Category: Friends

People we like or late 90s/early 00s sitcom. Or both.

Advent #24

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Christmas, Doctor Who, Family, Friends, TV

I recently discovered that “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” is only half a saying (wasn’t that a Tommy Steel musical?). The full Wilde-ism runs, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness” which has a rather different connotation. Likewise, poor old money gets a bad press, but actually it’s THE LOVE OF money that is the root of all evil.

Similarly: I often cite Frasier from the final episode of Cheers, saying “Time goes by, so fast. People move in and out of your life. You must never miss an opportunity to tell these people how much they mean to you” – which is a worthy and insightful observation from Boston’s premier psychiatrist… But the significant detail is that he fails to follow his own advice, and remains silent. It’s advice that’s easier to agree with than to act on – I think so anyway (other than one uncharacteristic moment several years ago, in the freezer aisle at Tesco).

Not that I want to give the impression my entire life philosophy is founded on sitcoms, but… One of the great sitcom moments is in The Vicar of Dibley where boring old Frank, broadcasting on Radio Dibley, begins his show, “I first discovered I was gay…” He goes on to say how he has wanted to tell his friends for years, but is now finally able to from behind a microphone.

I suppose it’s just that one step of removal, and perhaps it’s the same with ‘social media’ – easier to write it down, easier to make sure we express ourselves correctly (“I do hope I do it all right” as Joyce Grenfell said). 

So with that in mind, with the hope that we’ve all made it safely to harbour once again,  I’d like to wish you a good Christmas. Whether you celebrate the true spirit of the season (ie, watch the Doctor Who Christmas special) or if you’re a non-believer; whatever you’re doing and whoever you’re doing it with, I hope you have a peaceful and relaxing and enjoyable time of it.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good night.

You Have Been Reading

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Advent the Last

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Christmas, Family, Friends

One thing I especially like about the new Beatles song is that it comes to a definite end. Compare that with, say, Hey Jude where the song proper finishes, but there’s still time to go and make a cup of tea, answer a couple of emails, walk the dog even, before the song finally fades away.

Real life of course isn’t like that, not even at Christmas when maybe we’d like to think the everyday hustle and bustle comes to a definite end for everyone. When I casually dropped in on my brother this morning, in full-on holiday mode, my sister-in-law was busy cooking for Christmas because she’s working tomorrow (and Boxing Day (and Wednesday)).

For all that it’s not a full stop, there is a definite and unavoidable suspension of normality about Christmas, and it gives us the opportunity to wish friends, family, colleagues, a Merry Christmas. I like to think, behind and beyond that, we’re not just hoping they have a good day on December 25th –  we’re, without articulating it properly, telling them that they mean something to us, and that we’re thinking of them.

I’ve friends who’ve lost their Dad recently. Friends who had a rough time of it last Christmas but are hoping, and deservedly so, for a better one this year. Then there are friends who are recently married, or have had a baby this past year, and I’m pleased for their excitement. But then again, there’s at least one friend who I suspect is struggling more than they’re saying.

It isn’t just about (to quote if not THE Beatles, at least A Beatle) “simply having a wonderful Christmas time.”

So with that in mind, what else can I say but….

Merry Christmas

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Advent #23

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in 1980s, Childhood, Christmas, Friends

Although (as previously advertised) I’ve never been homeless, I did once escape from workhouse servitude only to fall in with a criminal gang, involved in all sorts of felony, and even (to give the game away) picking a pocket or two.

In other words, in my dim and distant past there has been the occasional Christmas thesp, and in December 1984 our school put on an over-ambitious and under-rehearsed production of Oliver!  From memory, and for those of you who love numbers, it ran for Four nights with Two Olivers– and I was One of them!

To be tediously pedantic, I was a back-up Oliver, a Spare Twist, until one dropped out. (Gruel overdose I believe). I was easily able to meet the requirements of being small and pathetic-looking, but there was considerable debate between the music and drama departments about my lacking the traditional blond hair – there was talk of either bleaching or a wig but ultimately neither option was followed up on and I simply played it as a brunette, with my own then-black now-grey hair.

The first act, which was heavily rehearsed, was considerably better than the second, which… wasn’t. Not that any of that bothered my English Teacher. He was playing Fagin with only a very distant relationship with his lines, so he was already in improv’ mode.

I’m not sure I saw any reviews, and I certainly didn’t see any share of the Box Office takings, but I do remember having an awful lot of fun and, for all its dim and distant past-ness, it remains a memory of a very pleasant time with in particular two or three very good friends. But that was pretty much it for my theatrical career.

After seeing me as Oliver, apparently nobody wanted to have some more.  

Hooray, Hooray, It’s A Holi-Holi-day

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Confused, Friends, Moaning, Money, Pets, Work

I’m on holiday.

Not in a ‘by the pool, excuse the slow typing because I’m holding a pina colada in the other hand’ kind of way. More in a ‘days to use up and rapidly running out of year’ sort of way.

I rather struggle with holidays. In the normal course of events I’m constantly battling with  my instinct towards laziness, but ironically, when I’m actually given licence to be lazy (this isn’t an official licence you understand, I’m not getting it on direct debit or anything) it’s just… Well, it’s too much of a good thing, is what it is.

Maybe I just get bored easily. The start of the day is OK, I can easily pass a leisurely, be-dressing gown-ed breakfast while watching, say, an episode of Friends (I’m now into the final run, and Ross is fine) or some more of The Crown. After that I tend to mooch rather than rush through my bathroom shenanigans before finally getting around to walking the dogs who, long before this point, have rumbled that I’m obviously not going to work.

But when all that’s done and out of the way, and the rest of the day lies open before me, a blank canvas, world’s my oyster, blah blah blah… At that point I feel I really ought to be doing something.

And of course, there’s always plenty to do – cars to wash and windows to clean and ironing to, erm, iron and… Well, there’s an unquantifiable amount of plenty I could be doing; but that makes my time off feels like a wasted opportunity, like I’m fundamentally missing the point if I’m just going to dig out the hoover or scrub something.

I realise, to be fair, that I may be overlooking the obvious in simply BEING on holiday rather than GOING on holiday. And yet, it would just never occur to me that I could get on a plane and fly away from the road where the cars never stop going through the night to a life where I can watch the sun set and–  

No, hold on, I’ve come over a bit Dido there. We don’t live by a road where cars keep on going through the night (the occasional tractor, yes, but not cars) and if I was all that keen on sunsets, there’s one every night just behind the garage block outside our front door.

Nevertheless, slightly-outdated pop cultural references aside, the general point is correct. At least, I think it is, I’m going to have to put down my pina colada and just cast my eye back over the previous couple of paragraphs, just hold on a tic. I realise, overlooking the obvious, capital letters, sunset, tractor…

Yes, yes the general point is correct – which is that I don’t in any way associate ‘being on holiday’ with ‘going away’. Frankly, the heady mix of three dogs, five cats and just the one income has sort of seen to that over the years.

But then, the truth is I’m not really a ‘lying by the pool’ sort of person anyway –  nor a ‘scaling Ben Nevis’ sort either. Maybe what it boils down to is that I’m like Margo in The Good Life, and that I simply don’t know how to enjoy myself.

Some people can, they can switch off from the normal routine, the workaday treadmill, and step away (or fly away) and throw themselves into… well, into whatever it is they do when they’re on holiday. It’s a state of mind, an attitude that seems easy and natural but which I have to conclude, can be very difficult to reach.

Wish I was there.

Catch Up? Head Down

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Family, Friends

I managed to avoid Curnow’s First Law of Shopping today.

For anybody unfamiliar with this it’s not, alas, anything to do with getting out without paying. I think there probably is some kind of Law relating to that too; but no, Curnow’s First Law of Shopping is, simply put, if you spot somebody that you want to avoid, you will then inevitably bump into them on your way around the shop.

It’s occurred often enough to be an established, if not exactly scientifically-recognised, fact – and it of course leads on to Curnow’s related Second Law which is, the amount of time the person you don’t want to bump into wants to spend talking to you when you do inevitably bump into them, will be inversely proportional to how much time you have available to talk.

Having established all that then, and as my opening line has already indicated, in an ‘exception proves the rule’ kind of scenario I managed to (a) spot somebody I knew but didn’t really want to spend time talking to; but also (b) managed to avoid them, both in the shop and also (which is sometimes the place where you least expect it, just as you’re thinking you’ve got away with it) the car park outside.

Of course, all this unproven nonsense is really just me skirting around the issue – which is, surely, how terribly antisocial and unfriendly I must be (misanthropic even, if you want to go there) to be actively avoiding people in such a manner.

I certainly can’t imagine my grandparents sneaking around the shop hoping to avoid people. Indeed, both sets of grandparents (in all ways, a better breed of men/women) had bungalows laid out with a huge sitting-room window right beside the front door – which meant that anybody calling on them, would see them sat there before they even got as far as ringing/knocking… which also meant it was quite impossible to pretend you weren’t in and just wait for them to go away!

In part, I think it’s because my brain works in a very ‘pigeon-holed’ manner. That is, I expect to see certain people in certain places and am prepared accordingly. When I see the ‘wrong’ people in the ‘wrong’ place, when/where I’m not expecting them (when, in other words, they’re in the wrong pigeon-hole) it throws my brain into a state of confusion which only serves to ramp up my natural tendency towards social (or maybe I mean, sociable?) awkwardness and a general lack of chit-chattery.

Also, though, in a probably less-than-rational way, I feel the constant pressure of time. Today, accompanied by my other half, it took almost six hours for us to ‘pop to the shops’ so I accept that other opinions are available – but my own take is that I’m not there for pleasure, I’m there to get in, get the job done, and get home, with the minimum of fuss and spending. And time.

That’s why, while I was keeping my head discretely down today in le café Morrisons, I was also worrying over the vast collection of work clothing and bedding waiting back home to go through the wash. Of stairs in need of hoovering and dogs in need of feeding.

I suppose, to unexpectedly bung in a Biblical analogy at this late stage, I’m more a Martha than a Mary (I’ve been called worse) and although I’ve always thought it unfair in that story to label the former as entirely in the wrong, the general sense that sometimes what we think is the most important thing actually isn’t, is a fair comment. I probably oughtn’t to go too long before feeding the dogs, but hoovering the stairs can maybe wait if somebody pops up for a chat.

Although… maybe it’s not the pigeon-hole mentality at all, or the ticking clock. Maybe I just don’t care enough to stop and chat. I don’t think that’s the case, but it is true that I’m not really a people person, mainly because of… No, never mind.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Thank You For Being A Friend

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in 1990s, Confused, Family, Friends, TV

Quick disclaimer: it’s not about the sitcom, sorry. (Not this time anyway.)

For the record, though, I’m currently eight seasons in, so just two more to go before Netflix pulls the plug at the end of the year. It seems to have become fashionable in some quarters to proclaim how rubbish it is, but all I can say is that I’m still enjoying it. In fact the pen-penultimate season eight episode (it could have been called, but isn’t, The One Where Rachel Will Do Anything, And I Mean Anything, To Induce The Baby) made me laugh out loud – a lot. (Is LOL-AL a thing?)

As it happens, though, Friends is a good example (oh! maybe it is about the sitcom after all) of the ‘group of friends’ scenario (hence the name of the show, obviously) which is so beloved of TV and film makers. Since I wouldn’t want anybody to think that all I do is watch fondly-remembered television comedies from the nineties, let me say that yesterday evening, in a dramatic change of pace I watched Four Weddings and a Funeral which is an entirely different kettle of fish. (It’s a fondly-remembered FILM comedy from the nineties).

Four Weddings, like Friends, like How I Met Your Mother (another favourite), revolves around a group of (mostly) unrelated but closely connected friends, who seemingly do everything together to the exclusion of anybody else. So, for example, the six friends always meet at Monica’s for Thanksgiving rather than, which I suspect would be far more likely in the real world, independently visiting their various families.

It’s an unrealistic set-up but devilishly appealing, this idea of a miscellaneous group of friends so closely-knit that they would do anything for each other. We don’t really need a detailed explanation of James Fleet’s comment that “nansy’s in residence, might knock us up a plate of eggs and bake over a late-night scrabble” to get the sense of its warm, comfortable, laugh-filled fellowship. Mr Curtis pulls the same trick (but, spoiler alert, not as well) in the not-quite-a-sequel Notting Hill which is nevertheless worth a watch even though you may find yourself pining for a wedding partway through. (Or a funeral.)

Making closer-than-close friendships seems all very easy in delightfully-mannered British films, or in fondly-remembered US comedies – or in Primary School, where you could pretty much form a lasting bond of friendship simply by asking, “do you want to be friends?” It’s far more complicated as a grown-up.

Or maybe that’s just me. Almost certainly, I suspect, in that I do find it a bafflingly elusive thing to do, forming friendships as an adult. That’s not to say that I’m unfriendly, at least I don’t think I am, but that’s not quite the same as being, and as being able to be, friendly.

My wife, on the other hand, she is willing and able to be friendly with anyone. On reflection, I’m concerned that the previous sentence sounds like a bitter euphemism for ‘slut’ so let me clarify, and quickly. It’s almost impossible for us, for example, to pop out to the shops without Mrs C sparking up a conversation with some passing stranger: often about dogs; sometimes about the difficulties, and the graphically described side-effects, of being lactose-intolerant; and occasionally about how annoying her husband is.

It’s (presumably) lovely to be so out-going and, yes, friendly. And although I’m not, I’m fortunate enough when we’re out together that I seem friendly by association. It’s a bit like David Duchovny’s comment on his character in The X Files that Scully is Mulder’s ‘human credential’, making his seeming lack of humanity or friendliness acceptable. So I suppose my wife and I are like that, she’s the human face to my awkwardness, like Mulder and Scully but without the official label of sexiest woman in the world and minus the passionate obsession with mysterious alien hybrid/government conspiracy shenanigans.

Goodness knows, really, how my wife puts up with me (assuming she still does after being variously labelled a slut and NOT the sexiest woman on the planet, in recent sentences).

I guess she’s just a really good friend.

Photographic Memories

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Carlisle, Childhood, Friends, Work

We had our photo taken at work this week.

I won’t bore you with the details, it was simply a group shot for Facebook purposes, but my main takeaway from the finished picture was the sheer amount of forehead I have these days. Fortunately my wife was at hand with a comforting word: “How could you not know?!” she said.

Inevitably, it reminded me of the last time I featured in a work photograph. When that particular company closed down a few years later, simply on the basis of being the last man standing I ended up with about twenty odd copies of the finished picture. I still have them, hoping that somebody in it will one day become a huge superstar and I’ll be able to make a small fortune selling ‘before they were famous’ pictures on eBay.

The same is true of the ‘class of 87’ photo taken during our last term at secondary school. You would have thought that, with close to a hundred and fifty people in it, somebody surely would have made it big? And yet… Well, it’s now close to thirty-two years since it was taken, so it seems increasingly unlikely.

Mind you, it’s entirely possible that it’s already happened and I just haven’t realised it. I could probably name everybody in that work photo (I mean blimey, it was only taken last Tuesday!) but I would struggle now to put a name to more than a handful of the faces in that school group.

Conversely, though, there are photographs where I can still name everyone, even after forty years. Somewhere in one of my parents’ many photo albums is a picture of half a dozen of us from Primary School, all woollen jumpers, short trousers, and gappy teeth. Robert Campbell is in it, so is Melanie Harper. So am I.

I don’t actually remember the picture being taken I’ll admit – but I do remember the occasion, which was a prize presentation to our group at the local CoOp. We got the afternoon off school for it, and since I know we were in Mrs Lamb’s class at the time that pins it down to 1979. I also remember that whatever prize money I got (possibly a postal order) was very soon spent on a Han Solo action figure. (It was the second version, fact fans, the one with the larger head, and the one which my brother subsequently held too close to the gas fire, meaning that the Corellian scoundrel forever after sported two unsightly melted sections on his cranium. (Although at least he didn’t have a huge mountain of forehead to contend with.))

I don’t know whether it’s something unique to the memories of childhood or if it’s just that, personally, I preferred it, but I’m confident I could still name most if not all of the pupils in my class at Primary School; as opposed to not being able to name very many at all of the crowd from Secondary School (not even the (possibly) really famous ones).

Our last ever day at Primary School, although there were some games, mainly involved a lot of ‘end of term housekeeping’ and our teacher of the time (with no apparent regard either for posterity or for recycling) made us all throw our exercise books into the huge wheeled bins at the back of the school.

With that simple act, alas, I lost forever the details of the slimy, slithering constructions  of a far-distant alien world. Trashed along with it was ‘the history of a house’ through two wars. And I’ll never be able to check just how I managed to fill a whole page on the uninspiring topic of ‘a World without Oil’.

But amid all the cultural vandalism, there was a pause where we posed for a class photo, altogether on the climbing frame, just a few hours before it dawned on me (rather late in the day, I’ll admit) that I probably wouldn’t see any of those friends ever again – which has indeed turned out to be the case.

I can remember that too, the moment when that bombshell really hit me.

I bet my face was a picture.

Catching Up With Old Friends

by andrewcurnow1971, posted in Friends, TV

It’s Netflix’s fault.

It’s got all ten seasons of Friends, and although you might well think I shouldn’t be spending/wasting so much time watching TV, I’m already halfway through. To be nitpicky I’m halfway through in number of seasons rather than number of episodes; so in other words I’ve just finished season five, which is the one (sorry, The One) set in Las Vegas.

The previous year’s finale was set in London, with the cast filmed on location there alongside an array of UK guest stars. Vegas, on the other hand, is represented by stock footage, the cast are confined to studio sets, and there’s not even a C-Lister in sight. Suggesting, perhaps, that its popularity had already peaked?

That’s unfair, or at least a cynical view twenty years after the fact. Because Friends definitely was hugely popular in its time. For me it evokes the days when imported TV shows, especially from the US, would often take pride of place in primetime, which they never do now on the terrestrial channels. And there were so many of them – just off the top of my head, the BBC used to show Starsky & Hutch and The Rockford Files, Dynasty and Dallas; and ITV was home to The A-Team, Airwolf, The Equalizer and The Fall Guy.

They carried with them, perhaps, an air of the exotic; and certainly those US shows looked more expensive and flashy than much of our homegrown stuff. Or maybe that’s nostalgia talking again – memories of the extraordinary wait to find out who actually did shoot JR, or of being allowed to stay up late on a Friday night to watch Starsky & Hutch.

Re-engaging with shows from the past is warm and cosy, even though in truth the nostalgia is probably as much for the particular time in our lives when we first watched them, rather than for the actual content. But the flip side of it is that, objectively, Friends no longer feels fresh and modern, instead it’s already very dated.

It’s only twenty years ago but it’s a strikingly lo-tech world. Ross is the only one who has a mobile (and it’s only for phone calls). Nobody has an email address. There’s no home computing, and the internet doesn’t even exist. They spend all that time in the coffee shop, and nobody is ever checking their messages.

What’s even more striking (occasionally shocking) is how attitudes have changed too. The first thing my daughter sees, and she’s right, is that this is a show about six friends. Six Straight White friends. I can’t imagine that pitch getting further than those four words today.

In the most recent episode I watched, Monica agrees to never see her ex again if that’s what Chander wants, Chandler having forbidden her (yes, that’s for-bid-den her) in the previous episode. That’s definitely not the sort of ‘submissive female something about the patriarchy’ kind of characterisation that you’d expect nowadays. It shows how much has changed in what feels like a very short time.

For all that, though, and rightly or wrongly I’m still enjoying it. Back in the day I sort of drifted away from the show after the first couple of years, so other than the major bullet points (having babies, not having babies, and a half-memory of having once seen the very last episode) I don’t really know what’s coming over the next five seasons. It’s comfortable and cosy, at least to somebody who’s old enough to have been around at the time, and frankly it’s just nice to be in the company of people who are generally speaking, kind and fun and pleasant to each other.

In the real world, I must admit, I find friends and friendships infinitely more complicated and difficult.

Maybe that’s why I have so much time to spend watching TV…