The MIGHTY Boosch

Somewhere around the third shit of the day it hits you. Something is not quite right.

What had been a curious but not unwelcome opportunity to catch up on your reading starts to take on more sinister and worrying dimensions. Your brain automatically googles “food poisoning” and that last sausage flashes up instantly. This is a bad time for you boy, and its not about to get any better.

Unfortunately, the same can often be said for the world of film and television. Take the Godfather trilogy. After two masterpieces of epic importance and pop cultural gravitas, part three bombed like New Coke and to this day casts an icy shadow over its predecessors. Likewise, Peep Show began to loose a little of its edge on its third run and I won’t even get started on the third Sting album.

Others however, rightly recognise the simple beauty of the couplet. Spaced did, prudently calling it quits before money or ego stretched the formula. Similarly, Fawlty Towers earned its place in Sitcom royalty on the back of a mere 12 episodes. These shows recognised the old showbiz adage that you should always leave the crowd wanting more, instead of subjecting us to a dragged out and undignified death the wrong side of primetime. It would seem therefore, that as with many other things in life, when it comes to TV (especially good TV) three is often a crowd, and gooseberries can be real shits.

These were the fears with which I nervously awaited the third series of The Mighty Boosh. Having found little to fault and much to love in the first and second series, the cautious and essentially pessimistic side of my hexago-nature warned me not to hold my breath for more of the same. However, as Machiavelli so consistently points out, you don’t get anywhere in life without taking a few risks, and Victory was definitely on the side of Barrett and Fielding last week as The Mighty Boosh stormed back for another crack of the funny bones.

Set in a shop in Shoreditch, the first episode finds Vince and Howard home alone as Naboo and Bollo go on a stag weekend. As the episode progresses we soon find we are on familiar ground as the trademark creepy characters, inventive sets and kitsch elements combine with an increased budget to conjure a kaleidoscope of offbeat and irregular comedy. The songs are still in there, as are the moon cut-aways, while the chemistry of the two main characters maintains the balance and equality that marks and elevates all good double acts.

Although this isn’t simply a rehashing of the earlier efforts; In this series, for the first time as far as I can tell, TMB is starting to turn its considerable strength outward against elements outside its world. “Eels” veers into Nathan Barley territory as the show takes a few pops at the Shoreditch elite and Nu-Rave in equal measure, suggesting perhaps a reflex to the increasing popularity of the programme as it drifts to the mainstream. However, with appearances by Razorlight and The Horrors scheduled for later in the series, the satire is unlikely to hack all the way to the bone. No bad thing in my opinion, as going too far down this path would risk sacrificing some of the fun of the show.

As such, those suspicious belly rumblings must have just been nerves, as TMB looks set to score a hat trick with the third series. For now at least, I can take solace in the fact that greater men than I have dared and won once more.

Also, dont worry if you miss it on thursdays, as its repeated eight times during the week

Round up

Eagle eyed readers will have noticed a distinct lack of new content over the last few weeks.

This is not, as my recent forays into the world of food writing might suggest, because I have sent my glowing friend in the corner to the naughty step. Rather, ever since I purchased my spanking new DVD Recorder, all traces of viewing diversity have all but gone out the window as the Soprano’s consolidates its vice-like grip on my life.

With all 86 episodes now being shown in a row by More 4 every weeknight after 12, prudence dictates I record each one, while compulsion makes damn sure I watch them. This all adds up to over 5 hours viewing per week, and with all the time it takes to hold down a job, eat, read (the Godfather, tackily,) watch the news and brush my teeth, there is very little room for anything else.

As such, after a brief flourish, democracy has once again yielded to autocracy, diversity overwhelmed by homogony, and freedom of choice brutally crushed by the all pervading influence and authority of Divine Right.

A few rogue elements have slipped through the net in recent days however, and it is with great personal risk and likely censure, that I bring you this week’s resumen de televisión, live from behind the ion curtain.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall. It’s not that I don’t like him, I’ve just never been particularly inspired by his pig-rearing, free-ranging grow your own or die approach to cookery, finding it a tad beyond my means. However, with River Cottage: Gone Fishing, we’ve made our peace. In the latest River Cottage offering Hugh takes his welly boots and straggly locks around Britain’s coastline in search of the best self caught seafood he can find. He then cooks it simply, and usually outdoors, before serving it up to old sea dogs and salt of the earth types who receive with all the gratitude they can muster for a double-barrelled land luber who just cost them a morning’s work. It’s a pretty simple formula, but proves interesting and educational, incidentally stomping all over The Wild Gourmets who tried a similar thing but failed miserably.

Also evading capture in service of the truth this week was Channel 4’s “contemporary re-telling of the story of the story of Exodus,” aptly titled of course, Exodus.

After being abandoned by his immigrant mother on a beach, Moses is adopted by evil right-wing leader Pharoah Mann, who brings him up in a world of wealth and privilege, albeit failing to impress any of his beliefs on his young son. After killing a soldier with one punch, Moses is exiled to dreamland, an old fairground complex turned internment camp that is home to criminals, refugees, and the dispossessed. There he quickly and quietly finds his old family, becomes a great leader, and leads his followers to the land of Milk and Honey.

At least I think this was the story, as I became increasingly less interested the more I watched Exodus, and infinitely more happy to amuse myself with facetious little musings on the inconsistencies of the premise.

I am usually a big fan of dystopian visions of the future, particularly when they involve some sort of authoritarian element, but Exodus unfortunately failed to float my boat. I admittedly should have sat through it until the end, if only to see how much the programme would deviate from the original story, but in a world of infinite media choices and unprecedented access to information, if you haven’t got me in the first 15 minutes, I’m not likely to stick around.

Also this week I tuned in excitedly to Kitchen Nightmares, which after a smashing first two episodes has dissolved into cynical rehashing of old stories, by way of Gordon “re-visiting” restaurants from previous series, and as such only needing to show about 25% new footage. I also went to see Planet Terror in the cinema, which proved gratuitous, vile, and thoroughly enjoyable.

Thali Night Fever

All new experience lays slave to TV Casualty, and never more so on bonfire night as I buttoned up the flak jacket and made the short mission to Stravaigin on Gibson Street for their monthly Thali night.

The occasion being a friend’s birthday, the Establishment was playing host to a dinner of Last Supper proportions, albeit a damn sight tastier and free from all those nasty recriminations that made the original one a real downer.

Thali, for those who weren’t there, is a selection of regional Indian dishes served in tapas sized portions on a steel plate, and in this case with rice, a naan-like flat bread called missi roti and a shredded carrot salad called kosambri. There is a set menu, dispensing with all that choosing nonsense and Stravaigin also laid on a free bottle of Cobra for those wise souls who booked ahead.

Soon the large steel plates began to arrive at the table in waves, and after a quick lesson on the origins of each dish, the serious business of eating began.

The Rohu Kalia matched a light, slightly doughy batter with delicate pearly white fish that disintegrated after the gentlest inquiry. The rich and tangy gravy that accompanied teetered on the edge of being too sharp, but was brought back down with a low rounded heat from the chillis.

Also prominent was a Keralan goat bhuna which suffered a little from being mostly bone. While the shreds of meat that could be salvaged were undeniably tender, the goat lacked that unmistakable muskiness that sets it apart from lamb. Once again, however, the flavours in the sauce were so deep I almost got lost in them, redeeming the dish to no end.

Elsewhere on the plate wonderfully textured Rajasthani red lentils devoured my missi roti, and three deep fried banana and potato balls added a welcome sweetness despite being a touch heavy.

Stravaigin undeniably does a good Thali, and despite some sniffiness regarding numbers and deposits ill fitting for a half-empty Monday night, the service was welcoming and efficient. The portions were of good size and at £15 per head the meal was a good price and made splitting the bill a relatively bloodless affair.

Don't Stop Believing

Less time spent fucking around in restaurants and more time in front of the goggle box this week as I said good bye to an old friend and welcomed home another.

The Soprano’s reached its bone shattering conclusion on Sunday night and while most of my friends were out partying at espookio, I was firmly planted indoors so as not to miss the most important television event of the decade. Having stuck my fingers in my ears, shouted gibberish and physically threatened anyone who brought up the subject of the finale in the proceeding weeks, I had effectively shielded myself from the ending and went into the programme as much a plaything of fate as Tony Soprano himself. If you value your faith in television and didn’t tune in on Sunday, I suggest you do the same and close this page immediately.

This series has been something of a slow, steady burner, with the drama cranked up by increment over the nine episodes. Tony’s daily struggles with work and family continue, but this time against a background of seething tension with Phil Leotardo’s New York crew, threatening the Soprano Family’s very survival. By the time we reach the last episode, a few key members of the crew have been killed or seriously injured, and we’re basically tuning in to see if Tony’s going to get whacked.

While usually unflinching in its graphic portrayal of murder and violence (the superb scene in the model train shop where Bobby is felled by a hail of gunfire comes to mind) the last scene of the Soprano’s avoids a similar blood lust pay out for Tony, and leaves things altogether a lot more complicated.

With Leotardo dispensed with, a measure of stability has returned to Tony’s life. AJ seems to be improving and been dissuaded from joining the army, and a tentative reconciliation with a senile Uncle Junior has been reached. Carlo Gervasi has turned informant, so possible jail time lies ahead for Tony, while the imminent threat of death seems to have subsided. However, this is last scene of the last episode of the last series, so we know better than to expect such a simple conclusion. In a stomach twisting sequence of shots, our suspicion and paranoia become fused with Tony’s as a number of shadowy potential assassins emerge amongst the diner’s clientele. Tony selects Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing on the jukebox and just as the tension becomes almost unbearable the action abruptly cuts to black, holding a few seconds before the credits roll silently.

I won’t get into the “was Tony shot” debate too much here, as the internet is already brimming with analysis and counter-analysis as fans split into rival factions. This debate is likely to go on indefinitely, but it’s suffice to say that as finales go, this was a ripper, with even the Duch peeking up from behind her facebook to check it out. For what it’s worth, I side with those who believe Tony was shot, with the cut to black reflecting the closing of the window we had into Tony’s world, the abruptness of death having been discussed in an earlier episode by Bobby and Tony. Others amass evidence to contrary, but I think the creators’ wanted us to fill in our own ending, so unless they start up again or make a film, I’ll stick with that one.

In reality TV, often the simplest premise works best. Big Brother was good the first couple of series, but starting going downhill as soon as the producers starting fucking with it too much, but with Kitchen Nightmares Gordon Ramsey knows why people tune in and stays pretty close to the formula.

In the first episode of the fourth series, the infamous browbeater was in Brighton, home of seafood restaurant Ruby Tates as well as lots of gay people, as Gordon keeps reminding us.

It’s a familiar story; Ex-actor restauranteur Allan is losing £1500 a week and the chefs are lazy and incompetent, serving up dead mussels and warm fruit de mer. In comes Gordon, and with a unique mix of ritual humiliation and inspirational leadership, sets about turning a damp squid into the catch of day. This is done by changing pretty much every aspect of the restaurant down to the name, so by the end of the episode it is basically an expensive fish and chip shop, though with a profit of over £3000 a week and climbing.

Despite the fact that you can see the formula a mile off, Kitchen Nightmares remains pretty good telly. The F-word can seem like its trying to be everything to everyone all at once, which can get a bit tiresome but this programme fortunately knows what it’s doing and does it. The put downs and “bollockings” were a little toned down in this episode, but it remains to be seen if that will remain the same throughout the series.

With my favourite anti-hero now sleeping with the fishes, I need another show to indulge my passive aggression.