Narcos

In a recent survey of one person (me) I asked (myself) what’s the second most Netflixiest show after Orange Is The New Black?  One hundred percent of respondents were unanimous: Narcos.  So here we are, years after the third and final season was released on Netflix: you, reading all my silliness, and me, looking for attention while I find my (sarcastic) voice as a writer.  Thank you for humouring me.

The decision to click Play Episode on the first instalment of series one was a smug one.  It felt like a grown-up choice.  Rather than something cheesy about high schoolers (Riverdale) or, er, something else cheesy about high schoolers (The Vampire Diaries), this was adult fare: high-quality historical drama, dealing with dealers and distribution around a class A drug.  Not only would I learn more about a social issue, but it would be period-faithful.  It was even a bit foreign.  I couldn’t really get any more cultured unless I sat there reading poetry.  But nobody in the office has ever talked about poetry, so getting a good boxset under my belt was more important.  And I hate poetry (unless it rhymes and is funny).

But who are the Narcos?  There are two sides in our epic battle.  On one hand, we have los narcotraficantes.  The most famous of these is Pablo Escobar, who I only really knew about from various glamorising rap lyrics and a segment in Dark Tourist where the scenes of his crimes can be visited by those enamoured with his ruthless brutality, potentially a result of the glamorising rap lyrics.  Escobar and pals went from petty criminals to major global exporters of cocaine, netting billions of dollars in the process.  Trying to stop them, we have the other narcos: the agents of the DEA, a US agency that puts moustachioed men in hot countries to jog about in the heat with handguns, smoke cigarettes and sport an array of aviator sunglasses.

Thus ensues, over the first two series, an international high-stakes game of cocaine cat and cocaine mouse while our DEA agent heroes close in on Escobar.  But who to root for?  Escobar is cool, because we live in a culture where murder, bribery and corruption are cool.  Wagner Moura’s performance merits immediate viewing.  I especially enjoyed being able to tell how stressed Escobar is in a particular scene based on how heavily he breathes through his nose (and over his moustache).  But you may have been more focused on his attire than his nasal respiration.  Escobar’s outfits in the early nineties are exactly what my dad wore in the early nineties: loose-fitting light denim jeans, white trainers, size large short-sleeved shirts tucked in.  I’m fairly certain my dad wasn’t running a drug cartel, but I do have my suspicions now.

Surely we should prefer the goodies?  Steve Murphy and Javier Peña, however, are far from perfect.  Whether they’re bending the rules, smoking too many fags, womanising or neglecting their families, their drive to end Escobar never lets up.  I’ve seen people give up on a scheduling a meeting with me after just two rearrangements, but these guys happily chase Escobar through jungles, favelas and more jungles with little or no sign of an encouraging annual performance review from the powers that be.  And that’s what compels: the seediness, the corruption, the sweaty stake-outs.  Everyone is humanised, rather than glamorised.  The DEA agents gotta go bad to get Escobar.  Escobar loves his family more than anything (even though his son is super annoying) and who can hate a family man?  Oh, the internal conflict, everybody.

The third season’s focus shifts to a new cartel, and Boyd Holbrook’s absence is felt keenly, as he was our fish out of water by which we navigated the sweltering streets of Medellin.  But the new chase soon draws you in with the same excesses of tension.  The gore is gruesome and relentless, and the sheer wasting of life is distressing enough, but then you realise that this is all based on true stories.  In fact, the documentary elements threaded through to give historical context are all the more harrowing, as archive news footage of real fatalities reminds you that no dramatic gloss can cover up the true horrors of the cartels.

And that was my main question: what’s so good about cocaine?  As someone who routinely goes to bed at 10pm, the allure of this party drug is lost on me.  A former friend did once recommend the white powder, claiming I would want to talk to everybody in a room as a result of taking it, but I explained that that was an affliction I already had.  Anyway, I’m sure all the death and destruction in developing nations is worth it for those who like a little bump of a weekend at their trendy London parties.  No harm done, right?

But I got more from Narcos than just affirming the fact that I’m enough of a handful without any intoxicating substances.  I also seem to have learnt Spanish.  I did do a GCSE in a single year (A*, obviously) in this language back in my sixth form days, so the basics were there, reinforced over the years by pop songs like Despacito.  Narcos is half in Spanish, so get your subtitle eyeballs ready, as there’s plenty of reading.  Somehow, though, I seemed to attune to the Colombian accents after a few episodes, so if anyone does need me to arrange shipments of coca paste from a Latin American rainforest to a Miami nightspot, just give me a call on a massive nineties mobile phone.

Yet more great TV from Netflix?  Well, yes.  Am I embarrassingly late to the party with this one?  Also yes.  Have I answered all the questions I set out to?  I don’t know – I just kind of start bashing these out and see where they end up.  Is Narcos: Mexico a separate programme, or just the fourth series of the same show?  I’m still not sure.  I’m working my way through that as we speak, so let’s stay tuned for a future post.  I’m sure I can find plenty to be silly and sarcastic about.

I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here

In the old days, they had seasons to tell them what time of the year it was.  In this golden age of television, we have the return of certain TV shows to indicate where we are in our annual cycle.  In fact, you could rely on ITV1 not only to provide shiny-floor entertainment, but also to fulfil this function: Britain’s Got Talent lets you know it’s nearly Easter, The X Factor heralds the end of summer and, finally, I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here makes it unmistakeable that here we go again it’s only already ruddy Christmas isn’t it.  Of course, you might be part of the camp that believes it’s not the festive season until you’ve wept at the John Lewis ad (reminding you of the true meaning of Christmas: promoting Elton John) or until you’ve seen a Coca Cola truck (reminding you of the other meaning of Christmas: using carbon-heavy distribution methods to ensure fat people can access fizzy, sugar-laden drinks).

But, whether you love this time of year, or, like me, you think we should only really do December 25^th every few years, the return of I’m A Celeb is arguably more important than the alleged birth date of a man who claimed god was his dad and who still seems to yield unprecedented influence over two thousand years later.  This is because it reminds me, without fail, that the year is almost out, and all I’ve done with it is watch too much telly.  All those things I vowed I would achieve back in January… they’re still mere vows rather than actual actions.  Instead of prompting me to get a wriggle on and deliver something, I instead resign myself to rolling them over to the next year, slouching down on the sofa, and tuning in for another nightly hour of jungle fun.

But it wasn’t always this way.  When the first series broadcast in 2002, I had no interest at all.  My perspective of its genesis might be skewed, but I am totally writing it here without checking any of it.  TV had just been rocked by the arrival of proper reality TV: Big Brother.  Convinced it needed its own version to rival Channel 4’s ratings hit, ITV acquired Survivor (and BBC done Castaway but that was more to do with the Millennium, apparently).  Instead of a house, there was a jungle, but it was basically the same: some skulduggery, some exhibitionism, some normos competing for a cash prize.  The main difference was that nobody wanted to watch it, despite untold marketing hype.  Then, I assume, someone gave it a quick tweak and turned it into a celebrity version.  Thus, according to my hazy recollection and fabrication, I’m A Celeb was born.

To me, though, it remained an irrelevant format.  All these people that claimed they’d never stoop so low as to watch the desperate wannabes on Big Brother, but would later happily sit through The Apprentice, extended this double standard by watching I’m A Celeb.  Yet surely this was the most desperate form of reality TV: faded household names doing anything to get famous again, whether that be eating kangaroo penises or withstanding a shower of thousands of cockroaches and crickets.  All for our amusement.  And not just our collective enjoyment alongside them, but for our point-and-laugh-at-their-sorry-state derision, at their expense and humiliation.  Starved in a camp on basic rations, pooping in a dunny and sleeping in hammocks, participants then fight for food in Bushtucker Trials by enduring close physical contact with scary critters (think helmets filled with spiders) or down drinks that will churn any stomach (think blended beetles).  It was cruel, but it was also super broad.  As a teenager, I needed things to feel niche and subversive, only there for me to discover, rather than shared with millions of average viewers.  I could watch Buffy instead.

Even in 2007, the show brought me out in hives.  Flicking through the freeview channels in my Belsize Park five-man flatshare, in the days before I had any way to watch telly other than tuning in at the right time (a barbaric era), I came across series 7.  Jason “J” Brown (from Five) and Gemma Atkinson (from Hollyoaks) were suspended above a jungle creek in an old aeroplane.  I don’t know why.  Everything was so offputting.  They had on horrible beige shirts.  There were red fleece bodywarmers, with phone numbers on the back.  I still detected the air of delighting in the end of someone’s showbiz career.  I switched over.

Things changed, though, back in 2012.  I was staying temporarily with a friend while in between flatshares (I told her three weeks, but stayed for three months – soz).  As the homeowner, she was in charge of evening viewing.  It was also my first Sky household, and I didn’t know how to work the remote.  She wanted I’m A Celeb, I was in no position to say no, and into series twelve we dived.  Her rationale was that the links, presented by Ant and Dec, were funnier than most other things on TV.

How right she was.  I can guarantee anyone viewing this show more than their fair share of LOLs on their witty interactions alone.  They’re irreverent when talking about the contestants, teasing their foibles and emphasising their idiosyncrasies.  To my surprise, this wasn’t done aggressively.  It felt like the gentle ribbing you see among friends, rather than full character assassinations.  Either way, they were spot on.  Alongside these the lads share camaraderie with the offscreen, yet audible crew, laughing at themselves as much as they do at the celebs.  As such, they’ve even built up their own parlance – a set of known phrases that appear every year.  My highlights are below:

I’m No Doctor, Guys But…

The job role here is interchangeable, but this one was originally wheeled out for medical issues, pointing out that contestants probably shouldn’t be eating/drinking that (that often being pureed turkey testicles).

I’ll Smash Your Face In

A threat of violence from Dec to anyone that dares to slight him.  Of course, he is not a violent man, so its incongruity with everything else that’s going on plays perfectly at tickling the chuckle bones.

Evening, Prime Minister

Whenever anything political comes up, a knowing glance is given to camera, alongside a cheeky bow, lampooning any potential viewing from our premier.  I enjoy the image of DavCam or T Maz perched on the edge of the sofa, glued to the telly while international diplomatic nightmares play out around them.

But now, our beloved Ant is having time off and Holly Willoughby is on Dec’s right on our jungle set.  I mean, yeah, she’s doing ok.  I don’t want to be horrible about people here, but she’s one of the least friendly presenters I’ve ever met through work, so it’s nice that she smiles her chops off in front of the camera.  I would too, if I were that smug.  So let’s focus on the set.  What is this place!?  There are camps, and rope bridges, and treetop walkways, not to mention unlimited Bushtucker Trial locations.  I’m imagining a full out-of-town complex off some motorway in Queensland.  But how can it be sustainable to run this whole place (breeding the cockroaches, stroking the snakes, cutting off the kangaroo penises etc) when it’s just in use for one month a year to torment past and future stars of British panto.  I’m sure once ITV have cleared out they ship in the Argentine version of Ant and Dec or the Swedish version of Christopher Biggins and all hell breaks loose once again.

So, let’s finish with a round-up of my favourite participants since I started watching the show in 2012, with apologies to anyone who did a good job on it before I could be persuaded to watch.

Helen Flanagan, series 12

Some child of the cobbles of Corrie was now all grown up.  Grown up enough not to want to do any Trials.  She completely abandoned one at the first hurdle, on seeing a room containing an emu.  Ant and Dec struggled to hide their frustration, but at least they got to finish early.

Ashley Roberts, series 12

A worthy runner up, kept from the spotlight in the Pussycat Dolls, but charming British audiences with her American enthusiasm.  I once walked past her outside the Wolseley.

Rebecca Adlington, series 13

An absolute champ, building on her Olympic medal collection with a down-to-earth and practical approach to jungle life, all while revealing that even a gold-medal swimmer can suffer from insecurities.

Gemma Collins, series 14

I find everything this lady does hilarious.  Including when she literally couldn’t be arsed past day 3.

Vicky Pattison, series 15

I loved her on Geordie Shore, and I loved her winning this series and transitioning to a mainstream national treasure.

Lady Colin Campbell, series 15

A posh old white lady with a Jamaican accent?  As if that wasn’t enough, she was also the most stubborn contestant ever known and gave Duncan Bannatyne a run for his money in the dour stakes.

Joel Dommett, series 16

I hadn’t heard of him, but, the minute he appeared, I got all these texts claiming he and I are the same person.  And we basically are.

Larry Lamb, series 16

It was just nice to spend time with Gavin’s dad from Gavin & Stacey.

Amir Khan, series 17

An extreme case of manchild.  He was the first celebrity to consume his Dingo Dollar Challenge treat himself before taking it back to the camp.  Fair play to him.

Special mention to Gillian McKeith, who appeared in 2010.  I must have been shown her performance (pretending to faint to avoid Bushtucker Trials) by someone else, but it enabled me to enjoy this song in its full intended glory (because, why is Gillian so reptilian?).

No matter how terrible some of the contestants, the field is soon whittled down to a loveable bunch whom we come to see as friends.  We share their private jokes, their jungle memories, and their journeys from pampered C-listers to primeval survivalists.  This is brought to life more than ever in the last days before the final.  I’m tingling now at the thought of Celebrity Cyclone, the best of all the Bushtucker Trials.  An enormous slip’n’slide with water cannons, colourful capes and an array of projectiles that illustrates just how much our new pals have bonded.  I’m almost sad when they finally announce the winner.  Where else can a diminutive rapper (Tinchy Stryder) and a former Tory battle-axe (Edwina Currie) go camping together in a rainforest? It’s no longer about a shameless plug for attention, but about how far they’ve been prepared to come to get the nation to take them back into their hearts. So yes, it really is the most wonderful time of the year, and it doesn’t need baby Jesus or Elton John’s stupid piano.