Oh Schitt

I’ve always been drawn to a certain type of comedy. I like quirky characters, slow burn plot development and wit. One of my favourite sayings ever comes from one of the writers of “Seinfeld”. He said their credo on the show was “no hugging, no learning.” I liked that. Stuff happened (not much of it, admittedly) and no-one ever had a neat, end of show epiphany as a result.

The premise of the dysfunctional family has been at the heart of some of the most successful comedies ever. From Steptoe and Son to Fawlty Towers (I’m counting Polly and Manuel as part of the family), from The Simpsons to Arrested Development, from Spaced to Black Books, the idea of a group of people living together and their subsequent adventures has provided a rich seam of comedy for writers.

Laughter has been in fairly short supply in 2020. Fear, anxiety and apprehension have been bedfellows for most of us in the last few months. I came across this Jewish proverb recently: “As soap is to the body, so laughter is to the soul.” I like that. Watching the news has been a sobering experience, worse than usual if you watched “Newsnight” last night, but I’d have gone crazy if I hadn’t countered it all with a good dose of humour.

Which leads me rather neatly on to one of the best discoveries I’ve made all year. “Schitt’s Creek” is a Canadian sitcom about the Rose family. Paterfamilias Johnny made his fortune with a string of video stores, his wife Moira is a fading soap star and their grown-up children, David and Alexis are a pair of spoilt, entitled snobs. The story starts with a ring at the door of their gilded mansion and the discovery that their business manager has been defrauding them. They’ve got an hour to pack up and get out. Their sole remaining asset is a back of beyond town which they bought for their son as a joke years ago…..

As the Roses arrive in town on the bus, the full horror of their situation bursts upon them. They own the Schitt’s Creek Motel, so they can stay there free, but to a family used to palatial luxury and lots of servants, two shabby adjoining rooms in a provincial motel is a shocking come-down. Naturally, things don’t go too well in the first series, giving the writers the opportunity to introduce a small but impressive cast of characters and set the family up for absolutely no hugging, but a whole lot of learning.

“Schitt’s Creek” makes me laugh my head off while applauding the quality of the writing. As far as I’m concerned, it deserves every award going. By Series 6, Johnny is still the baffled straight man to ludicrous mayor Roland Schitt, but has got to know his family much better and discovered his kind and compassionate side. Moira is still an over-emoting drama queen with a wall of wigs, each with a name, but she shows the odd chink of humanity. David is still a posturing neat freak, but he’s learned that he might just be worthy of love. Alexis is still moderately self-obsessed, but she’s learned that in order to find real love, you need to be selfless.

“Schitt’s Creek” is a family affair. It’s written by father and son team Eugene and Dan Levy, who play Johnny and David. Twyla, the waitress at the café is Sarah Levy, Dan’s sister. Deb Devine, Dan and Sarah’s mother and Eugene’s wife, is the creative consultant on the show. Fans of Christopher Guest’s mockumentaries (Best in Show, A Mighty Wind etc) will recognise Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara as a well-established humorous double act.

When thinking about the show, Dan Levy asked himself the question, “Would the Kardashians still be the Kardashians without their money?” and “Schitt’s Creek” was the result. It’s lifted my spirits no end this year and I am rationing myself through Series 6, although the temptation to binge is huge.

Different things make us all laugh, but what we can probably all agree on at the moment is that humour, warm-heartedness and community spirit are more important than ever. You’ll find all of those things in, “Schitt’s Creek” if you decide to give it a go.

Let me know what you think.

Digging for Victory

Yesterday morning, enjoying a restorative cup of tea after doing the daily mountain of washing up with the partner of all my joys and sorrows, he enquired what I was writing about this week. “Floyd, Stein and all those chefs I used to know,” I replied. 

“But it’s VE Day on Friday – what about that?” Quick as a wink, I changed horses in mid-stream, like a young gazelle leaping from crag to crag, very nearly tripping myself up on the similes and metaphors piling up all around me.

VE Day is far too important a milestone to ignore. I’ve bumped the chefs to next week.

My esteemed spouse is a chemist by profession, but having spent the last 26 years manacled to me, quite a bit of my writing know-how has rubbed off.

“How about comparing World War Two to lock down?” he enquired, drying up a plate.

“On it!”

“You could talk about the similarities between then and now. You know, digging for victory and all that.”

“Yes, I could! Good thinking.”

Covid-19 has put paid to national plans to celebrate VE Day, but tomorrow is still going to be a big day. Locally, both Pettistree and Wickham Market have plans to decorate and celebrate. Our resident bagpiper, Jim, will be marching up The Street playing (probably in shorts, displaying his handsomely bronzed limbs) and many of us will decorate our houses and gardens. Even in these difficult times, we can all pull together. Perhaps especially now.

Since this all began, there have been acres of newsprint devoted to the similarities between the war and the pandemic. Loss, fear of the unknown, a deadly killer and heroes emerging to keep us all safe. There’s been an outpouring of creativity, too, people writing songs, poetry, learning new skills in their enforced quarantine.

Many of us have started digging for victory. A number of our friends locally have dug up parts of their lawn and started putting in potatoes, carrots, beans, cauliflowers, courgettes, tomatoes and suchlike, all of which grow beautifully in our light Suffolk soil. Waste is right down. Every scrap of our household waste (banana skins, orange peel, eggshells, teabags etc) goes into our new expanded empire of compost bins along with grass cuttings and the resulting compost will help our veg to grow.

There is a sense of everyone pulling together in our communities. I am a member of the Pettistree WhatsApp group which is full of helpful suggestions, offers to go shopping, beautiful pictures and inspiring words. One of our number has gone out and bulk bought flags and bunting so that we can all decorate our houses and gardens tomorrow. A lady halfway down the High Street in Wickham Market who has been growing and selling plants for twenty years has made over £400 so far this year which she is splitting between Marie Curie and the Suffolk Wildlife Trust. As we chatted at a safe distance yesterday, she told me how lovely it was that she was meeting so many new people.

I was born to relatively old parents for the time (36 and 40) in 1966. There were still bomb sites all over London, gaps in terraced houses and a very real sense that the war wasn’t that long ago. Both my parents lived through it as children and young people. My mum told a story about their precious egg ration which sounded like something from another culture at the time, but now makes a lot more sense.

Mum lived with her mother in the East End of Glasgow. Her father was a Captain in the Merchant Navy so was away much of the time. Thursday was the day that they received one precious fresh egg on their rations and Thursday team time was looked forward to all week. The egg was gently frying on the stove and Mum (aged about 11) left the kitchen to go and lay the table. Suddenly, there was an almighty crash and the house shook. She ran back into the kitchen to find that the ceiling had collapsed, weakened by the nightly bombardment. You or I would be upset about the state of the kitchen, but the first thing out of my grandmother’s mouth was: “Jean! The egg!! Is it all right?” It was duly extracted from the mess, dusted off and enjoyed before the task of tidying up began.

Before the pandemic, I’ll be honest. I was careless. I didn’t value what I had as much as I should have. I didn’t waste food and I wasn’t profligate with money (chance would be a fine thing), but I wasn’t as careful as I might have been. Since lock down, we have been recycling, re-purposing and re-using like mad. And quite right too. The wartime spirit of, “make do and mend”, “dig for victory” and “lend a hand on the land” is back with us, today, in 2020.

So many gave so much to buy our freedom. VE Day is important every year, but perhaps this year, even more so. I will certainly be thinking of all those who bravely sacrificed their lives so that I could live in liberty and it seems to me that it would be only respectful to continue growing fruit and veg, cutting right down on waste and building on community spirit long after the pandemic is over.

 Whatever you’re doing tomorrow, join me in stopping to think a while on what they gave for us, and what we in turn can do for our descendants.