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.