Jack Whitehall: Travels With My Father

We have some more firsts this week.  It’s the first travel show to feature on the blog (and Love Island doesn’t count, even though it’s the best holiday we’ll never get to go on) and it’s the first show to have a colon in its title.  The colon bit isn’t very interesting really, but the travelling part is what saw me select this from the overwhelming complexity of the Netflix menu.  I wanted something short, something vaguely British, and something with a few chuckles.  I also didn’t want there to be too many of them to get through.  And luckily, Jack Whitehall: Travels With My Father ticked all of those boxes.

I normally tend to avoid the genre of programme denoted by the term travelogue.  You know the thing.  It’s Joanna Lumley swanning around India looking at cats.  Or Michael Portillo sniffing the bedsheets at different hotels in hot countries while wearing a blazer the whole time as if he’s sold his soul to the devil in exchange for never sweating, despite the fact he stills come across as slimey, regardless of the dryness (or wetness) of his pits.  There’s even one where Chris Tarrant goes on trains.  I go on trains every day, but it doesn’t get put out on ITV1 in late peak and regularly pull in millions of baby boomer viewers looking for inspiration about where to thrust their money now they’ve used up all the wealth in the country.  But the rules that govern what I would never watch on normal telly go out the window when it comes to Netflix’s wily ways.  I’m powerless in the face of the endless choice.  Maybe the pressure will subside if I just watch one more show, bringing me that little bit closer to completing everything on there and becoming a hero of office conversation.  There’s not much else to live for.

The premise of the show is tenuous.  Whitehall never had a gap year (pronounced gap yah of course) what with his stand-up career taking off, thanks to the huge gap (minus the yah) in the entertainment market for a loveable posh boy who’s happiest when everyone is laughing at him.  Now is his time to hit up South East Asia for all the clichés imaginable, safeguarding a future where he can join the ranks of Thailand bores who discuss which islands they did and didn’t do while I slowly glaze over and die inside because I can’t join in.  But this isn’t enough comedy, so Whitehall Senior, Jack’s grumpy father, comes too.  Michael Whitehall likes to wear suits, live in luxury and doesn’t want to leave the comforts of South West London.  Cue ensuing hilarity as full moon parties collide with wine tasting and everything in between.

I’m lucky enough to have been a direct recipient of Jack Whitehall’s humour, so I can safely vouch for the fact that merely dropping him in confusing foreign situations should be entertainment enough.  At a work event, we were treated to a Comedy Central stand-up night.  I arrived just before the start and joined friends at the last remaining table just by the stage.  Someone warned me this would be a bad idea, but I was well tucked away and had no conspicuous features about me, so I felt certain that I wouldn’t be threatened by unwilling audience participation.  How wrong I was.  Within seconds of the compere appearing, I had been dragged on stage and subjected to a multitude of embarrassing situations.  By the time Jack came on, I had inadvertently become a focus for most of the acts.  “Where’s Rob?” was his first question.  He took a good look at me and then asked me what I did for a job.  My wanky media job is hard to explain, so I opted for the vague catch-all term of: creative solutions.  His response came in a beat: “More like pussy solutions.”  So, yes, we can all agree he is hilarious.

The addition of his dad is also a nice touch.  Well into his seventies, Michael hasn’t got time for any of Jack’s shit, including, but not limited to: being called Mike, being called mate, using any lavatory that deviates from the European norm, drinking anything alcoholic besides fine wine, all of Jack’s outfits.  There’s a deliciousness in the awkwardness whenever Jack brings up the ways in which his father has struggled to show affection or love in the past, such as sending him off to boarding school at a young age.  Michael is always quick to retort that Jack is a constant disappointment to him, so it really is like looking into a family mirror.

When being natural, I could watch these two explore anything, from the Killing Fields of Cambodia to Chernobyl (both of which get covered).  However, there seems to have been a terrible decision to include a number of constructed moments.  In these, obvious gags are set up and play out with such artificiality that it’s hard not to want to switch off.  A particular lowlight is Jack being pushed into a fountain by Steven Seagal.  Very strange.

The second series sees the lads conduct a grand tour of Europe (in the style of Victorian poets rather than in tribute to any consumer vehicle review show hosted by old white men in bad jeans).  Jack gets to live out one of his lifetime dreams, playing funky saxophone with SunStroke Project, a Moldovan boyband who don’t share his sense of irony.  Michael, meanwhile, is comforted by the continuing presence of Winston, a kind of creepy good-luck doll they picked up in Thailand and on whom he showers more love, praise and affection than it seems Jack has ever received.  This is oddly reassuring, as a fellow British person.

So, should you go on some travels with Jack Whitehall and his father?  Probably.  It’s easy viewing, mildly chucklesome, at points both touching and informative.  You can get a good cringe workout during each set piece, but they are soon over and you’re back to feeling inspired about booking that flight, exploring that foreign culture or cherishing time with your beloved parents.  You probably won’t get your own travelogue TV format commissioned, with its very own colon, such as Generic Person: Let Me Bore You With My Travelling Yarns, but that’s because you’re not Jack Whitehall and therefore nobody cares.  (Is anyone still picturing Michael Portillo sniffing bedsheets?)