Telling tales

There are few things more frustrating than realising the writers of your favourite series are making it up as they go along. Take Lost for example. Throughout the show’s intermittently brilliant six-year run, its creators maintained that they always knew precisely what was going on, even if its viewers were none the wiser. So we took them at face value, convinced that all those inexplicable events would eventually coalesce in a climax that made sense of everything. Of course, the reality was somewhat different, leaving millions of viewers feeling cheated and let-down by its ‘throw shit at the wall and see what sticks’ approach to story-telling.

Which makes Armistead Maupin’s singular talent that much more remarkable. His long running series of Tales of the City novels (finally available in eBook form next month) started out as a fictional column for the San Francisco Chronicle. Written to meet a daily deadline, Maupin’s serialisation had no option but to follow the whims of his imagination. As a consequence, his growing legion of followers delighted in seeing where the twisting, turning story would take them. And yet, time and time again, his ability to craft fortuitous coincidence into a neatly-wrapped narrative never once let him down. Even now, the books read as though they were all meticulously planned right from the start, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

During the 1970s, Maupin’s books offered a joyous counterpoint to the seedy underbelly of San Francisco that movie-goers saw in the Dirty Harry series. Bewitched by the free-spiritedness of his newly-adopted home, Maupin depicted San Francisco as a modern-day Shangri La. A bohemian utopia of tolerance and bed-hopping, shrouded in an intoxicating fug of marijuana smoke. As seen through the naïve eyes of secretary Mary Ann Singleton, the city by the bay managed to be both welcoming and intimidating in equal measure – greeting newcomers with a patchouli-scented embrace, and then chiding them for serving instant coffee.

Although readers initially join Mary Ann on her voyage of discovery, hoping that she’ll eventually reconcile her prickly demeanour with her more laid-back surroundings, it’s not until we meet Mrs Madrigal that we discover the books’ real soul. The eccentric landlady of 28 Barbary Lane, Mrs Madrigal is a permissive, Tennyson-quoting mother hen who, when asked if she has any objection to pets in her building, replies enigmatically “Dear, I have no objection to anything.”

Over the course of the first book we meet a diverse cast whose sexualities inform and inspire, but never define, their characters. Rereading the books now, there’s a charming innocence to the way this eclecticism was depicted. So it’s easy to overlook just how revolutionary this was back in the 1970s, even for a city as progressive as San Francisco. Making room in his interconnected world for every conceivable sexual identity, Maupin stayed true to his intention that he be defined as a ‘gay author’, rather than a writer of ‘gay fiction’.

This issue hit home for Maupin when the studios came calling in the mid-eighties, with a big screen adaptation in mind. In a 1993 interview with the LA Times, the author recalled how “…a producer who bought the option invited me to dinner one night with the screenwriter he was proposing for it. The writer said how fabulously talented I was, then hit me with the idea that the gay gynaecologist be made into a serial killer." Another aborted attempt at turning the books into a drama series on CBS encountered similar problems: "They indicated they had no problem with the material until I was minutes away from signing the contract, when they said they might have to eliminate the gay and lesbian characters. As if this was a minor consideration from my viewpoint. I told them taking gay people out of Maupin was like taking poor people out of Dickens."

Over the years, that literary comparison has become increasingly prescient, as critics have compared Maupin’s output to that of Dickens, where once they were content to dismiss his work as well-written soap opera. Initially, perhaps, such a reductionist assessment might have been appropriate, since the storylines relied heavily on contrivance and coincidence. But as the carefree spirit of the 70s gave way to the materialistic narcissism of the 80s, and the spectre of AIDS loomed large over the city’s gay community, the storylines matured accordingly. Although many of the characters retained their irrepressible joie de vivre, the tone grew darker and the plotlines more dramatic.

Even so, Maupin’s decision to end the series with Sure Of You in 1989, left fans grieving for their fictional friends. Minimal concessions were made by allowing some of his peripheral characters to make cameo appearances in Maybe The Moon and The Night Listener, but it was clear that there was still life in the old dogs yet. When Maupin published Michael Tolliver Lives in 2007, he stressed that, although he was happy to revisit his old friends, this was in no way to be seen as the seventh Tales installment. Thankfully, 2010’s Mary Ann in Autumn came with no such caveat, and even managed the not-inconsiderable achievement of wrapping up a storyline that had been left open for over 30 years.

Maupin never wanted his books to be relegated to the ‘gay literature’ shelf, but this gave booksellers a different problem as they struggled to categorise his unique style. Many of the Tales have an unmistakable mystery thriller structure, but wouldn’t sit comfortably alongside police procedurals or grisly whodunits. Likewise, they’re unashamedly sentimental, but have a tart and pithy humour seldom found in conventional romances. Instead, what we’re left with is a series of carefully constructed stories that blend farcical elements like adultery, illegitimate babies and secret identities, with more hard-hitting concepts such as paedophilia, cannibalistic rituals and terminal illness.

Ultimately though, the secret of the books’ appeal, lies in what Maupin’s characters refer to as the ‘logical family’. These are the friends and loved ones we gravitate towards, as we move away from our biological families and define ourselves on our own terms. Free from hereditary obligation and expectation, these are the people we choose to spend our lives with. As the old saying goes, you can pick your friends but you can’t pick your family. In Maupin’s universe, you get to enjoy the best of both worlds.

When I visited San Francisco 18 months ago, the holiday became something of an extended pilgrimage, as we trekked from location to location, attempting to track down as many of the book’s landmarks as we could find. And although we managed to find the rickety wooden steps in Russian Hill which led to Anna Madrigal’s house, we soon discovered that there’s really no such place as 28 Barbary Lane. But that’s the real message at the heart of Maupin’s tales – it’s up to each of us to find our own.

Rolling In The Green

I guess it’s safe to say that Adele’s had a pretty good year. A standing ovation and an armful of awards at last week’s Grammys. Global sales of 17 million. The most successful UK record of the 21st century. Even the recent drama of her hemorrhaged vocal chords had a happy ending, as she proved that her voice has lost none of its power, for anyone who worried (perhaps unnecessarily) that she might be left squeaking out of a hole in her neck.

As she prepares to settle into a fancy mansion set in 25 acres of West Sussex countryside, she can probably afford to lock away that tear-stained diary once and for all, and watch the royalty cheques start piling up.

She’s even on the front cover of Vogue this month, albeit airbrushed so heavily that she looks like she’s half woman, half pebble. Let’s be honest, Vogue isn’t known for showcasing women who look like they’ve ever kept a lunch down, never mind asked for seconds. But this is Adele, the saviour of modern British music, so I guess the ordinary rules don’t apply.

It’s one thing to shift a bucketload of records, but it’s another thing entirely to enter the zeitgeist with your sophomore release. Recently, Saturday Night Live ran a sketch featuring comedy’s answer to Adele, Kristen Wiig, and guest star Emma Stone, as part of a posse of office women who like to cry and sing along with ‘Someone Like You’. Only twelve months old, and it can already take its place alongside ‘All By Myself’ as the go-to karaoke choice for Chardonnay-soaked singletons everywhere.

What’s interesting to me about the whole Adele phenomenon, isn’t the success she’s so rightly earned, but the credibility she’s garnered along with the sales figures. After all, it could have all been so different.

As a former attendee of the Brits school, Adele can count the likes of Dane Bowers, Leona Lewis and Jessie J amongst her fellow alumni. But whereas their names will forever be associated with disposable pop, Adele gets the credit as a true artist.

So what’s the difference? Look at Leona, for instance. Another spectacular voice from decidedly humble beginnings, Leona took the talent show route, correctly speculating that this was the best way of gaining some traction within the music industry. But in spite of how much acclaim her voice may muster, or however much Leona might contribute to writing her own material, her reputation will always be tarnished by the association with Simon Cowell’s pop factory.

Maybe Adele was right to avoid the Syco route – X-Factor and the like have never known what to do with a plus-size singer. The last time they tried, Michelle McManus romped to victory swathed in a hot pink muumuu, belting out disco cover versions like a regional drag act. Her subsequent album limped into obscurity, and within a year she was reduced to hitching up her skirt and shitting into a Tupperware for Gillian McKeith to poke with a stick.

Instead, Adele went the MySpace route (remember when that was still a thing?) and soon got signed to an independent record label. Her debut album, 19, was a critical and commercial smash, but nothing compared to last year’s world-beating follow-up, which spawned three enormous singles and broke sales records everywhere.

Although critics were quick to heap acclaim on Adele’s artistry and soul, it’s worth noting that 21 is just as much a ‘product’ as the output of her poppier contemporaries. The list of co-writers and producers on the album’s credits reads like a who’s-who of commercial pop, including such ubiquitous names as Ryan Tedder, Eg White and Fraser T Smith. Between them, they’ve notched up countless hits for Britney Spears, Ke$ha, Beyonce, Kylie, Will Young, James Morrison, Kelly Clarkson and Leona.

And yet somehow, these other works are lazily dismissed as derivative commercial fodder. It’s not as if Adele’s own sound is particularly innovative, since it’s clearly been cast in the sixties-throwback mold of Amy Winehouse, another Brits School graduate.

21 is full of impeccably performed, well-written pop music. But in many ways, it’s no better or worse than the output of many of her chart rivals. Perhaps there’s something in Adele’s raw vocal performances, and commitment to blue-eyed-soul that makes her seem somehow more authentic - it’s safe to say that, unlike many others, she’s never been a slave to Autotune.

But let’s not kid ourselves. Even great pop music is still pop music, and I say that as a true devotee. I’d just like to see a more even playing field, and a little more critical objectivity, when it comes to appraising the genre. Anything else is just pulling the wool-polyester blend over our eyes.

Oh Ricky, what a pity you don't understand

Getting any ad campaign past a client can be a tricky business. Often times, those who have the least to contribute to the creative process, are content to critique other people’s ideas, just so they’re seen to be playing a part.

Case in point, I once wrote an ad for a mobile phone company that attempted to offer reasons why some customers might occasionally miss the deadline for their phone bills. The innocuous image that accompanied the equally inoffensive headline, showed a woman relaxing on her couch in a state of exhaustion, surrounded by expensive shopping bags full of shoe boxes. We can talk about gender stereotypes in advertising another time. The point here, is that I showed the concept to the client, she took one look at it and shook her head disapprovingly. “She looks like she’s been raped.” There are very few times when I’ve been lost for words in a work context. That was one of them.

I suppose we live in a world where people can take offense at the slightest thing. So every idea has to be focus-grouped within an inch of its life, to make sure there’s no chance that anyone will pick up on some barely perceptible element and find something to complain about. Which makes Rick Santorum’s latest campaign ad a truly astonishing marvel of miscommunication. Is it really possible that no-one in his team piped up and said "Hang on a minute, doesn't that look a little like..."

Recently, I wrote about Rick’s slippery situation, brought about by his incessant (some might say obsessive) slights on the gay community. Without wanting to repeat the whole thing, the upshot of it is that his name has now been reappropriated as a word to describe ‘the frothy mix of lube and fecal matter that is sometimes the byproduct of anal sex’. The news networks know it, his campaign team know it, and even the internet-free octogenarians in Pennsylvania know it. Although they try not to think about it.

Unfortunately, the voters in Michigan have no option but to think about, thanks to Rick’s insanely ill-advised new advertising strategy. Titled ‘Rombo’ , the weirdest thirty seconds you’ll ever see, show a Mitt Romney look-alike “trying to fire a mud gun in the direction of a Rick Santorum cut-out. As the spot progresses the Romney character becomes increasingly frustrated with his inability to hit Rick Santorum with his mud-firing gun. The final visual shows the gun backfiring, and covering Romney in his own mud.” That’s the description from Rick’s own campaign website, by the way.

Now watch the ad. And you tell me what that ‘mud’ looks like:



Here’s a man who’s spent the last few years alternately complaining about ‘incivility’ in political discourse, and trying to sue Google for allowing his name to be so unequivocally associated with bum slurry. And this is the ad he chooses to run. Some people have speculated that it’s an inside job; that the Santorum campaign is being sabotaged from within. After all, how else would such a zealous homophobe end up with a fundraising campaign called Conservatives Unite Moneybomb?

Take a leaf out of Gwyneth's book

There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, entertaining about salads. Eating one is about as much fun as being stuck on a National Express coach to Aberdeen with a delegation of IBS sufferers.

It’s true that salads can occasionally be delicious, but only when they’re slathered in enough blue cheese or creamy dressing to give Tom Daley a heart attack. Otherwise, it’s just a bowlful of foliage, that you’re resigned to munching your way through, like a depressed dairy cow facing yet another day of cud.

So it’s bizarre that one of last year’s most amusing internet memes was the surreal ‘women laughing alone with salad’. Obviously originated by an eagle-eyed art director, it identified a curious new cliché in the stock photography archives. Anyone who’s ever spent a long afternoon wading through Corbis or Shutterstock will be aware of the uninspired trends that already exist – business men shaking hands in airports, pastel-clad pensioners strolling along the beach – but ‘women laughing alone with salad’ took things to new heights of surrealism.

Try Googling the phrase and see how many examples there are of this bizarrely popular scenario. Gorgeous women in brightly lit kitchens, sitting with a perfectly poised fork and laughing like lunatics, as though their cherry tomato is running through half an hour of Sarah Millican’s best material. Unlike most women, who’ve resigned themselves to sighing and grumbling their way through a plastic bowl full of Flymo cuttings, these tittering tits are chuckling heartily at their radicchio.

Well, now we can add Oscar winner, country singer and sanctimonious web mistress Gwyneth Paltrow to their giggling ranks, as it appears that Mrs Martin is now advertising salad in Austria. Accompanied by the caption “I’m not vegetarian, but I love veggie!”, everyone’s favourite A-list homemaker can be seen chowing down on a salad, with a grin on her face that suggests her 100 calorie lunch just told her the one about two nuns in a whorehouse.

Gwyneth has more than a passing familiarity with flogging healthy eating to the masses, but she usually does it on her website Goop. In between plugs for her favourite yoga instructors and Moroccan cushion embroiderers, Gwyneth tells us how to rustle up a tofu and nut loaf fit for Stella McCartney, or throw together a kelp and quinoa facial mask that can be worn during your morning vocal exercises. The only problem, of course, is that Gwyneth seems to think that her Excel-spreadsheet-controlled life, is attainable for the average housewife. Call me a cynic, but I don’t think Gwyneth’s ever wandered round Tesco, oblivious to the fact that her cardigan’s on inside out.

Even so, it’s nice to see that even Gwyneth sometimes finds preparing food from scratch to be too much like hard work. She’s just like us, and sometimes is happy to simply tear open a plastic bag full of pre-washed leaves. The difference is, she looks like she enjoys it.

Screw you, Cupid

It’s Valentine’s Day, so we can expect a torrent of articles bemoaning this ‘Hallmark Holiday’ and how it makes single people feel more unloved than a roast vegetable tartlet in a school canteen.

They’ll piss and moan about all those cruel reminders that they’ve yet to find their special someone. They’ll gripe about Interflora, suggesting that they're operating the kind of racket that would make the five families feel like underachievers. And they’ll probably have a go at the happy couples who choose a window seat in their favourite restaurant, so the whole world can see them demolishing a chocolate fondant with two dainty forks.

Well I say ‘fuck you’ and your cardless mantlepiece. Valentine’s no more fun when you’re in a relationship. In fact, it’s a cold, merciless invention, utterly bereft of the spontaneity and emotion that love is all about.

As you press your runny nose at the restaurant window, silently cursing the people inside, look closely at their body language. Stifling yawns, refolding napkins, and trying to talk about anything other than their day at work, they’re struggling to act as though they’re enjoying themselves. Because they're worried that everyone else looks happier than they are.

One of them is wondering when babysitters got so expensive, and the other one is probably working out how much money they could have saved by having the same meal at home. Christmas might be Santa’s busiest day of the year, but come Valentine’s Day, Cupid might as well be on a booze cruise to Calais, because there’s fuck all for him to do here.

Those couples who don’t brave the hordes for a specially overpriced meal could always have a night in with a DVD instead. The shelves of HMV are stacked with unimaginative, drippy rom-coms featuring the same tired plots, contrived scenarios and unrealistic bed-hair. But they’ve been helpfully repackaged in a pink cardboard sleeve, with a cut-out heart on the front.

And don’t fret about that big romantic meal, because Marks & Spencer is here to save the day with its ‘2 for £20’ offer. Fork out a couple of tenners and you can be enjoying a delicious ready meal, with a bottle of sparkling Cava that may be undrinkable, but it’ll put a shine back on your cutlery.

You’ll probably also need some romantic music, in order to set the mood for the first sex you’ve had since the clocks went back. Every year, the record companies helpfully repackage the same shitty ballads in a new 40-track compilation, as if anyone in the world needs another copy of Minnie Fucking Ripperton.

Oh, and don’t forget to spend twenty minutes in the card shop, trying desperately to find something that won’t make bile burn the back of your throat. It doesn’t matter that most cards show a crushing lack of awareness about how people in relationships actually talk to each other. Shell out your three quid, scribble a quick signature and try to imagine that the term ‘love machine’ applies to you, rather than the one that eats batteries by the bucket-load and lives in the bedside cabinet.

Face facts. Valentine is shit for everyone. Even if you’re happily settled down, it’s a point-by-point deconstruction of everything you’re doing wrong. It doesn’t matter how successful your relationship is, or how happy you are together. If you don’t look like you just fell out of an ad for Sandals Resorts, you’re a miserable failure. And chances are, you’re still going to die alone.

A moment in time

Incomparable. Probably the best word to describe the woman who, along with Madonna, was responsible for transforming popular music in the late 20th century. The last decade may have been dominated by a pitiful series of revelations and scandals, but in her prime, there was no-one quite like Whitney Houston.

People like to throw around the word 'Diva' to describe anyone with a big voice, but Whitney typified the concept better than anyone. Her songs were packed with tremulous drama and heartbreak, delivered with confidence and control. And yet offstage, her life began to spiral into desperation and despair.

Those early revelations of drug abuse were hard for fans to swallow. Whitney had always seemed so clean-living, boring even. So when Bobby Brown's sister sold pictures of the R&B golden couple's crack-strewn bathroom to a tabloid magazine, the world was confronted with the grim reality of Whitney's fall from grace.

This was a million miles away from the timid and shy girl who'd made her TV debut on the Merv Griffin show in 1983, alongside her delighted mentor Clive Davis. Two years later, when her first album was released to great acclaim, critics lauded her "exceptional vocal talent" but commented that it was a somewhat conservative showcase for such a phenomenal voice.

For much of her early career, Whitney was dogged by similar criticism, even as she notched up record breaking sales figures for her accessible brand of MOR soul. Perhaps that's why Brett Easton Ellis dedicated a whole chapter of American Psycho to Whitney's second album, representing as it did, a high benchmark for that sanitised, slickly-produced R&B soul that was so prevalent in the '80s. Even so, the author correctly called out 'Love Is A Contact Sport' as a fantastically effusive piece of pop that deserved to be a single.

Away from the recording studio, Whitney was just as uncontroversial. We recall the look of horror on her face when appearing on Michel Drucker's French talk-show alongside Serge Gainsbourg, as the saucy old coot announced to the host "I want to fuck her." Several years later, on The Word, she struggled to understand Terry Christian's thick Mancunian accent as he asked her if Eddie Murphy (her one-time boyfriend) had "rung her up" during her stay in the UK. She smiled gamely, even mocking Christian's pronunciation, but seemed uncomfortable at the personal nature of the inquiry.

Her first film role, opposite Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard, saw her expressing discomfort with the profanities in the script, but committing herself fully to the performance. The role of Rachel Marron, originally intended for Diana Ross, was hardly a stretch, but she was convincing enough to provoke rumours that Costner had excised some of her scenes for fear that she might outshine him on-screen. Not that any of it mattered, since it's the soundtrack that passed into pop culture history, not the film. The album shifted over 45 million units, with lead single 'I Will Always Love You' scoring another 12 million sales.

Although her interpretation of the song had lost much of the subtle nuance that Dolly Parton had originally intended, the vocals were a masterclass in soulful balladeering, and arguably inspired a whole generation of would-be singers. That giant mezzo-soprano, capable of whispering tenderness, soaring heartbreak, or exuberant celebration, was a once-in-a-lifetime gift. Lining up on shows like X-Factor, American Idol and The Voice, these young girls might attempt to replicate Whitney's mastery, but almost always suffer from the comparison. Like the guitar store sign in Wayne's World that read 'No Stairway To Heaven', perhaps the audition rooms for these talent shows should have one that bans Whitney's back catalogue.

Of course, knowing what she was once capable of, makes her recent attempt at a comeback all the more tragic. The media prayed for a disaster, and that's pretty much what they got. After years of abuse, her voice had lost its warmth, range and power, leaving her shouting and out-of-breath. The 'Nothing But Love' world tour was supposed to represent her triumphant return to the stage, but the press focused on reports of weak performances and fan walk-outs.

Whitney died yesterday, aged just 48. And although she may not leave behind an extensive body of work (just six studio albums in 27 years) her singular influence and extraordinary talent will not be forgotten. 'I'm Every Woman' might have become her unofficial anthem, but in reality, she was anything but.

Why the US version of The Office is the boss

Let’s get something out of the way before we get started. The Office is undoubtedly one of the best sitcoms ever made, and in just 12 episodes (plus an extended Christmas special), managed to redefine what could be achieved in the once-stale format.

It rocketed Ricky Gervais to international fame, and ushered in a new era of more realistic, fly-on-the-wall comedies. A diverse range of shows, from Nighty Night and Curb Your Enthusiasm to Modern Family, all followed its influential lead, and clearly owe Merchant and Gervais’ creation a considerable debt. And yet, I can’t shake this nagging feeling that the American version is better.

It’s a controversial opinion, I know. I’m sure people will jeer at me in the street, and recommend that I spend the rest of eternity giving Maxine Carr home perms for my sins. But I wonder whether the people who protest the most, have ever actually sat down and watched it. Maybe they’re of the opinion that it couldn’t possibly compare to the original – that it’s just a lazy knock-off. If that’s the case, they’re missing out on the most consistently hilarious comedy of recent years.

It’s not just the American’s who recognized the universal appeal of a realistic workplace sitcom – remakes have also been commissioned in France, Germany, Canada, Chile, Israel and Sweden, with a Chinese version in the works. But the US version is far and away the most popular, currently in its eighth hit season, despite star Steve Carell hanging up his papier-mâché spare head at the end of the last season.

If you’re not already apoplectic with indignation at my opinion, allow me to address four of the most common arguments I encounter, when telling others that the exploits of Dunder Mifflin-Sabre beat Wernham Hogg hands-down.

Remakes always suck

When Gervais originally sold his concept to American network NBC, all the people who’d championed his unique mix of arrogance and mortification, predicted an early bath for the transatlantic version. The network didn’t seem to be much more confident, commissioning just six episodes as a mid-season replacement for a show that had already failed. By the time the pilot aired, everyone congratulated themselves on their prescient predictions – once again a much-loved show had failed to translate. The characters had been renamed, but everything else stayed the same, right down to 90% of the script. And some humour just doesn’t travel.

However, those earlier nay-sayers were proven wrong almost immediately, as show runner (and former Simpsons writer) Greg Daniels started to exert his own influence over the show. Benefiting from his knowledge of the UK show’s story arc, Daniels allowed the US incarnations of the characters we recognised, to stretch their legs and find their own voice. The writers were also encouraged to write for the actors, rather then the characters from the original show. Halfway through season 2, it was clear that the show had found its own style and tone, respectful of the original, but evolving in its own direction.

It helped that the supporting cast comprises a number of comedians and writers. In fact, three of the show’s lead writers are also permanent cast-members: B.J. Novak (Ryan the Temp), Mindy Kaling (borderline-psychotic Kelly Kapoor) and Paul Lieberstein (hangdog HR manager Toby Flenderson). In addition, Steve Carell wrote several classic episodes, and many of the other performers have a background in improvisational comedy. Rather than putting all the onus on a single pair of writers, this team-spiritedness has made The Office into a hothouse of comedy.

The Office IS Ricky Gervais

When David Brent first appeared on our screens, we marveled at the fact that a show had been built around such a grotesque caricature of the modern businessman. Gervais’ arrogant preening and tactless insensitivity was quite a revelation, compared with the fuzzily likeable staples of traditional comedies. Over time, however, Gervais has returned to the same well a few too many times. Irrespective of the project, he seldom plays anything other than an exaggerated version of his own stand-up persona – awkward and obnoxious, barely able to contain his own seething contempt for everyone around him.

By contrast, Steve Carrell made Michael Scott (Brent’s US equivalent) an entirely different character. Sure, they share some of the same interpersonal shortcomings, but Scott has a more appealing naivety as well as a desperate need to be liked. Both like to think of themselves as aspiring comedians, but in the US version of the show, we see a wide variety of ways in which this plays out.

Carell is also able to inject much more pathos into a character who might otherwise be gratingly unlikable. Whether he’s taking on a second job in a call centre to subsidise his monstrous girlfriend, or struggling to be creative in his improvisation classes, Michael feels much more like a fully-rounded human being. In contrast, David Brent was always such a loathsome cock, that it was hard to believe that anyone would hire him in the first place.

In addition, the US show is full of moments which subtly remind us that, despite his many shortcomings, Michael Scott is actually good at sales. For example, there’s a lovely scene in season four when Michael gives an ex-client a gift basket, but warns him not to let his daughter eat the nut brittle because she’s allergic. As the old saying goes, even a broken clock is correct twice a day.

Shorter is better

The Offices of Wernham Hogg were clearly built in the shadow of Fawlty Towers, in that Gervais and Merchant clearly admired John Cleese and Connie Booth’s brevity. They called it a day after just 12 episodes, having exhausted themselves with their own perfectionism. The divorce can’t have made brainstorming sessions too much fun either. Of course, the main difference between Fawlty Towers and The Office, is that the former relied on elaborate farce, whereas the latter mined observational, character-based humour for its laughs. This means that the office-based scenario should lend itself to a longer-running format.

As the show has expanded, so too have the background personalities, gradually evolving into fully-fledged characters in their own right. Unlike their UK counterparts, who were little more than ciphers, Oscar, Kevin, Creed, Meredith, Phyllis and Angela have all had their own opportunities to shine during the show’s eight-year run.

For such an ostensibly simple concept, the show has also developed a rich mythology – filling out the world in which the characters live. Unlike conventional sitcoms, where the universe appears to reboot every half hour, this feels like a real world. Jokes play on subtle references to events that took place years ago, giving an extra degree of verisimilitude to the show. Rather than relying on contrived flashbacks or expositionary dialogue, the writers assume that the audience has been paying attention from the start, and exploit this familiarity at regular intervals.

Americans don’t get British humour

If there’s one thing that Americans know how to do, it’s write witty one-liners, filling their shows with photogenic smart-arses who always know just how to wring a laugh out of a contrived scenario. Where they tend to struggle, is in grasping the dark absurdism of British humour. And yet, there are few characters on TV as wonderfully surreal as Dwight K Schrute.

Far from being a lazy pastiche of Gareth Keenan, Dwight is a beetroot-grower of Germanic descent, who lives in a decrepit farmhouse that Norman Bates might charitably describe as a fixer-upper. Obsessed with bears and Battlestar Galactica, his matter-of-factness is often supplanted by an eagerness to get lost in how own nonsensical imaginings. It’s this tendency to over-engineer his own fantasy world that fuels some of the show’s finest exchanges, especially when he engages in a battle of wits with his nemesis Jim:

Dwight: I'm going to be your new boss! : It is my greatest dream come true. Welcome to the Hotel Hell. Check-in time is now, check-out time is never.
Jim: Does my room have cable?
Dwight: No. And the sheets are made of fire.
Jim: Can I change rooms?
Dwight: Sorry, we're all booked up. Hell convention in town.
Jim: Can I have a late checkout?
Dwight: I'll have to talk to the manager.
Jim: You're not the manager? Even in your own fantasy?
Dwight: I'm the owner. The co-owner. With Satan!
Jim: Okay. Just so I understand it: in your wildest fantasy, you are in Hell, and you are co-running a bed-and-breakfast with the Devil.
Dwight: Yeah, but I haven't told you my salary yet.
Jim: Go.
Dwight: Eighty *thousand* dollars a year.

Sometimes, we don’t even need to hear from Dwight himself, to get a sense of his curious survivalist instincts, as receptionist Pam explains a mix-up over the office keys: “There is a master key and a spare key for the office. Dwight has them both. When I asked, "what if you die, Dwight? How will we get into the office?" He said, "if I'm dead, you guys have been dead for weeks."

Although we’re a good year and half behind the US, the show’s first six seasons are available on DVD, with the five of them in a particularly affordable boxset. So go on, take a punt. You won’t be disappointed. That’s what she said.

Stupid is as stupid does

As anyone who’s ever watched A Few Good Men, The Social Network or The West Wing can attest, Aaron Sorkin knows his way around a barnstorming speech. One of the best examples of this came in a live televised debate during the final season of his presidential drama, between Democratic Congressman Matt Santos and Republican Senator Arnold Vinick.

After reeling off an extensive list of liberal accomplishments, Santos (played by Jimmy Smits) declared: “…when you try to hurl the word 'liberal' at my feet, as if it were dirty, something to run away from, something that I should be ashamed of, it won't work, Senator, because I will pick up that label and wear it as a badge of honour.”

Now, it turns out that liberals can wear more than just the label with pride. They can also take comfort in the fact that they’re smarter than their political opponents, according to a new study by Canadian psychologists. In a paper published by Psychological Science, the researches have determined that right-wingers tend to be less intelligent than their liberal counterparts. Finding that people with low childhood intelligence are more susceptible to racist and homophobic rhetoric, the study suggests that conservative politics act as a “gateway” into more extreme prejudices – in much the same way that conservatives believe a couple of joints invariably lead to a belt strap around the bicep.

Having studied the views and opinions of over 15,000 test subjects, the authors have concluded that right-wing rhetoric makes people with a low capacity for reasoning feel safer. The academics responsible for the study report that “Cognitive abilities are critical in forming impressions of other people and in being open minded. Individuals with lower cognitive abilities may gravitate towards more socially conservative right-wing ideologies that maintain the status quo [which] provide a sense of order.”

Nowhere is this more evident than in the increasingly divisive world of American politics, where liberalism has been successfully portrayed as some kind of mental disorder by a political party which has managed to make a virtue out of being incurious. The Simpsons Movie scored a big laugh from ‘President Schwarzenegger’ telling his advisors “I was elected to lead, not to read.” But no-one was chuckling when one-time presidential candidate Herman Cain told supporters in New Hampshire "We need a leader, not a reader." Just imagine putting the big red button in hands that refuse to turn the pages of a book.

For the Republican party, such a celebration of wilful ignorance was nothing new. George W Bush spent eight years waging a one-man war against intellectual rigour, ultimately coasting into a second term because 57% of undecided voters felt that they’d rather have a beer with the incumbent President than Senator Kerry. When he made his famous "You're either with us or against us…” speech, in the wake of the 9/11 attacks, he was celebrated by his followers for taking such a decisive stance. But his unwillingness to understand the deeper objections behind aggressive military action was symptomatic of the black-and-white nature of the conservative worldview.

Meanwhile, the term ‘liberal elite’ was successfully forced into the political lexicon. This cynical move effectively branded those with a complex understanding of the issues as aloof intellectuals, out of touch with the common man. It’s easy to roll your eyes at those wacky Americans, until you consider how much of this anti-intellectualism is already seeping into our own political discourse.

In the mind of most conservatives, there’s only room for definitives and certainty. After all, why waste time debating the nuances and ethics of the issues, when you could be locking them up, sending them back or letting them hang? Of course, there’s also a worry that a more complex discussion of the issues might identify the root causes. An ounce of prevention may be worth a pound of cure, but that would involve much more hard work and soul searching.

Interestingly, the conservative press like to invoke the name of George Orwell’s Thought Police whenever the subject of political correctness rears its unconventionally attractive head. If they had their way, there’d be no need for ‘thought police’, in a world where people either refuse to think, or simply lack the capacity to do so. And that’s the main flaw with this otherwise illuminating research. It overlooks the fact that there are two kinds of conservatives – the leaders, and the mindless flock willing to trot along in their shadow.

“Don’t worry yourself with the facts and the detail,” they seem to tell the party faithful, “We’ll do the thinking so you don’t have to.” The true darkness at the heart of contemporary conservative ideology is that it hides its genuine intellect under a bushel of ignorance. Like Les Dawson pretending to be a shit pianist, it takes great talent to be convincingly inept. The conservative politicians and commentators aren’t as stupid as they’d like to look. Quite the opposite, in fact. They’re playing a role, wearing the village idiot’s hat, in order to convince the voters that they’re in good, if simple, company. Like wolves in sheeple’s clothing. Which begs the question, if they don’t even believe their own rhetoric, why should anyone else?

Five chick flicks I just don't get

‘Chick Flick’. Like ‘compassionate conservatism’ or ‘from the studio that brought you Grown Ups’, it’s a phrase that’s guaranteed to chill the blood of any reasonable cinema-goer. It doesn’t matter who’s in the film, or what it’s about. Chances are, it’s going to star Jennifer Aniston, Katherine Heigl or Kate Hudson. And they’ll spend two hours trying to prove that a woman can have it all - husband, kids, career and a pair of heels so high they’d give a window cleaner a nosebleed. Because Hollywood is convinced that women are all bitches anyway, they’ll also make sure that their photogenic stars repeatedly fall over, and have at least one scene where they look like Myra Hindley staging a dirty protest. Call it the Bridget Jones Factor – “I’m allowed to like her, because she’s just like me. Ha, she just fell in a puddle.”

Less a genre, more a collective noun for toxically inane effluvia, the chick flick machine has squeezed out more than its fair share of cinematic pipe-blockers. Thankfully, their interchangeable nature means that they seldom stick around in the public consciousness. Instead, they’re released intermittently as ‘counter-programming’ for sports widows. But every once in a while, we get a blockage. A particularly stubborn deposit that sticks to the sides because it somehow taps into the cultural zeitgeist of the time. Sometimes, these might actually be acceptable films, such as Steel Magnolias, Notting Hill or Bridesmaids. But all too often, their popularity is as inexplicable as it is infuriating. So here, without any further ado, are the five most bafflingly popular chick flicks. To avoid fainting, keep repeating ‘it’s only a movie, it’s only a movie.’

Dirty Dancing

Remember that trailer for The Shining that someone recut with jaunty music and quirky captions to turn Stanley Kubrick’s bone-chilling masterpiece into a romantic comedy? The same exercise could easily be deployed with Dirty Dancing, repurposing this frothy confection as the cautionary tale of a malevolent paedophile grooming the daughter of a hotel guest.

During the late eighties, my sister fell under this film’s insidious spell, watching it every opportunity she got, and lusting after Patrick Swayze’s hypnotic hips, despite that they were attached to six foot of petrified timber. Given the enthusiasm that many women have for this wretched mess of a movie, it’s weird to think what a negative view of women the film portrays. All the women in Dirty Dancing are either doormats, bimbos, predatory housewives, haughty dancers or thieving pensioners. And don’t get me started on the ‘memorable dialogue’ – “I carried a watermelon” and “Nobody puts Baby in the corner” were never great lines. They were simply punchlines to jokes that nobody had told yet.

Other films set in the sixties usually make a cursory effort to incorporate themes of social upheaval, in an attempt to contextualize the drama. In Dirty Dancing, we’re told that Frances ‘Baby’ Houseman wants to join the Peace Corps, and that’s your lot. Even the abortion storyline is swept under the rug, once Dr Houseman has cleaned up Cynthia Rhodes mangled mimsy.

In spite of a litany of sins against taste and quality, my biggest problem with Dirty Dancing has to do with its soundtrack. Yes, it features a fantastic selection of classics from the likes of Solomon Burke and Otis Redding. But the film’s standout song (which accompanies the big dance scene at the end) is a couldn’t-be-more-eighties MOR mess by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes. Having spent the entire film trying to convince us that it’s the 1960s, the producers throw it all out of the window in favour of an anachronistic, over-produced ballad that has no business in a period piece. They might have had the time of their lives, but this is 100 minutes I won’t be getting back.

Mamma Mia

Let me state for the record that I love ABBA unreservedly. The melodies, the production, the voices, even the lyrics, have a timeless quality that refuses to diminish with each passing decade. I also enjoy musicals, because I’m able to suspend my disbelief when someone bursts into song. To my mind, it’s no less dramatically valid than a Shakespearean character breaking the fourth wall with a soliloquy.

So why is it that watching Mamma Mia was like being face-raped by a bull elephant with anger management issues? Maybe it was the fact that the entire plot had been lifted from a ropey 1980s Shirley Conran novel (ask your Mum). A young girl finds out her mother was a slut, so she invites three potential fathers to her wedding to find out who’s the daddy. Of course, she could have just taken a blood test, but ABBA never wrote a song about DNA matches.

Perhaps I just failed to get caught up in all that joyful exuberance, finding the sight of three middle aged women jumping on a bed to be almost offensive in its lazy light-heartedness. For a film that sold itself on being a great night out, it managed to make waterboarding feel like a more rewarding way to spend an evening.

The crew clearly spent lots of time in the Greek islands to score some great location footage, but most of the film is shot in a studio set less convincing than the Spanish resort in Duty Free. And then there’s Meryl Streep, a woman so used to acting her socks off that she’s forgotten how to come across like a regular human being. This gives the film a curiously unnerving tone, as she constantly looks as though she’s going to burst into tears, or laugh hysterically and start hacking at her hair with a steak knife. The only saving grace is that she can at least hold a note, which is more than can be said for Pierce Brosnan, who is to singing what Amy Childs is to comparative theology.

Love, Actually

What happens when you take the romantic comedy and British whimsy of Four Weddings, and blend it with a multi-strand, Altman-esque anthology of overlapping vignettes? If you’re anything like me, you get a splitting headache and an overwhelming desire to firebomb Richard Curtis’ Notting Hill townhouse. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to listen to people extolling the virtues of this aimless, self-indulgent mess. But it’s probably as many times as I’ve gone through my Facebook account and defriended people with extreme prejudice. There may be a link between the two.

In a film full of risible dialogue and unrealistic archetypes, I reserve particular scorn for 11 year-old Thomas Sangster. In arguably the worst scene of the entire film, the smug prepubescent attempts to motivate his father (played with somnambulant indifference by Liam Neeson) by saying “Let’s go get our asses kicked by love.” Tell you what, if love fails to show up, I’ve got some heavy boots to break in.

If the gossamer thin characterisations and contrived scenarios don’t irritate the piss out of you, watch it again and count how many ethnic minorities have been cast in incidental roles. Curtis got his knuckles wrapped for making the population of Notting Hill look like the EDL, so he made a concerted effort to portray a more diverse London in this follow up. The problem is, every single minority character is expected to stand in the background and be thankful for the visibility, because Curtis has no idea what else to do with them. I guess complaining that it’s all so white and middle class is ultimately an exercise in futility, since the only estates Curtis knows are the kind with stables and a boating pond.

Sex and the City

HBO’s groundbreaking comedy drama (the studio would probably like to call it a ‘dramedy’ but I can’t bring myself to use the word) was a pretty good show. Well cast, tightly written and occasionally hilarious, Sex and the City ran for six seasons and bowed out gracefully with a happy ending for its four main characters.

But what worked in slender, 30 minute installments took on a whole different tone when stretched over two and half hours. Suddenly, the four women who were the backbone of the show came across like grasping, venal, self-absorbed hags. Deliberately sabotaging their own happiness and sulking when they didn’t get their own way, these were not likable everywomen. They were the one-percent in fuck-me heels.

The first film was bad enough, but the sequel plumbed new depths of awfulness, with an extended jaunt to Abu Dhabi that showed Samantha, Carrie, Miranda and Charlotte up for the culturally insensitive whores that they are. And what led our plucky heroine to the Middle East in the first place? She was running away from her awful husband, because he bought her a giant plasma TV. The thoughtless, insensitive cunt.

My Big Fat Greek Wedding

Produced by Tom Hanks and his wife Rita Wilson, MBFGW was a surprise sleeper hit in 2002, racking up quarter of a billion dollars in the US alone. But when a quirky title is the funniest thing about your film, there’s clearly something wrong. Writer and star Nia Vardalos was trumpeted as the next big thing, but as the three people who endured follow-up Connie and Carla can attest, the success of her debut was a momentary aberration.

The film seemed to take the view that stereotypes can’t be offensive if you belong to the community being satirised. But since it also misunderstood the definition of ‘comedy’, we can hardly hold it accountable for lacking nuance. The ad campaign for the film, which only seemed to get commissioned once word-of-mouth had already landed it in the black, had audiences flocking to cinemas expecting a laugh riot that would make Airplane! look like a Lars Von Trier film. Instead, they got an old woman who thought vegetarians could eat lamb. And I guess houmous is funny if you say it enough times.

But wait, there’s a real message in this film. It tells us that outdated perceptions of gender are a bit old-fashioned. And that plain women should pretty themselves up with a bit of make-up if they want to land a husband. Revelatory stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. Ultimately though, we need to remember that this is more than just a movie – it’s also bequeathed us a rich cultural legacy of tawdry TV shows with ‘My Big Fat’ in the title. Thanks for that. Thanks a bunch. 

You're going to Hollywood

These audition episodes are a gruelling business, especially when there’s three hours’ worth to wade through every week. And if you think watching them is tough, you should try writing about them. So rather than a blow-by-blow recap of every hopeless hopeful that queued up to appear on that glass lozenge that passes for a stage, here’s what I learned this week about how to secure those all important 15 minutes of notoriety.

Play to J-Lo’s ego

One of the first contestants this week was a pretty young single mother, who practices by singing to her daughter. When asked what songs she likes, she tells them that ‘On The Floor’ is her five year old’s favourite. These are the hidden costs of parenting. When she sings, Jennifer complements her on her “natural voice”, because in her mind, singers are supposed to sound like an android with throat polyps. Jayrah Gibson also knows how to woo Jenny From The Block, by performing a song he wrote for her. It’s complete shit, so we shouldn’t be surprised that she attempts to raise an approving eyebrow.

Thank the Lord

It’s not unusual for American contestants to proclaim divine intervention when it comes to their time on a talent show. But we should give a special shout-out to Ramiro Garcia, who tells us the tragic story of how he was born without ears – a scenario that seemed almost appealing after three hours of melisma. Despite his tough start in life, he now heads up a local church. And he credits his faith for giving him a voice and the ability to hear, which somewhat undermines the role of the surgeons who worked the actual miracles. After telling his inspirational story, Steven tells him “I like your insides”, so Ramiro can at least take pride in the fact that he’s the first male contestant to get that particular complement from the Aerosmith screamer.

Try to fuck Steven Tyler

If you really want to make sure that your try-out for Idol gets seen by 20 million viewers, just pretend that you’re turned on by leathery skin and a mouth that could sub-let space to Big Yellow. On the first of this week’s shows, the auditions took place on USS Midway, so Steven showed up in a flying hat and goggles. Even though this made him look like Sebulba, the villainous podracer from The Phantom Menace, the girls were still throwing themselves at him. Maybe they just like the attention, something Steven’s never been shy of giving. He even tells one girl “I love your high wobble, when you go upstairs.” We just have to hope that he was talking about her voice.

Confirm Ryan’s heterosexuality

Forget about all the rumours, conjecture and dubious pictures of him on a Mexican beach with Simon Cowell, Ryan is as straight as an A-list Scientologist. So if you want to get noticed, give him a chance to assert his alpha male status. First up was Wolf, who got a lot of coverage, much of which will probably be aired again when he makes his inevitable appearance on America’s Most Wanted. Apropos of nothing, he admits that all the women who knew he was auditioning wanted him to kiss Ryan, who expresses relief that it’s not going to happen. Maybe he doesn’t like beards, unless they’re the ones who’ll walk the red carpet with him. Haley told us about the three jobs she holds down as a cleaner, restaurant worker and meat packer in a sausage factory. Curiously, it’s the last one that piques his interest, but only because he’s a fan of a chunky Cumberland. Special points go to this week’s first contestant, who showed up in a patriotic biki top and hot-pants combo, and gamely played along as Ryan repeatedly ask her to walk up the stairs. Don’t know about you, but I’m certainly convinced.

If all else fails, be utterly deluded

Whether it was Aubrey, who wanted to be on America’s Top Model despite looking like Rumer Willis with lockjaw, or the girl who told us “I want to be the new Lady Gaga. There’s no-one like me”, this was a great week to be lacking in self-awareness.

In Texas, where everything is bigger – especially the arseholes - we got to see a parade of would-be country singers who all sounded like lowing cattle, convinced that they stood a chance because of last year’s Grand Ole Opry-styled final. We also met Phong Vu, who got excited about the fact that he was able to name the judges. Unfortunately, he had a little more trouble with his favourite singer Selina Dion. The highpoint of his audition was his “iconic dance move”, which involved jumping on the spot with one arm out.

Alejandro managed to score plenty of screen-time, by announcing that the revolution has started. He asked the judges to “Grant me the power to bring revolution to the world. Where Lady Gaga can become a pop star, or Barack Obama can become the President.” The judges helpfully pointed out that he might be a little late to that particular party. At the end of his awful audition, he groveled for another chance, prompting Jennifer to tell him “Please don’t beg, you have too much dignity for that.” Maybe she was watching a different show on the monitor.

Finally, if these tactics don’t work, you could always consider a move into food services. Alanna Snare got her own segment, thanks to her chat about Rocky Mountain Oysters. Given the amount of people who talk bollocks on this show, its hardly surprising that some people have developed a taste for them. And don’t forget Skylar, who works in a rundown family restaurant. They’ve had a tough couple of years, which her mother doesn’t like to talk about. Unless there’s a camera crew on hand. She describes the restaurant as a “hole in the wall”, but having watched the footage, even that description seems overly complimentary. Still, that got her on the show, so consider it a job well done.