Apropos of nothing, this week I shall be peeling back the
skin of Toast
Of London, taking a look at what lies beneath and maybe even sniffing
it. I say apropos of nothing, as I
cannot link this week’s choice to anything happening in wider popular culture
(plus the wankiness of the term suits the pretension of the programme in
question). Toast Of London’s three
series came out between 2012 and 2015, yet my stumbling across them on Netflix in recent times and
harnessing the gentle mirth and subversive lampooning of the luvvies that dominate
British acting as my accompanying background viewing to Sunday evenings’ food
prep marathon (step one: peel sweet potatoes, step two: accept the weekend is
over) is particular only to me. Yet that
has never stopped me doing anything on this blog – in fact, regular readers
will know it revolves more around me than it does around actually providing useful
boxset recommendations. That said, I
have been craving more of Matt
Berry since I made my way through The IT
Crowd. My need for his incredible
voice was partly fulfilled by old episodes of The Adam Buxton Podcast (that’s
right, I also voraciously consume content in podcast form – the eagle-eared among
you may even have noticed a quotation from Russell Brand’s Under The Skin
in this very introduction), but a vehicle of his own would surely hit the spot.
Fans of silliness will be well rewarded, though the brand of
silliness is more conceptual than you might find in my other favourite silly
sitcom, Miranda. Toast is a London-based actor who isn’t that successful. He gets enough degrading voiceover work to
keep going, he has potentially been a household name during a previous decade’s
heyday, but he still needs to badger his agent for work while she too badgers
him to take up unsuitable jobs. Like
Andy Millman in Extras, he exhibits
seething jealousy for any member of his acting cohort who is doing better than
him. The best thing about all of these
minor actors is their surnames. Toast in
itself is enough to stop any top billing sounding too serious, conjuring up
images of melting butter spread with crumb-covered knives. Surpassing that English word for banal
naffness is the name of Toast’s greatest rival, Ray “Bloody” Purchase. Purchase is such a wet sock of a word and of
a name. Neither glamorous, nor familiar,
it’s a simple monetary transaction for a good or service. Starring Ray Purchase and Steven Toast isn’t what
you want to hear about any blockbuster film.
Nor will you. Purchase turns up
on almost every job of Toast’s, outdoing him through chumminess with difficult
prima donna directors or getting on better with smirkingly smug mugs of
voiceover booth technicians.
Both take their craft seriously, but the comedy comes from
showing how amateur and ham they really are.
Even Toast’s natural flair as a high winds actor (shouting in front of
large fans) doesn’t bode well for future jobs, as whatever can go wrong does. Helping to expose the evil of taking acting
too seriously is a supporting cast with names as delicious as Toast’s and
Purchase’s. There’s Ken Suggestion, Duncan
Clench, Cliff Bonanza, Jenny Spasm and Max Gland, not to mention a further raft
of names who are only ever referred to such as Warren Organ and Sookie Houseboat. Each belongs beneath a signed black-and-white
headshot in a regional curry house. Most
beloved for me, though, is Toast’s agent, Jane Plough (pronounced Pluff). Played by Doon Mackichan (whom I’ve
always loved since Smack The
Pony and I once smiled at on a train), Plough makes grandiose statements
about never opening the attachments on emails (amen) and is often seen calling
her client from completely unexplained sexual scenarios involving scantily clad
young men and some dessert options.
Self-importance is easily made ridiculous, but we all end up
on Team Toast, rooting for him to catch a break, despite him being a misogynist
pig who only cares about himself. He is
aghast at current trends and longs for his younger years galivanting around
Soho when he was a youthful upstart, rather than having to cope with the
sniggers his voiceover recordings invariably draw. Sending up how the British revere their stage
and screen actors might seem like easy prey, but Toast Of London’s silliness
has a caustic edge, an absurd narrative and a surrealist approach to almost
every scene. You’ll feel delicious every
time you hear that immortal line: “Hello Steven, it’s Clem Fandango here. Can you hear me?” And so, apropos of nothing, let’s have
another series please.
