enforced stereotypes about the rest of the country. He expertly counteracts the point by showing how these same people conform to these very stereotypes, and suggests an idea of having supermarket self-service check-outs that reflect these ideas.
Over his time as a stand-up comedian, Dylan Moran has beautifully mastered the art of staying within the adopted character of the bitter, drunken Irishman, whilst managing to present superbly well-thought-through ideas in a flowing and lyrical manner. He takes for his routines subjects that are not rare in stand-up comedy; family life, religion, relationships etc. but through bizarre metaphors, and a unique and intelligent approach to such issues, Moran commands complete control over his audience, and the result is thoroughly entertaining.
Monday 18 July 2011
Thursday 7 July 2011
The demise of 'The News of the World'
So The News of the world is no more. A press statement from News International claims that the "wrong do-ers" in the scandal have "sullied the reputation of a good newsroom, and turned it bad."
Predictably, The Sun chose not to lead with the headlines dominating the rest of the country's media yesterday, and adopted the "buried head in the sand" approach. So instead of any word on the latest and most disturbing revelations of phone hacking, they lead with a front page of a blown up photograph of a heavily pregnant Posh Spice, accompanied by the headline "Victoria Becktum." A fine example of the "good newsroom" alluded to by News International, I'm sure. The irony that The Sun finds itself caught up in a scandal involving the hacking of a murdered child's phone, which means far more to any rational person than footballers cheating on their spouses, or politicians claiming expenses, has scarcely been mentioned.
The decision to axe The News of the World is not going to solve anything. It won't be long before Murdoch introduces something which operates in exactly the same manner. "The Sun on Sunday" being the most obvious and probable choice.
Even after the "wrong-doers" are appropriately punished, and the country has stopped shaking its collective head with the injustice of how disgustingly low a journalist can sink in order to get a good story, nothing will change. The build up over decades of an unflinching belief in the freedom of the press allows that there will always be journalists ready to prey on the vulnerable to get their story. News International and Rupert Murdoch's News Corp are all powerful. The general public will continue to read the tabloids and the tabloids will continue to operate in the same way. People's anger about the mistreatment of the poor murdered girl's family will fade, because the desire to know who's in Victoria's Beck Tum will ultimately always win out.
Predictably, The Sun chose not to lead with the headlines dominating the rest of the country's media yesterday, and adopted the "buried head in the sand" approach. So instead of any word on the latest and most disturbing revelations of phone hacking, they lead with a front page of a blown up photograph of a heavily pregnant Posh Spice, accompanied by the headline "Victoria Becktum." A fine example of the "good newsroom" alluded to by News International, I'm sure. The irony that The Sun finds itself caught up in a scandal involving the hacking of a murdered child's phone, which means far more to any rational person than footballers cheating on their spouses, or politicians claiming expenses, has scarcely been mentioned.
The decision to axe The News of the World is not going to solve anything. It won't be long before Murdoch introduces something which operates in exactly the same manner. "The Sun on Sunday" being the most obvious and probable choice.
Even after the "wrong-doers" are appropriately punished, and the country has stopped shaking its collective head with the injustice of how disgustingly low a journalist can sink in order to get a good story, nothing will change. The build up over decades of an unflinching belief in the freedom of the press allows that there will always be journalists ready to prey on the vulnerable to get their story. News International and Rupert Murdoch's News Corp are all powerful. The general public will continue to read the tabloids and the tabloids will continue to operate in the same way. People's anger about the mistreatment of the poor murdered girl's family will fade, because the desire to know who's in Victoria's Beck Tum will ultimately always win out.
Tuesday 5 July 2011
People in the Pub 2 - Worries for the future
Barely able to suppress her anxieties any longer, she stood by her blue gate and took a hard look at the street she had grown to know so well. Carefully maintained but barely noticed pot-plants in the upper windows. Contrasting gardens; some overgrown and weed-ridden, others neatly mowed; spring flowers beginning to bloom. Old bicycles were dotted around, chained to rusty railings.
The house in Cornwall was ready now, but she was procrastinating. Pubs had always provided her with the distractions she sought, and no more so than the one on the corner. She needed re-assurance, and a conversation with a stranger in the pub seemed like a good place to find it
The dogs might come in useful. She took them with her, mentally rehearsing the conversation starter “Well, they’ll certainly have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall,” line, as she walked down the road.
It turned out she didn’t need to worry. They were playing Joy Division. Now that was something she could definitely talk about, despite the apparent and slightly disheartening thirty-five year age gap between herself and the person listening to them.
Humming along quietly with the haunting tones of Ian Curtis as her drink was poured, she felt a stab of irritation at the look of surprise she received for doing so.
It had been 1979. She’d been thirty when working at the BBC as a sound engineer for Radio 1, and remembered the Joy Division session best of all. They were the last band she had been young enough to get excited about, having outplayed her punk albums over the last two years. They had seemed different. More considered, and just as expressive as the punk music she so loved. Now some guy in his twenties, who hadn’t even been born when this had happened, expected her to be listening to Engelbert bloody Humperdink just because she was the wrong side of sixty and looked it, despite the amount of blusher she used in a vain attempt to hide the wrinkles. Hadn’t he noticed the leather jacket and faded tatoo? Not really Joy Division though was it? He probably thought she was just some sad old woman, trying to appear young and with-it and failing miserably. Well, she’d show him!
‘Calm down,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘To be fair, there can’t be many people my age who….’….”Get down, Bailey!”
The dog was up on the table causing a nuisance as usual. Joy Division finished, and something more modern and unrecognisable came on. “Who’s this then?” she asked, screwing her face up. Not caring who it was in particular, her response to the answer about what was now playing on the I-pod was to say “1979!” as if she had just thought about it, and reached a conclusion, which instigated understandable confusion.
“Sorry?”
“Joy Division.”
“Oh…Yeah…That's right. Beofre I was born, anyway!”
She decided to forgive him the sin of not knowing her deep affiliation with the band.
“Lovely guys.” A self-satisfied mouthful of beer.
In truth, she had only passed a few words with them and none at all with the singer, but it was a way in, and it seemed to work.
“Why, did you know them then?” Raised Eyebrows. A good sign.
“Oh yes, we go back.” A doubtful look. A hastily responsive laugh; dismissive.
“That is to say, I met them once or twice, (‘It was once really,’) when I worked at the Beeb, you know.” She shrugged, taking a longer drink from her pint of continental lager. She exhaled contentedly. “I was a sound engineer for ‘em.”
“Oh right… Wow!”
A scan for sarcasm came out clear.
“You never would have guessed he would hang himself. Such an interesting chap to talk to. So much to say. So full of life.” Exaggeration was bordering upon downright lies here, and she was keen to change the subject to what she really wanted to talk about before exposing herself.
“Mm, I think it was quite a surprise for lots of people wasn’t it? Who else did you meet when you were there?”
In truth, she hadn’t done that job for long, and Joy Division were by far and away the most famous, or at least, the most credible and famous band she had worked with.
“Oh, too many to count!”…”Charlie! Bailey! Will you behave!” she shouted, and the guy shook his head from side to side gently, with a look that said “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry…They’re a pain.” She drained most of the pint.
“Don’t worry about it. What Joy Division session…”
“Of course, they’ll have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall….”
She was vaguely aware of the interruption, but considered that she didn’t have all day to start seeking advice about whether she was doing the right thing, even though she would probably have to say that the choice of timing for this well practiced remark may have been slightly off. He was thrown slightly.
“…Oh right. Holiday?”
“Nope,” she said triumphantly. “I’m moving down there for good!”
“Very nice.”
With that, he wandered off to collect some glasses, clearly more interested in nights she had not spent with Joy Division, and the intense discussions they had not had about how to develop their sound.
Very nice?! The months of fretting and doubting. The long, relentless effort to find the perfect place, with the perfect sea view. The sleepless nights of fear of how she would adapt to the coast after living in cities for her entire life, and the best she could hope for in the way of advice was 'Very nice?' Well, that wouldn’t do, would it?
She finished her beer. “Yes please! Same again.”
Watching her next being poured, she adopted her by-now well-accomplished nonchalance.
“D’you know, I think I might have some pictures of the house here somewhere?” And she rummaged through her bag, knowing full well they were in the front compartment.
“Oh yes, here they are!”
A few minutes later, and she was where she wanted to be in the conversation…
“Now Roger…Yeah, he’s my husband…Roger’s been down there for a month already. He’s settled so quickly. He doesn’t need to go to the shops, does he? That’s the thing. The man barely eats. God, he’ll be wasting away by the time I get down there. Wasting away. He’ll need feeding up alright. The nearest supermarket’s a half hour drive!…I mean I’ve got the bikes, but I’m getting on a bit. Half an hour! I’m too old to be riding the Harley. And what am I to do for fun? No you’re right. I can tell what you’re thinking. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall. Yeah. Fine. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall, you say, but no gigs, mate. Oh, I still go to gigs occasionally when I hear someone I like. I’m not passed it yet, mate. I doubt there‘s even a bloody cinema near by. I’ll be so bloody bored. Yes, you might think I’m too old, but I still enjoy it all, y’know. Yep. Still enjoy it…… The dogs will be happy though. And it’s nice to ride the bikes round there. Oh, it’s lovely it is. All those little coastal paths, winding their way up and down. So much to explore. But I’m getting a bit old to be riding that Harley. Looks a bit silly, at my age. Did I tell you that Roger’s already down there?….Oh, he loves it. Yeah, he’s happy alright. Man of simple pleasures, Roger. He‘ll be alright, I don‘t doubt it. Man of simple pleasures. But I need a little more, I don‘t know…”
She left the pub after an hour of mostly one-sided conversation with the occasional interjection of “Mm“ or “Yeah“. Tipsy, but decided. Cornwall wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The house in Cornwall was ready now, but she was procrastinating. Pubs had always provided her with the distractions she sought, and no more so than the one on the corner. She needed re-assurance, and a conversation with a stranger in the pub seemed like a good place to find it
The dogs might come in useful. She took them with her, mentally rehearsing the conversation starter “Well, they’ll certainly have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall,” line, as she walked down the road.
It turned out she didn’t need to worry. They were playing Joy Division. Now that was something she could definitely talk about, despite the apparent and slightly disheartening thirty-five year age gap between herself and the person listening to them.
Humming along quietly with the haunting tones of Ian Curtis as her drink was poured, she felt a stab of irritation at the look of surprise she received for doing so.
It had been 1979. She’d been thirty when working at the BBC as a sound engineer for Radio 1, and remembered the Joy Division session best of all. They were the last band she had been young enough to get excited about, having outplayed her punk albums over the last two years. They had seemed different. More considered, and just as expressive as the punk music she so loved. Now some guy in his twenties, who hadn’t even been born when this had happened, expected her to be listening to Engelbert bloody Humperdink just because she was the wrong side of sixty and looked it, despite the amount of blusher she used in a vain attempt to hide the wrinkles. Hadn’t he noticed the leather jacket and faded tatoo? Not really Joy Division though was it? He probably thought she was just some sad old woman, trying to appear young and with-it and failing miserably. Well, she’d show him!
‘Calm down,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘To be fair, there can’t be many people my age who….’….”Get down, Bailey!”
The dog was up on the table causing a nuisance as usual. Joy Division finished, and something more modern and unrecognisable came on. “Who’s this then?” she asked, screwing her face up. Not caring who it was in particular, her response to the answer about what was now playing on the I-pod was to say “1979!” as if she had just thought about it, and reached a conclusion, which instigated understandable confusion.
“Sorry?”
“Joy Division.”
“Oh…Yeah…That's right. Beofre I was born, anyway!”
She decided to forgive him the sin of not knowing her deep affiliation with the band.
“Lovely guys.” A self-satisfied mouthful of beer.
In truth, she had only passed a few words with them and none at all with the singer, but it was a way in, and it seemed to work.
“Why, did you know them then?” Raised Eyebrows. A good sign.
“Oh yes, we go back.” A doubtful look. A hastily responsive laugh; dismissive.
“That is to say, I met them once or twice, (‘It was once really,’) when I worked at the Beeb, you know.” She shrugged, taking a longer drink from her pint of continental lager. She exhaled contentedly. “I was a sound engineer for ‘em.”
“Oh right… Wow!”
A scan for sarcasm came out clear.
“You never would have guessed he would hang himself. Such an interesting chap to talk to. So much to say. So full of life.” Exaggeration was bordering upon downright lies here, and she was keen to change the subject to what she really wanted to talk about before exposing herself.
“Mm, I think it was quite a surprise for lots of people wasn’t it? Who else did you meet when you were there?”
In truth, she hadn’t done that job for long, and Joy Division were by far and away the most famous, or at least, the most credible and famous band she had worked with.
“Oh, too many to count!”…”Charlie! Bailey! Will you behave!” she shouted, and the guy shook his head from side to side gently, with a look that said “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sorry…They’re a pain.” She drained most of the pint.
“Don’t worry about it. What Joy Division session…”
“Of course, they’ll have a lot more to explore down in Cornwall….”
She was vaguely aware of the interruption, but considered that she didn’t have all day to start seeking advice about whether she was doing the right thing, even though she would probably have to say that the choice of timing for this well practiced remark may have been slightly off. He was thrown slightly.
“…Oh right. Holiday?”
“Nope,” she said triumphantly. “I’m moving down there for good!”
“Very nice.”
With that, he wandered off to collect some glasses, clearly more interested in nights she had not spent with Joy Division, and the intense discussions they had not had about how to develop their sound.
Very nice?! The months of fretting and doubting. The long, relentless effort to find the perfect place, with the perfect sea view. The sleepless nights of fear of how she would adapt to the coast after living in cities for her entire life, and the best she could hope for in the way of advice was 'Very nice?' Well, that wouldn’t do, would it?
She finished her beer. “Yes please! Same again.”
Watching her next being poured, she adopted her by-now well-accomplished nonchalance.
“D’you know, I think I might have some pictures of the house here somewhere?” And she rummaged through her bag, knowing full well they were in the front compartment.
“Oh yes, here they are!”
A few minutes later, and she was where she wanted to be in the conversation…
“Now Roger…Yeah, he’s my husband…Roger’s been down there for a month already. He’s settled so quickly. He doesn’t need to go to the shops, does he? That’s the thing. The man barely eats. God, he’ll be wasting away by the time I get down there. Wasting away. He’ll need feeding up alright. The nearest supermarket’s a half hour drive!…I mean I’ve got the bikes, but I’m getting on a bit. Half an hour! I’m too old to be riding the Harley. And what am I to do for fun? No you’re right. I can tell what you’re thinking. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall. Yeah. Fine. Plenty of pubs in Cornwall, you say, but no gigs, mate. Oh, I still go to gigs occasionally when I hear someone I like. I’m not passed it yet, mate. I doubt there‘s even a bloody cinema near by. I’ll be so bloody bored. Yes, you might think I’m too old, but I still enjoy it all, y’know. Yep. Still enjoy it…… The dogs will be happy though. And it’s nice to ride the bikes round there. Oh, it’s lovely it is. All those little coastal paths, winding their way up and down. So much to explore. But I’m getting a bit old to be riding that Harley. Looks a bit silly, at my age. Did I tell you that Roger’s already down there?….Oh, he loves it. Yeah, he’s happy alright. Man of simple pleasures, Roger. He‘ll be alright, I don‘t doubt it. Man of simple pleasures. But I need a little more, I don‘t know…”
She left the pub after an hour of mostly one-sided conversation with the occasional interjection of “Mm“ or “Yeah“. Tipsy, but decided. Cornwall wouldn’t be so bad after all.
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