Travel Man: 48 Hours In…

While some parts of modern life are returning to a semblance of normality, particularly if you already avoided all human contact, one area of sunshine in our otherwise pointless existences has come back with an added layer of jeopardy.  What used to be called going on holiday, but is now defined as a hobby under the smugger term of “travelling”, is fraught with the risk of your foreign destination falling foul of arbitrary quarantine rules mid-sojourn.  It might have been officially safe to go there, but you could end up coming back from somewhere dangerous, required to submit to an honesty box-enforced personal lockdown of two weeks, just for burning your skin and eating full Englishes in Marbs.  Luckily, TV has many options when it comes to vicarious holiday-making.  I’ve already covered Cruising With Jane McDonald, much to the ambivalence of my loyal reader(s).  But this week I’m going to be telling you all about my recent obsession with Travel Man.

Everyone loves Richard Ayoade.  He was crucial to the charm of The IT Crowd and has gone on to make a living as a professional silly sausage, which schtick is only enabled by his conversely erudite true nature.  For those of us whose lifestyles are more than a little inspired by the teachings of Asperger, he’s a ruddy hero.  Like me, he’s guilty of the approach to travelling where, on the day you’re required to leave, you’d do anything to be able to stay at home instead.  Once away, you may well have a lovely time and forge treasurable memories, but you’re never gladder than the moment you cross the threshold back into your own abode again.  An entertaining choice, then, for a travelogue series.  Let’s run through, to borrow Ayoade’s own frequent references, the format points:

Travel Man always goes with a pal

Each episode focuses on a different predominantly European destination, to which Ayoade is accompanied by a predominantly comedic companion.  It’s a who’s who of British televisual light entertainers, though some Hollywood heavyweights do steam in, introduced to us with all their hyphenations: writers, actors and, ubiquitously, broadcasters.  But what really is a broadcaster?  Am I broadcasting now?  I don’t know.  The show has been opened with a madcap monologue where Ayoade soliloquises from multiple incongruous locations on the pitfalls of modern weekends away: what if it’s a bit rubbish?  The showbiz pal then sets us up for the second earful, demanding to know why they have been brought to Porto/Bergen/Athens etc.  Cue a street jive-inspired yet still deeply ironic beginner’s outburst to the place in question.  The guest tourists are often reduced to foils for Ayoade’s self-confessed glibness, with any showing off swiftly halted, but there is always enough chemistry for the viewer to yearn for an accompanying ticket.

Travel Man is on a budget, a massive one

Prices for sundries and excursions pop up in jaunty bubbles onscreen, with an overview of the cheapest possible trip to our destination given early on.  However, this is often run roughshod over in the very next scene when inordinate funds are spaffed on the most extravagant of hotels.  It’s wasted on Ayoade, who cares only to toss his retro luggage on the king size before dashing off.

Travel Man is tight on time

There’s a lot to be forced into 48 hours, ideally three activities either side of the break plus travel and extra filming time.  As such, Ayoade is constantly badgering his co-voyager to hurry up, resulting in a trail of unfinished drinks and food being left in their wake.  I always find this funniest when his celeb pal wants to chill in the hotel on arriving and Ayoade must insist upon them meeting him downstairs immediately in order to stick to their itinerary.  Relaxing this ain’t.

Travel Man can’t be arsed with the food or indeed any other affectation

Whether trying odd local dishes, or sitting through a 14-course Michelin-starred tasting menu, Ayoade is ever the everyman in only ever being able to assess things as “fine” or “OK” – he’ll often refuse additional bites if he deems one mouthful sufficient for analysing flavour.  Fuss and fancy are instant turn offs, often dismissed on the spot, much to the disappointment of obsequious wait staff and barkeeps.  I unknowingly channelled this approach on a media jolly to San Sebastián when I inadvertently told the maître d’ at Arzak that I didn’t like the monkfish.  Whoops.

Travel Man is nourished by facts

Our guest follows Richard on a schlepp to the city’s nearest highpoint, using a bird’s eye view to orientate themselves and discuss Ayoade’s vertigo.  Before, during and after, they are showered with openly Wikipedia-procured nuggets of varying relevance, often responding with their only viable reaction: bemusement.  On occasions, even hired tour guides seem to know less than our Richard.  It’s all deliciously awkward.  Of note is when UNESCO World Heritage Site status is pointed out, as we do realise at one point that nobody knows what this means.

Travel Man has other foibles

He makes outrageous sartorial choices.  He has a real passion for funiculars (and you will too).  He finds it outrageous when artisanal workshops do not conclude with appropriate certification.  He is vivid in his descriptions of tummy bugs.  He treats guides facetiously by asking them to stay in touch.  But most of all…

Travel Man gets travel sick

Across the nine series and counting, the producers push Ayoade into every mode of transport imaginable, from speedboats to helicopters, from camels to toboggans.  Each and every one triggers his motion sickness.  As a fellow sufferer, I identify with this more than I can convey here.  In fact, I have developed sympathy sickness which comes on whenever Ayoade looks queasy.  Which is often.

Nevertheless, this show is now a firm favourite of mine in light of its lightness and entertainment.  I feel as though I’ve been on a farewell grand tour of my beloved EU with a host of new pals.  Its irreverent tone really takes the gap yah out of someone else’s holidays, transcending the traditional tedium of online showing off by never taking anything that seriously.  Best of all, its brutal honesty really peaks at the very end when Ayoade is itching to get home and shut the doors.  Should they have come?  It doesn’t matter if you have speedy boarding.

Cruising With Jane McDonald

See how many of these words and expressions you can get through before you start smirking.  Sausage.  The biggest one.  Such a big organ.  Tugging away.  Now, if, like me, you’re already laughing out loud, then this means you are a fan of innuendo.  This blog has long proven a safe space for those that identify as loving silliness (see post on Miranda), but the time feels right to welcome on board each and every fan of innuendo out there because, this week, we’re going on us holidays.  We’re going Cruising With Jane McDonald.  If you didn’t enjoy any of the double-entendres, then get out.

Ever since Adele Roberts’ luxury item on I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here was a framed photo of Jane herself, I’ve been meaning to return to this show.  I remember one Christmas visit to the parents some years back.  We differ on lots of things, from politics to food, but TV viewing behaviour is perhaps home to the biggest generational divide.  I therefore spent the festive period, as a guest, tolerating such nonsense as Countryfile, the BBC news, Antiques Roadshow and countless advert breaks filled with spots whose frequency was approaching a billion.  I wasn’t entertained but I mostly wasn’t listening.  Then, one evening, after a slice of Christmas cake and a peppermint tea, something came on about cruise holidays.  There was our Jane, she off of a 1998 BBC reality documentary called The Cruise (back when everyone in this sort of show was guaranteed a showbiz career), still going strong, still going on cruises, 20 years later.  Apart from a stint on Loose Women (Jane, not me), I hadn’t seen much of her outside of some Victoria Wood sketches (insert plug for dinnerladies).  Yet, this one programme was the highlight of my winter break.  My parents and I chuckled throughout, enjoying the entertainment, unified in Jane’s silly innuendos.  Channel 5 had previously only served one purpose in my life: hosting later series of Big Brother.  Now it was giving me something more.

But why now?  Well, as someone who’s lucky in lockdown (a job, a place to live, online shopping), one minor pain point has been the lack of going on holiday.  I expect no sympathy as the world has bigger problems just now, but don’t worry anyway as I have solved this myself through the format of travelogue television.  I can’t go abroad, but Jane can.  So when I’ve reached the end of my WFH day, I move from the home office to the sofa (same room), treat myself to a tonic water (as a pretend gin and tonic, to avoid the start of a slippery slope whose first step is drinking alone) with ice and lemon, and crack open an episode.

We always start with Jane enthusing about her love of cruising.  Her Yorkshire accent leads to a certain pronunciation of the R in cruise that I wish I had remembered enough of the linguistics in my degree to be able to transcribe phonetically here.  Imagine cruise, but said in a more fun way.  And that’s the joy of Jane – she’s happy to be there.  Whether she’s getting taken up the Danube, hitting the Caribbean islands or bobbing about the Inner Hebrides, Jane always bursts with excitement before she gets on any ship.  Her passion for cruising is palpable.  Sometimes, she has some hours to kill in her first port, but before long we’re following her deep into the bowels of the vessel as she tries (with mixed success) to locate her cabin.  With cruise companies wising up to the PR her trips give them, later series see her occupy the swishest accommodation, but Jane is mostly genuinely glad to have a bed and a clean toilet.  She’ll test the shower’s acoustics and always pull out a clothing line so she can make comments about people’s smalls.  And that’s what you really need when considering what cabin to book.

We’re then served a jazzy infographic, using a glitzy cutty-outty head of Jane to document her itinerary (always starting in Wakefield).  My favourite of these is for her Iceland trip, as she simply gives up pronouncing the place names properly after several false starts.  Then, for the best part of an hour, to quote Jane, we’re on us holidays!  At each port, she packs in all sorts, whether spurning the average tourists for a personal guided tour of something or other, or joining in with elderly British couples in anoraks who first got the cruising bug in 1972 and now won’t go anywhere unless it’s on a waterborne hotel with nine bars and six à la carte restaurants.  Jane is up for anything, and that’s one of the best parts.  She jumps off a building in New Zealand, takes a zipwire down Niagara Falls and asks any man below the age of 50 if he is married.  Her heart is on her sleeve, easily moved to tears by Budapest’s Holocaust memorial, Gracie Fields’ tomb on Capri or the sight of the Taj Mahal.  The only thing she doesn’t like is walking up steep hills, but she can normally balance out that inconvenience with some sort of cheeky drink, a whopping innuendo and a quick whizz round any gift shop.  Other highlights include interactions with her hair and make-up pal, Sue, and the bit where she explores the ship on her own, wielding a camera on a stick while she bothers holidaymakers who desperately try to act like they haven’t just overdone it at the buffet.

Now we must touch on how each show ends.  Middle series include a cheeky “What?” moment where we catch Jane up to no good – I can confirm I laughed out loud at each of these.  But, throughout, the singer in Jane comes into play and we are treated to a musical number.  I would love to have been in the production meeting where this part of the format was decided upon.  Song choices are linked to the location, with Jai Ho and Ray Of Light accompanying her up the Ganges, and the Evita soundtrack saved for Argentina, for example.  I delight in Jane because she never takes herself seriously, but for the musical number moments, her performance is more studied.  But what better end to the high camp of the high seas than a baffling bit of a singsong?

So, join me in agreeing with Bafta that this is an excellent show.  For now, Jane may have hung up her cruising smalls and the show is over (just like our EU membership, for now), but if you’re looking for a bit of comfort, whimsy and vacation-simulating entertainment in lockdown, all without the actual hell of being trapped on a ship with other British people, then this is the perfect bit of television, at least until we can go on us holidays again.

Dark Tourist

Continuing with the recent flurry of travel-based posts (Jack Whitehall: Travels With My Father and I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here), I’ve succumbed to the constant appearance of Dark Tourist in my Netflix menu.  It was sat there at the top every time I logged in, promising subversion, alternative lifestyles and the ability to brag about having been to really trendy tourist destinations for optimum office one-upmanship.  For instance, I was just showing off to a colleague about the fact I have been to Portland, Oregon, but I didn’t manage to shoehorn into the conversation I have also visited Austin, Texas, which, together, place me as a hipster traveller, despite the fact that I just made everyone sitting near me listen to Fleur East’s Sax (still a party banger, no matter what anyone says).  But, Dark Tourist is not about food trucks and cool urban scenes.  It’s about going to places you wouldn’t normally associate with Instagram fodder.

However, this seems to be even more hipster than the vegan plastic-free breastfeeding collectives of Portland.  Dark Tourist follows David Farrier, a New Zealand journalist who has always been attracted to death and destruction.  However, in his accent, this sounds more like “dith end distriction”.  He’s a hipster: too cool for a haircut, practical eyewear, non-ironed t-shirts.  Somehow, he’s convinced Netflix to fund his holidays to places that are sad, scary or both.  The people he comes across on these journeys, whether they’re touring the Fukushima radioactive area in Japan or cycling about Alexandra township in Johannesburg, ache with their own coolness about shunning package holidays to the beach in favour of seeing the more disturbing side of human life.

So, dark tourism and normal tourism have something in common: both cause inordinate smugness.  I’ve given some thought as to whether I have ever been a dark tourist.  There was the German exchange when I was fourteen; we made the obligatory visit to Dachau.  Going on to pursue this language all the way through university, I’ve read my fair share of World War II literature, but, at the time, the gravity of the place didn’t register as deeply as I now know it should have.  What I do remember, though, is a very enthusiastic guide taking us to the crematoria and then being slightly appalled by the rest of the class clamouring to take pictures of the ovens which thankfully were never completed in time to be used.  What exactly were they going to do with those images?  Enjoy them at a later date (remembering that this was many years before Facebook, let alone digital cameras)?  More recently, embracing the dark tourist mantra of being open to danger, I recall sitting on my cousin’s veranda in KwaZulu Natal while her son ran off into the bushes with a gun to investigate the sounds of potential intruders.  I just sipped my coffee because, as everyone knows, on holiday you’re immortal.  Especially if you’re a plucky Brit.  Right?

Chances are, we’ve all been dark tourists.  If you’ve ever been to a museum or a memorial or a battlefield, then the sights you’re seeing are rooted in some form of human suffering.  Farrier takes a muted approach to this: he’s not overly deferential or crudely exploitative.  He acknowledges his interest while also trying to understand it.  Nevertheless, it’s uncomfortable viewing, whether you’re witnessing voodoo animal slaughter in Benin, or, closer to home, coming to terms with the fact that England is very much on the list for dark tourism.  But our contribution is not necessarily the site of a transgression, but a museum that makes an exhibit of many: Littledean.  We can never quite make our mind up about the proprietor, but suspending judgment is part of the fascination.  Why else can’t we help watching Making A Murderer, if not for the constant challenges to our certainty about guilt and innocence?

Dark Tourist is at its best when breaking into a closed state or authoritarian regime.  The segments that cover Turkmenistan and Myanmar are particularly gripping.  For me, it’s handy that Farrier is investigating these places that I’ll probably never go to, taking risks and breaking into forbidden territory, whether this is due to free radicals or ethnic tensions.  But it all boils down to the ultimate means by which we justify anything we pursue in our leisure time: it’s entertaining.  We go on holiday to look, point and experience because it’s a diversion from daily life.  Watching a TV show that allows us to do this in shonkier locations but with no risk to ourselves is therefore highly entertaining, all pleasantly hosted by a southern hemisphere Louis-Theroux-alike.  It’s left me wanting to know more about all the subjects covered, precisely because Dark Tourist’s premise is to understand why people want to go there, rather than needing to go into the detail of what actually happened.  Booking details don’t follow each report and there’s no suntanned Judith Chalmers sipping a cocktail and having a jolly nice time, but there’s a curiously inspirational bent to the show: you’ll want to go and be a braver, darker tourist yourself.  I can’t explain why, buy you’ll wish you were there, all whilst being glad you’re not.

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?)