Comedy

ICYMI

BBC The Social and Chunks regular Chris Thorburn experiences the deeply macabre Nighty Night Illustration: Jonny Mowet

When given the opportunity to write for ICYMI and cover a comedy classic I had never seen, two options immediately sprung to mind: Ivan Reitman’s 1988 film Twins and the 2004 BBC black comedy Nighty Night. I decided to cheat and watch both. First, my verdict on Twins: Twins is lovely. Now, Nighty Night. On writing and starring duties is Julia Davis, the mind behind the wonderfully bleak anthology series Human Remains and the I’ll-also-get-round-to-this Camping. From her early appearances in the pitch-black sketch show Jam through to her brief turn in 2017’s Phantom Thread, Davis has proven time and time again her capacity for playing characters with a detached yet devastating cruelty. She’s wonderful at it. And in that regard, Jill Tyrell may be the role of her lifetime. The cold open of the very first episode even plays out like a self-contained Jam sketch. Jill Tyrell and her husband Terry (fellow Jam alum Kevin Eldon; one day I will make my big spider diagram of British comedy actors and the sitcoms they’ve appeared in) sit in a doctor’s office, where they are given the bad news – the removed lump was malignant and treatment must begin immediately. Jill bursts into tears: “I just feel so… I mean why? Why me?” Terry lovingly reassures her: “Jill, let’s keep things in perspective. It’s me who has the cancer.” After a quick establishing shot where we meet Don (Angus Deayton) and long-suffering Cathy (the wonderful Rebecca Front), we cut to the opening title sequence which encapsulates the tonal dissonance of the entire programme: the cheerful theme tune by Ennio Morricone (!) plays while Jill’s silhouette drifts hauntingly towards us through a doorway. In the four seconds of the opening titles we realise Jill isn’t simply a selfish asshole: she’s a ghoul. Jill sees her husband’s diagnosis as a fresh start and is immediately determined to move on, despite Terry still being very much alive. She dates widower Glenn (The League of Gentlemen’s Mark Gatiss), she forces herself into Cathy’s life in the hopes of seducing her husband Don, and she withholds Terry’s recovery diagnosis from him, convincing him he is dying. Eventually she begins telling others that Terry has passed. Watching in 2020, Nighty Night is simultaneously a product of its time and seemingly ahead of it. In many ways it feels entirely bound to 2004; not least of all in its needle drops. Songs that were no doubt contemporary at the time now carry their own nostalgic comedy: In Demand by Texas, Can’t Get You Out of My Head by Kylie Minogue, Don’t Call Me Baby by Madison Avenue. Don’t Need the Sun to Shine by Gabrielle plays at least three times, maybe more. It gets funnier and more sarcastic each time. But more than that, Nighty Night is emblematic of the comedy of cruelty that the early 00s excelled at. Characters’ disabilities, bigotries and suffering are played for laughs in a way that does jar today. But that’s not to say it’s aged poorly. Unlike other difficult comedy figures from that period, we’re never invited to look past Jill's flaws and see the ultimately decent person underneath. She is a monster and all we can do is watch in horror at the destruction in her wake. The show also feels prescient in terms of its lead, and in

her terminal case of main character syndrome. Jill feels like a pointed retort to the golden age of television that was only just beginning, which mostly featured stories about good men turned bad. Breaking Bad wouldn’t debut for another four years but they make for a fascinating contrast. Both are wish fulfilment fantasies incited by cancer diagnoses. We get glimpses of the story in Jill’s head in which she is the hero, never better than the dance sequence to Marillion’s Lavender in the first episode. The ongoing juxtaposition between the romantic fantasy and the grim reality is the show’s best joke. Well, second best if you count Jill listing “red jumper” as one of the qualities she looks for in a partner. As a binge-watch, Nighty Night is almost overwhelmingly misanthropic at times, but that’s to the show’s credit. As a case study in pure unchecked narcissism, it’s a gleeful horror with a terrifically rotten central performance. I highly recommend it, and the movie Twins.

Chris Thorburn’s 2020 Glasgow Comedy Festival show Grown Ass Man will debut at the 2021 Glasgow Comedy Festival, hopefully. Before then, you can catch him on Twitter @CBThorburn

The Skinny On... Aidan Moffat

Having just surprised us at the start of September with their first new music in 15 years, Arab Strap’s Aidan Moffat tells us what inspires him, who he thinks is the worst and what makes him cry

Where’s your favourite place to visit? I’m very fond of Blackpool. I went there every summer as a child with my grandparents, and sometimes we’d go with a bi er party of friends and family. I never liked the beach, but I loved the piers and the rides at the Pleasure Beach, and the smell of chips still takes me back there. I love that old kiss-me-quick, saucy postcard, Carry On culture too, and Blackpool’s steeped in that.

What’s your favourite colour? Pink and black. Sex and death.

Who was your hero growing up? My grandfather, or Papa, as we called him. We were very close and he was cool as fuck. By the time I came along, he had a bad hip and couldn’t really work, so while my grandma went out to clean hotel rooms he stayed home baking rhubarb from his tiny council garden, which also had lovely yellow roses. He told me he almost killed Hitler, which I believed until I was 13. He was actually an RAF engineer and never saw combat, but he was in the same regiment as Laurence Olivier – that’s definitely true, because I’ve seen the photos.

Whose work inspires you now? I take bits and pieces from everywhere. I’m very good at reading a book up until the point it gives me an idea then not bothering to finish it – I recently read books about crying and death rituals, for instance, but didn’t get to the end because I started writing songs about the subjects and moved on.

What’s your favourite food to cook? I’m a pretty shit cook, so not much at all, I’m afraid. I can do the easy stuff, like salads – my son loves the salsa I make – and I make the occasional tart. Broccoli and stilton’s quite good, but it’s been a while.

What three people would you invite to a dinner party and what are you cooking? I detest dinner parties, and thankfully I’ve managed to avoid them most of my life. I’ll meet you in the pub afterwards.

What’s your all-time favourite album? I honestly haven’t a clue... But I can tell you that my favourite album this year’s been Keeley Forsyth’s Debris – if you could wear MP3s out, I’d be on my tenth copy by now.

What’s the worst film you’ve ever seen? God, there are so many! I absolutely loathed Joker; it’s a cynical, contrived, shallow turd. But then there’s also Avatar, with its shite aliens and magical trees. When I saw that at the cinema, there was a boy sat next to me playing on his Nintendo DS – normally I’d be raging but I really, really envied him. Utter shit.

What book would you take to a protracted period of governmentenforced isolation? Only one?! I’ve no idea. Maybe a B.S. Johnson one, I love him. Or I recently read The White Hotel by D.M. Thomas and I definitely want to read it again. Then again, I never finished Ulysses, so I should probably tackle that again.

Who’s the worst? Johnson, Gove, Rees-Mo , Hancock, Farage, Hartley-Brewer, and all the other right-wing Tory pricks that continue to try and flame the embers of empire and make Britain a shithole global laughing stock. If you’re not angry these days, I can only assume you’re not paying attention.

When did you last cry? I cry all the time, usually after a drink while watching emotional telly – but only ever on my own. Not because I’m trying to hide, it’s just that it’s usually when everyone else is asleep. The last time was probably the end of that Katherine Ryan Netflix show, The Duchess. That was lovely.

What are you most scared of? I don’t mean this in a macho, hardman kind of way, but I honestly can’t think of anything. I had some therapy about ten years ago, and I absolutely hated it, but the one thing I took away from it was the illusion of control. So I’m very much of the ‘life is chaos’ mindset now, and I don’t really worry about things that haven’t happened yet. As Mark E. Smith used to sing: ‘Life just bounces’.

When did you last vomit? I don’t get drunk enough to puke these days – it’s not a very dignified look for a dad, is it? And I absolutely hate being sick, it’s horrible.

Tell us a secret? No.

Which celebrity could you take in a fight? These days, not many of them; I’m getting on a bit and I’ve got two fucked ankles that keep me very out of shape (but nice and cuddly). But with the right celebrity, I’m sure what I lack in physical prowess I could make up for in enthusiasm. Just pick one of the men from the ‘Who’s the worst’ list above – celebrities are all they are now.

If you could be reincarnated as an animal, which animal would it be? A cat, definitely. Lying about all day doing fuck all while harbouring a hatred for the human race but still needing the occasional hug from them? Sounds about right!

The Turning of Our Bones by Arab Strap is released on 7” vinyl, 23 Oct via Rock Action

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