At Last. Something Beautiful You Can Own.

So this weekend I've basically smashed through the fifth series of Mad Men. I have been dying to see it. Every friend of mine has said, "Oh my God. That episode. That episode." And I think this is what I've just watched.

Mad Men is a strange beast, which takes the viewer back to a time of, let's face it, better dresses, better hair, better work stylee. By work stylee, I refer to the fact that all the men have untold numbers of bottles in their office, seem able to take naps at whim, and have "an apartment in the city" as a euphemism for a bit on the side. Wherefore are those days gone.

However the uncomfortable side of the late 60's Mad Men displays in glorious technicolour, is the all-too comfortable relegation of women to mere playthings. Peggy, a talented copywriter, is consistently passed over for jobs based on the simple fact she's a woman: "We can't have a woman working on a car account", says Don, the surprising hero of the piece. Betty, a fallen model on her second marriage is relegated to a now apparently overweight housewife who needs to go to WeightWatchers meetings to find a small sense of her former self-worth. And Joan. Beautiful, composed, cutting Joan, whom to all outsiders has the world at her feet. Joan, who is pushed into a world of corporate prostitution, to try and form her own mark on a company. For a sense of duty; for her employer, SCDP.  For the company. For the men that run it.

And sometimes I wonder, are things that much different these days? I have worked in many companies, often headed up by alpha males, who would demand a certain level of submission to their own bawdy hilarity in order to "fit in". How much further than this does the tide turn, for women, into the prostitution of their own self? Where do we draw the line? Where it becomes okay for some jokes to pass, and where some hit below the belt (as it were)? Where do we say, "Hey, these jokes about my arse being enormous were hilarious, and everyone seems to be enjoying them, but now I'm getting a bit pissed off?"

 I know what the majority of people will say about this. "Why would you put up with this? Complain to HR! Make your point!" But anyone who says that has never been in this position. Relationships, particularly in work, are a billion times more complicated than that. And most of the time, unfortunately, it's just not that easy.

Are we too sensitive? Should we be pulling up every person who makes a joke about someone's tits, at the risk of being that killjoy? Or is it better to just fit in, laugh along with the jokes, all the while thinking how much you despise this moment in time, whilst knowing that if you just fit in, if you just carry on, everything will probably be just fine.

Joan ended up experiencing the hardest end of this dilemma. I don't envy her. But I sincerely wonder, some times, if we've moved as far beyond these apparently long-left-behind times as we like to think.

Revolution TV update

This blog has been shamefully neglected over the past few months, whilst I embarked on a new job and an even newer mid-life crisis. Both are proceeding marvellously, running at a good pace alongside one another - isn't it nice when things in life align like that? - and if I tried to write any sort of mentally taxing piece right now, I would end up crawling into the linen cupboard and eating all my bedsheets. So, for the protection of the minimal amount of haberdashery we actually own, I'm going to avoid that and just list some stuff you should probably be watching on't telly.

1. The Real Housewives of Orange County

Now anyone with a full-time job or a smattering of self-respect won't really know anything about this. Whilst I have a full-time job, I also have TiVo which allows me to watch a full five hours of this abomination of a program a week. FIVE WHOLE HOURS. I know. RHOC is one of those Bravo-funded "sopumentaries" about the trials (literally - in the judicial sense) and tribulations ("oh my GAHHHD my boobs are too big/too small/too fake/not fake enough") of five women, whom I think have all been divorced at least twice, living it up in the illustrious suburbs of the OC. They have to keep swapping various cast members out at the end of each season due to various lawsuits they keep filing against each other, and the main hobby of the entire cast seems to be getting absolutely shitfaced on cocktails and taking (usually verbal but occasionally physical) swings at each other. I hate myself but I can't help but watch it - it's like when you're absolutely starving and the only thing in the house are three frozen yorkshire puddings and a piece of four week old cheese; as a meal it's so wrong but my God it tastes good going down. It's ridiculous but hey, it makes me feel a little better about my life choices: even though I'm not a multi-millionaire living in the sunshine, I don't resemble a leather handbag by choice.

2. The Last Weekend

This was a complete surprise as a mini-series, and every review of it I've seen has said much the same. Not because the novel it was based on was crap (quite the opposite), or that the actors were pants (again, couldn't be farther from the truth); but because it was on ITV. My other half and I routinely refer to anything on ITV after the watershed as a "another poor quality ITV drama" and it would seem the majority of television reviewers hold the same opinion. I think the real strengths for this three-parter were the solid screenplay based on the truly terrific book by Blake Morrison, and the two male leads, Rupert "posh bit of fancy pants" Penry-Jones, and the truly creepy Shaun Evans as Ian. There is a real sense of burgeoning dread that infiltrates what seems to be a light and fluffy weekend away, and the conclusion of the second part shunts the story into an entirely new and quite unexpected territory. As it seems with all mini-serieses, the ending suffered a little from the anti-climactic "meh", but overall it's definitely worth checking out on DVD or maybe on the "poor quality ITV drama"-Player online.

3. The Thick Of It

Yeah, yeah, I know, everyone loves this, but it really is worth all the hype. This fourth series is playing with the format, controversially putting the Coalition government of Tory old guard Peter Mannion and the gobby, power-hungry upstarts from the LibDems at the forefront. Sticking Malcolm Tucker in the background (at least in what we've seen so far) was a pretty brave move from Armando Iannucci, but it's paid off. Roger Allam's Peter Mannion is every bit as scene-stealingly brilliant as Capaldi's Tucker, and his complete befuddlement at the onward march of the digital age has brought about some of the funniest lines of the season. Episode two which showed Nicola Murray now as head of the opposition was incredibly uncomfortable to watch, both in terms of her complete ignorance to what's going on around her, and seeing Malcolm kowtowing (at least superficially) to Nicola's whims. However the episode set up a forthcoming coup very neatly - so we'll have to wait and see if we get a revitalised Tucker on the warpath against the Nutters this week.

4. Doctor Who

I love Doctor Who. This is because I am a nerd. I am not ashamed of it, and nor do I apologise for it. But I've had a difficult time with the old Doc the last couple of series, mainly due to the bordering-on-ridiculous detail of the story arcs. Steven Moffat has made no bones about saying the goal of the writing in this series was to present more stand-alone stories, and so far they're doing rather well - with the exception of that stupid second episode starring a terminator-style robot that bore more than a passing resemblance to Greg Davies with tinfoil taped to his face. The new companion, Jenna-Louise Coleman has showed her face already in the guise of a human trapped in a Dalek, and the general consensus in Casa del Me was that she was incredibly irritating. However I said the same thing about Catherine Tate who went on to star in one of my favourite episodes ever, "Turn Left", so we'll see. Word on the street is the good old ginger nuts Pond kicks the bucket this week, so brace yourself for a tear-jerker. I will be personally preparing with a curry and at leads four cans of Strongbow.

You should probably also all still be watching Neighbours, but you knew that already.

140 Characters and Counting

Tidy the Pugalier: "Stephen Fry has blocked me again."

I’ve been chucking out brain wibbles of 140 characters or less on Twitter for (I think) about 3 years now, and I don’t plan on stopping any time soon. I feel that I am my peak abilities of communication when trying to work out if I can keep that apostrophe in, or if that will push the tweet over the 140 character limit. (Don’t even get me started on the TweetLonger options available. If you want to bang on for longer than Twitter’s cut-off character limit, piss off back to Facebook where you belong, you vociferous time wasters.) I love the fact that you can watch politicians literally end their careers with a drunken smashing of their smartphone keypad after they’ve had eight-too-many Beaujolais in the publically funded parliament bar. I love the fact that I can follow my friends when they’re on a night out and can be up to date on who got kicked out of what club, without having to make the effort to change out of my comfy pants with the moth holes in the arse.

As my time on Twitter progressed, I started following a variety of different people to the ones I had started off with. My feed spread to include a lot of columnists and journalists, food bloggers and reviewers, radio presenters and newsreaders. And slowly I started to realise that they all knew each other. They were all, constantly tweeting each other. Making hilarious, pithy observations amongst themselves. They all seemed like they were having so much fun, all the time! How wonderful!

The problem that then becomes apparent, however is that YOU CAN’T JOIN THEM. Oh you can tweet them an amusing anecdote along the same lines of their conversations; sure. Will they respond to you? Chances are pretty slim. This doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re lording it up on Twitter Hill, refusing to acknowledge the pleb population of the Great Unwashed below. The people in question have 100,000 plus followers usually – their @ replies are constantly pouring in, racing down the page like so many Watership Down bunny rabbits after the first barbeque of the season. They’re never going to see you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t try, does it?

Or does it? I confess when I first turned to Twitter, I didn’t quite get it and was a lot less discerning about who I would tweet. Until I realised that if I had a mate who followed both me and whatever minor celebrity I had tried to muscle my opinions on to, they would be able to see both my excitable tweet to aforementioned minor celeb, and the uncomfortable radio silence that followed as my tweet went unacknowledged. I don’t need that. I spent the majority of my formative years in high school going to parties and being ignored. I don’t need to recreate this scenario in my adult years, nor  do I need to parade it online in front of everyone else. I can embarrass myself in actual public quite competently, thanks very much.

But a few years down the line and something has changed. After careful observation from afar on when it is appropriate to interject in a Twitter conversation, I have slowly began to start garnering responses from the very people who would have turned their nose up at my “HAAAI GUYS DO YOU LIKE LOLCOPTERZ” attempts at conversation not so long ago. I’ve amazingly received @ replies from some of my heroes – Grace Dent agreed with me about The Daily Show being cancelled from More 4. Jay Rayner has been round the @ replies with me.  Richard Bacon tweeted a one word reply – “yes” – in response to my bemoaning missing his radio show the previous day. Is that an agreement? An air punch? Who knows. Giles Coren has tweeted me TWICE in two days. A number of members of Elbow have politely replied, with an air of “back away from the crazy” implied. Basically, in my mind, I’m IN. Twitter LOVES ME. These people are all my NEW BEST FRIENDS.

My internal belief that I am actually friend with all these online bods probably culminated on Saturday, when I set off for a charity walk with my friend Kat. Walking past Embankment tube, I stopped, mid-walk, and screamed out “HAAAAI GARETH!!”, waving wildly to a brilliantly coiffeured young man sat outside the tube station. He stared at me, with the expression of someone not entirely sure if they should be ringing the emergency services at this juncture, before hesitantly waving back. This was not an unusual reaction for him to have, considering HE HAD NEVER MET ME BEFORE. I follow him on Twitter and recognised him from his avatar. It’s the equivalent of wandering up to Ryan Gosling in Tesco in your S Club 7 pyjamas, and telling him that you’d been considering leaving your husband for him. This person doesn’t actually know you. You probably shouldn’t do that to them.

But bless Gareth, he was extremely gracious under pressure and we struck up a lovely conversation over the @ replies. And I went away feeling very happy that I’d shouted out like a crazy person, which is not a reaction crazy people normally have about frightening Northern chaps in public. Because for all the talk about social media creating more distance between people, as we apparently move towards communicating solely through handsets and computer screens; in that moment I had made connection with a Real Life Human Being, which never would have happened had it not been for Twitter. And that can only be a good thing.

Throwing Bricks In Glass Houses

NB: not the actual Samantha Brick

So imma just gonna say a couple of things about this Samantha Brick debacle and then we can all go and have a nice cup of tea, and think about what we've done. That okay with everyone?

Yesterday morning, The Daily Mail posted an article by some woman called Samantha Brick, banging on in a facetious and obnoxious manner about how women hated on her because she was so damned attractive. Being attractive was SUCH an obstacle in her life, it seems, that she has been passed over for promotions, lost friends, and (gasp) has never even been asked to be a bridesmaid. Accompanied by a number of cheesily posed pictures of a fairly regular looking woman, I happened across this article at about 9am, and, I confess, was pretty outraged, sharing the link with a female friend of mine.

Two hours later, I checked the story again. It had managed to attract an enormous 1450 comments on the Daily Mail's website. I clearly don't have the mental strength or agility to pore over these all, but none of the comments I saw were supportive. They were revolting, verging on trolling. It was hating for hatings sake. And, in fairness's sake, the article was appallingly written: no discernible structure, no actual point being made, just a series of "woe is me, I suffer from hunger being this skinny" vignettes, none of which seemed to go anywhere. It was just one pointless anecdote after another. Fine. Whatever. Liz "semen stealing" Jones has made a career out of it, so why can't this woman.

Then I saw this morning's follow up, and I felt a bit queasy. The Daily Mail had decided, in their all-pervading wisdom, to get this woman to write another article, based on the fact she had become the most villified, most pilloried member of the British community overnight. She mentioned she had been in tears for a lot of yesterday. Understandable, surely, when you see that 1450 people had taken the time - by midday - to deride this woman in public. But hey, I hear you cry - she put herself up to this, didn't she? SHE wrote the article. IT'S CLEARLY ALL HER FAULT.

I'm not so sure. Giles Coren, the Times journalist, tweeted last night that he wondered if anyone had considered that the Daily Mail had basically set her up for a fall. (In the interest of direct quoting, he actually said "fucked her over", but you get the point.) And really, this is where the blame lies. Regardless of how inflammatory her piece was to start with, this has gone past sub-editors, and editors, and they've probably rubbed their hands together, cackling, thinking of the amount of traffic to their site this would generate. Their advertisers must be rolling in piles and piles of furore-scented cashback right now. And the Mail made that possible.

If this woman really was in a fragile state yesterday, is the responsible thing to do to get her to do it ALL OVER AGAIN? The second article is even worse than the first; still poorly thought through, with no real point but this time with so much tangible "woe is me" that the commenters went just as ballistic as the day before. And all this is doing is driving more traffic to a website that is based around outrageous, inflammatory, poorly written trash pieces that all us middle class Guardian readers adore slagging off, but still sneak around to peeking at just to see "what all the fuss is about". Don't say you don't. I know you do, because I do it too. Mark my words, this will be covered on lefto-comedy program 10 0'Clock Live tonight - if it's not, I'll eat my hat.*

Just give it a bone, people. None of us are coming out of this smelling of roses. The amount of pure bilious venom that has spewed from those comments over the past 48 hours is enough. Can we not now just forget about the whole thing, and move on to examining where the real bile should be poured: onto a publication that not only allows, but openly relishes, in holding women like this up for public ridicule and judgment.




*I will not actually eat my hat. I'm probably allergic to cotton.

Deadly Bird Flu: The Gosling Strain

"But I read driving gloves were due a comeback..."

Right, so I was meant to write a piece about Jon Stewart and 10 O’Clock Live, but I can’t. I can’t concentrate on such piffling things when I have much bigger things to worry about. Such as the fact I only discovered Ryan Gosling existed about two weeks ago.

Watching the movie Drive has ruined my life. I have turned into a Gosling addict. I play the soundtrack constantly. I wonder if I look enough like Carey Mulligan to be an alternative to her if I’m ever stuck in a lift looking moonily at my fellow traveller. I wonder what it’s like to be that toothpick. It’s turning my brain into a pile of goose droppings. GOSLING DROPPINGS.

And the really disturbing thing about this realisation is it’s not just me. I’ve done a straw poll of all the women I work with, and at the mere mention of the broody pashmagnet, eyes misted over, legs went wibbly and coherent speech from normally intelligent, strong women turned into a competition to shout how much they would rub their face against his (considerably toned) abdominal area. It’s like that movie Outbreak. But with less ebola monkeys and more lovesick swoon-brawds.

Here are The Things That Have Contributed to the Gosling Factor.

1. He plays quiet, damaged, romantic characters. I think we have all managed to completely move beyond the fourth wall now and assign these qualities to the bloke himself. Who knows if he’s just an amazing actor? What do you mean these are “roles”? What do you mean that’s not his real jacket? All these things are now irrelevant. We only see him as the characters in Drive, Blue Valentine, et al, where he loves that girl so much he embarks on a (delete as applicable) - violent/self destructive, crime spree/drinking spree, whilst fitting in a bit of kicking in crims faces/kicking in his wife’s boss’s face  -  ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN.

2. He also plays cocky and arrogant very well. See Crazy Stupid Love. WHAT a movie. WHAT Vintage Gosling. But the Gosling factor in that film that really kicks is his womaniser's redemption – he realises that his gigolo-ing ways, whilst entertaining for him (and us) are leaving him empty. Then he meets “the one” (somewhat miscast in this film as an actress who is NOT ME) and changes his misogynistic ways: ALL FOR THE LOVE OF A GOOD WOMAN.

3. He rarely speaks about his relationships in public; the mention of anything to do with his personal life sees him verbally sprinting towards the door. This is why he doesn’t do US TV talk shows, or much press at all for that matter. The only TV appearance he’s really done recently was an episode of Ellen, where he bought the entire audience of the show onesies, then proceeding to complete the interview, onesied up,  riding an exercise bike (no, me neither). I posted this clip on Facebook yesterday and by the end of the day it had gone viral throughout my female friends. But I did find this one quote, about his previous relationship with Rachel McAdams, which I think is basically the only time he’s ever said much about his ladyfriends:

“I mean, God bless “The Notebook”, it introduced me to one of the great loves of my life. But, people do Rachel and me a disservice by assuming we were anything like the people in that movie. Rachel and my love story is a hell of a lot more romantic than that.”

There is nothing any of us can say at this point, mainly because any female within a fifty mile radius of someone hearing that has just fallen to the ground, twitching, not unlike that Radiohead filmclip. All the real Gosling wants is the love of a good woman, too. The sheer scale of this is too much for any of us to take.

The major problem with this sort of worldwide, complete fixation on the fact that the Gosling Is Everyone’s Number One is the Pied Piper effect. If this bloke turns out to actually be working for the Republican Party, or selling additive-ridden snacks guaranteeing obesity and type 2 diabetes in 4 easy steps to disabled children, there’s a reasonable chance that the women of the world – the sensible, emotionally grounded, brains of this whole operation – will turn a blind eye in case he lets us chew his toothpick. I mean, let’s face it, we all collectively sighed watching him snog the face off Carey Mulligan in the lift before stamping the jaw out of a bad guy’s face. With this kind of blinkered viewing, he could be drowning a puppy in one hand, and whilst using the other hand to cock his finger suggestively in a “come hither, my wench” manner and 80% of us wouldn’t see the puppy.

As a friend of mine said yesterday whilst discussing the Gosling appeal issue, “with great power comes great responsibility” so don’t let me down boyo – you keep making the good movies and supporting Darfur and we’re sweet. But you start showing any signs of affiliation with the Tea Party, and I’m sounding the klaxon on you; you delicious man-fox, you.

NB. If Mr Gosling would like to discuss this piece personally with me, I am available to fly out to the States at his convenience.

TRWBT Ad Break - The Rise of the Invisible Woman

So last night, it was a bit of a pain to get home. There was a match on at the stadium I live by, and the tube line I take was pretty busy as a result. I had to wait on the platform of Hyde Park Corner whilst a couple of packed trains went past, before one I could cram on arrived.

I had managed to position myself right at where I could see a door would be stationed, and as the train pulled up stepped forward to board. Then out of nowhere, I feel a shove from my right, and look round to see a tall, well-dressed girl literally push me to one side to get on the train ahead of me.

The carriage was not busy enough to warrant the usual rush hour every-man-for-themselves slalom run. This girl had, apparently, just decided that she was going to get on this train before me, and take that last seat, as if she was basically entitled to it.

Once she had sat down, I caught her do the one thing the sisterhood should be above by now: the look-you-up-and-down and eyebrow-raise-then-look-away. A more judgmental person would describe it as a sneer. I looked down at myself; I looked okay. I was just wearing an overcoat, jeans and a pair of trainers. My hair was a bit shit; it was flying everywhere because of the weather, and to be fair, I was attempting to restrain it with an elastic band I found on the floor. But there weren't holes in my top; I didn't have food down my front (a rarity).  What was wrong with this? But then I looked up and compared my outfit to hers, which was an expensive-looking, on-trend, tailored, Grazia-inspired type of affair and I got it. This lady thought I looked a bit crap.

I was furious. And I was furious not because this girl and pushed in front of me (quite literally), or taken the last seat; these things happen on the Underground every day. It’s a fact of life you get used to after about ten minutes of living in London that elbows and crafty positioning are the only way you’re getting to work if there are delays on the line. But there weren’t, and we were the only two people getting on this carriage. The reason that I was teetering on the edge of doing a Michael Douglas in Falling Down is that she had just cemented what I had suspected for the last few months; the rise of the Invisible Woman is on the incline, and that women are inflicting some of the worst damage on their counterparts.

Women, you will either know exactly what I’m talking about, or have no idea. You either are one, or you’re not. The Invisible Women are everywhere now; there have been a number of articles in the last year or so trying to pinpoint the exact age that "previously" vivacious, beautiful, and dare I say supple women become Invisible to the, ahem, more relevant members of society. On 11^th February last year, the Daily Mail decided it was 50. Less that six months later, the same publication revised their figure to 46. I don’t like these odds. As a 31 year old woman, I am being constantly reminded that my time as a useful, attractive member of society is not only waning, but rapidly being readjusted to ensure that by the time I’m 33 I resemble nothing more than a dried up old prune with a rug over her knees, barking at her houseful of cats. I'M FUCKING ALLERGIC TO CATS.

Or is it more of a size issue thing? I’m so bored of the size debate, basically because there IS no answer. It’s completely fucked up that women are told they have to be thin to count, but that’s the way society is now, and it’s not going to change. When I put on a lot of weight due to some medication I had to take – so I didn’t die – I remember very clearly running into someone who hadn’t seen me since I was a much thinner version of myself. Her first words? “Oh but it’s such a shame, after you lost all that weight.” The shame being that I had been put on a medication to stop me DYING FROM A WASTING DISEASE. Yeah. I often find that preventing death can be quite a disappointing outcome, especially if you gain a couple of dress sizes.

However glib as I might be about this, it hurt. Of course it hurt – no one is immune to the pressure of trying to obtain this perfect version of themselves. And we spend hours and days, buying the latest clothes, restocking the most effective spackle-filler for our wrinkes, sucking our stomachs in and punishing ourselves for breathing in case any additional calories are absorbed through the air, because we all think we need to be better. Because those around us all seem to be so well turned-out, or that bit thinner, or with that extra bit of whatever that turns heads, that we sit around making constant comparisons to things we can’t be. We can’t be them not because they’re better, but because they’re not us.

I used to be extremely concerned about my appearance. I would spend literally hours trying to pick out what to wear. But I don’t do that any more, really. I’m not sure why; I think it’s a variety of reasons. I need to be comfortable and warm; I don’t dig a lot of the fashion around; I hate shopping. They all contribute a little bit. And I’m completely fine with what I wear. I have my own, if slightly boring, style, and I’m really not bothered about looking a bit plainer, or less dressy, than those I work with. But when I experience a bit of the Invisible Woman treatment, as I did yesterday, it makes me really angry. And a bit sad. Ladies, really, I think we can do better, don’t you?

I ended up sat directly across from my self-appointed fashion assessor for the rest of the tube journey home. I also spent quite a lot of time trying to catch her eye – I really don’t know why, I don’t know what I expected – but she stared vacantly above my head for the whole of our trip. Realising I was probably not going to have a major confrontation on a tube full of Arsenal supporters about why she should read more Caitlin Moran, I got up to leave and quickly glanced at the two ladies sat either side of her as I walked past.

I don’t know how I had missed it – I expect I was too wrapped up in a little ball of self-righteous rage for the entire journey home – but all three of the women sat next to each other were wearing the same scarves. Two in the exact same colour, and all three in the identical pattern. As I fought my way off the train packed with sweaty, beery men I suddenly felt an awful lot better about my jeans and my trainers. I know I’d rather be comfy and plain rather than look the same as everyone else, especially if it means I can forsake heels. So thanks, pushy bird; you actually made me feel a bit less Invisible and a little more Relevant. But for Christ’s sake, learn some fucking manners.

KEEPING UP WITH THE JONESES

"Oh, I'm not going to do Nessa, alright?"

Now before I begin, I should, in the interest of full disclosure, mention that I am obsessed with Gavin and Stacey. Not mildly interested in, not a big fan of – obsessed. I’ve watched the entire series through four times this year already, and have probably ratcheted up approximately 20 views of the entire thing in full, plus a load more viewings of Series 3. I’ve never quite worked out why I’ve seen Episode 5 of Season 3 so many times, but I have, to the point where I am able to recite the dialog with my back to the screen. It’s not a skill that will get me on Britain’s Got Talent, but it’s mine, and I’m happy with my lot.

With this in mind, I obviously had quite a lot banking on Stella, the new (well, new-ish now) Sky 1 comedy-drama penned by Ruth Jones. A LOT. And I’ll tell you, I was nervous about it. The format was different – a one-hour comedy/drama is very different to a short, snappy, 30 minute sitcom. Corden wasn’t involved – was he the glue that held the whole thing together? And who were all these other supporting characters? Where was Pamela? WHAT ABOUT DAWN AND PETE?

And to be fair, the first episode wasn’t one that stuck in my mind. Sure, it was fine – there were some decent supporting characters, and Ruth Jones did a good job of setting everything up for the series ahead. But I worried: it was JUST OKAY. I don’t think I laughed out loud once. I wasn’t bored, but I wasn’t shitting myself laughing. As I deleted it off the TiVo, I despaired.

But I kept the series link on, and carried on watching over the following weeks. And then before I knew it, I’d gone from being nonplussed about the whole affair, to getting up first thing on a Saturday morning to watch the recorded episode of Stella from the night before. Somehow, over the next few episodes, Ruth Jones had done exactly what she’d done with Gavin and Stacey but in a gentler fashion; she’d created a bunch of real, likeable, realistically flawed characters who made you want to live in their world.

And Stella herself is the epitome of Ruth Jones’s incredible skill with characterisation; you want her to be your best mate, your mum, or your girlfriend. The burgeoning relationship between Stella and Sean is developed softly and slowly throughout a number of episodes, in order to give real weight and space to Stella’s reservations and nerves. A heavier-handed writer would have had the pair of them cop off within the first episode and then spend the rest of the series exploring them as a couple, but the brilliant thing about Ruth Jones is that at no stage does she let the audience forget that the show is called Stella, and that’s who it’s about. It’s about her approach to life and love, and not about the love itself – and because of this, the program is able to deftly circumnavigate the usual cliché potholes that ruin what could have been a perfectly good TV series. There’s no pretence, and there’s no schmaltz, which is the real joy – it is painstakingly drawn to be realistic enough to make the audience think that, yes, save for the small details, this could easily happen in your life, too.

And Ruth has chucked in some really classic characters for us yet again; Paula, the functional alcoholic funeral director with the breathalyser in her handbag;  Big Alan, the lollipop man who has been in secretly in love with Stella for 12 years; and Joanna Scanlan turns up as a caravanning love machine, with a penchant for cornering poor Big Alan into clinches he’s not sure he’s actually consented to. But the real (and I’m sorry for using this word) heart-warming (sorry) element of the show is Stella and Sean’s relationship, and watching Jones’s heroine slowly realise that not only is she a sought-after and attractive woman, but that she deserves a bit of happiness for herself. And what woman can’t relate to that, even just a bit. Which is why I spend most Saturday mornings on the couch, having a little cry, but being all the happier for having lived in Pontyberry, even if it was only for about an hour (less ad breaks).

"MOUNT YOUR DOLPHINS!"

The Grosvenor staff: wacky staff photos not included in room price

And what better way to begin this blog than with a quote from the eponymous Mark, Owner/Manager of The Grosvenor Hotel, in Torquay. In case you've been mistakenly watching Call The Midwife over on BBC1, (or as I read it, Lark Rise to One Born Every Minute) Mark is the star of the latest series of Channel 4's fly-on-the-wall docu-drama, The Hotel.

Well, he's one of the stars. Whilst his circa-1985 salt and pepper mullet and Extremo-Bleach Instant Whitening teeth is certainly entertaining-slash-dumbfounding, if you peel back the top layer of The Hotel, which you may superficially mistake for one of the laugh-at-'em-not-with-'em docos (Gypsy Wedding fans, I say NOTHING), what you actually find is a tenderly and carefully edited holiday postcard of middle Britain. And I do mean middle; most of the guests spoke in the same unctuous tones as Gavin from AutoGlass.

And it kicked off in style; with the Bridezilla from hell (West Midlands? Tick.) who threw strops that made Denise Welch-gate look like a kiddie's picnic. And yeah, she was diverting, and hilarious, and we all sat there with our heads in our hands muttering, "THIS is what's wrong with young people today" into our cups of tea. But alongside the bride from hell smashing plates and threatening to walk out of her own wedding; quietly and with little fanfare, the show introduced the glorious, in name and nature, Mr and Mrs Tickle.

They'd been married for over 50 years. They were from the North, and enjoyed coach holidays so they could have some companionship and new experiences. Everything about the Grosvenor (which is, to be fair, a bit shabby around the edges) was a treat for them; and made even more special because they were there together. Mr Tickle was hilarious, in his own ideosyncratic way; Mrs Tickle was clearly so used to his odd ways and means that his foibles didn't even raise an eyebrow. And here is where The Hotel drew it's true strengths from.

Further episodes showed a grieving widower on holidays with his grown-up son; a couple where the son from a previous relationship had now started calling his mother's partner "Dad", and even manager Mark's broken relationships and financial strifes. None of this was chucked in for cheap emotional thrills; the show would show two or three stories per week, and give them the time and space to breathe and develop properly. It let the people it portrayed shine through as themselves, and because there was so little editorial involvement during filming (except for the final episode, the cameras were wall-mounted into selected hotel rooms, to avoid any unnecessary intrusion) the cameras were free to capture people just as they were; flawed, depressed, grateful, in love.

The goodness and humour of society as a whole is so often swallowed up in favour of Daily Mail-esque fear and loathing stories of how we're all going to hell in a handbasket, and with Monday looming right in front of us, we all need a bit of cheering up on a Sunday night - it's either that or the gin. So I'm really pleased to be able to say that I found my little bit of Sunday night joy; and whilst 10 million of you over on BBC1 may disagree, I'm confident in saying that I think, sadly, you're the ones that missed out.