The dark humour of this cult classic sitcom-cum-sketchshow
used to scare me slightly. Its first TV
series appeared back in 1999 when I was still a rather sheltered Surrey
schoolboy. I was known for things like
having the most housepoints in the year and being good at drawing. Subversive comedy seemed unnecessary: how
could you laugh when something was horrible?
This is probably why I harboured such a soft spot for Keeping Up Appearances. Nevertheless, I was drawn to The League Of Gentlemen. The characters were inordinately quotable,
and many a playground conversation consequently descended into recitations of
the episodes’ scripts. I could therefore
seek solace in recognising the key players from the village of Royston
Vasey. For example, Tubbs and Edward
were vile, but also ridiculous. Once
they started talking about local shops for local people, there was safety in the
catchphrase, allowing me to overlook the brief references to burning bodies on
the moor, to the fact that nobody ever left Royston Vasey… alive.
But as each would-be customer of their Local Shop slowly
arrived at the realisation that they had set foot in a terrible place, chills
would shiver down my spine. And that’s
why I have chosen The League Of Gentlemen this week. I am that unsuspecting stranger, hoping for
the best (or at least not fearing the worst).
And England is that Local Shop. I’ve
finally seen its grotesque nature for what it is, and all too late in the
day. Trapped and doomed, I await my
grisly fate. But hey, that’s enough election
chat for this post – I don’t want to make things too political at the expense
of being silly!
For those that don’t know this classic contribution to our
horrendous nation’s comedy canon, The League Of Gentlemen is a series of
interlinked sketches set in a fictional northern settlement. Everything about it is sinister, and only
those that live there can in any way tolerate its ways. These ways can sometimes get pretty
fantastical, but its thanks to the performances and the writing of the actual gentlemen
in this league that they are as believable as they are sickening and entertaining. My tastes in adult life have caught up with
their subversion, so let’s take a Top
Trumps moment to go through these not-so-gentle men (in no particular
order):
Best character:
Credit has to be given for Edward (of Tubbs and Edward fame). While his sister-wife channels a Skeksis-like
degree of naïve mischief (see post on The Dark
Crystal), Edward’s more plausible stance as your recognisable local bigot
is almost therefore the straight man to her easier laughs (counting to twelvty
and touching her precious things). His distrust
of outsiders makes him the perfect parochial Tory.
Close second: Bitterly
lampooning the class-sensitive wives of middle earners, Judee Levinson’s
spot-on believability is a triumph in its own right. But contrasted with working-class cleaner,
Iris Krell, then this lady-on-help passive-aggression reaches new levels of
acid tongue.
Best character:
Everyone has ended up a third party to some awful couple’s petty
arguments. Pemberton plays Charlie Hull,
husband of Stella, and together they turn any location into a theatre of war
for the years of resentment their marriage has given them. While anyone would prescribe a divorce, the
Hulls can turn any environment into a tense hotbed of angry grudges.
Close second: Running
the Royston Vasey Jobcentre with as much efficacy as Little Britain’s Marjorie Dawes runs her Fat Fighters
branch, Pauline Campbell-Jones has a terrifying universality to her. Patronising yet clueless herself, we’ve all
worked with a Pauline. The lipstick
alone makes me want to wash my face.
Best character: Clad
in Val Denton’s lank long hair, Gatiss’s mumsy mannerisms and ability to make
far-fetched lines sound totally humdrum result in a subtly gruesome
creation. Along with husband Harvey, and
creepy twin daughters Chloe and Radclyffe, the Dentons’ household is every unusual
family visit you’ve ever been forced to endure.
From the toad fascination to Harvey’s masturbation obsession, and not
forgetting the first Monday of every month (nude day – something we all suspect
our neighbours of doing), we share their nephew Benjamin’s terror that he may
never be able to leave.
Close second: Hilary
Briss, the local butcher famed for his special stuff, was probably the hardest
character for my young mind to stomach.
Even the name causes me shudders now.
Briss. Urgh.
Best character: He
doesn’t play any of them – he just writes with the others. Well done him. I wouldn’t be able to resist dressing up and
getting on camera, but that’s just me.
I could go on for ages, reminiscing of my favourites, but we’ve
got lives to lead. You’ll have to resurrect
your own memories of Papa Lazarou, Herr Lipp or Legz Akimbo (put yourself in a
child), or maybe seek out this classic if you’ve never seen it before, but
there’s one final sketch I have to fuss over, simply as it remains one of my
most quoted pieces of comedy and yet still makes me laugh. Enter stage right, Pamela Doove. Another Shearsmith performance, this budding
actress just needs to nail some diction challenges to hit the big time, as
exemplified in this orange
juice advert audition. While the
joke is obvious, even Jed Hunter’s small-time director is just one of the many subtler
creations that enhance Royston Vasey’s realism.
Strangely prescient, then, that this British settlement should seem so
normal and acceptable on the surface.
Scratch beneath and it is truly grotesque by its very nature. Unlike Europe, we can never leave.
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