Leaving the Isle of Sid

I’m a bit of a destructivist journalist, as it turns out. I’m most excited writing about Sidmouth when bits of it are falling in the sea, or getting flooded – generally being swept away in one way or another. Or when the nimbies are up in arms against the council’s move across East Devon, with aged members of the communities in slinging matches with the councillors they voted in – plenty of gripping libel on our letters pages these days. Or when an MP (allegedly) tells a constituent he doesn’t have time ‘for this bullshit’. To be fair to him he had just been to the funeral of a district councillor’s teenage son’s funeral. Cracking story, if only he’d admit to it. MPs are slippery buggers – who knew?

The floods have made this place a bit of an island. The rain a couple of weeks ago meant there was no way in or out of Sidmouth, which put me in a unique position as the only hack here, the man on the street. Apparently it wasn’t as wild as July, but it has rained since then and there’s nowhere for it to go any more. The water table’s overloaded! So even though I had four days off this week (although I almost didn’t after cocking up the dates – I booked off last week but put this week down in my diary – thankfully my employers aren’t complete bastards), I ended up working again, but of my own volition – it was interesting to see the havoc the floods had wrought, plus Stefan said the nationals get off on photos of Sidmouth going to pieces, so there was the potential for some commission and exposure. I didn’t get an exclusive in the end. Other people apparently in town noticed what was happening.

My own housing is in turmoil, and it has nothing to do with the weather. I was all ready to move into a place in Exeter (an idea that I’ve got in my head now, since I was given the go-ahead to escape sleepy Sidmouth – the contrast with the buzz of Manchester’s been pretty stark), and I’d already taken half my stuff over, when literally an hour later it all goes down the pan. The guy, George, calls up to say that his great uncle had died and he was going to have to drop everything, defer his medical schooling and head home to Dubai. He was moving out, and as the sub-letter it means that I can’t move in. I did have some reservations about it being a bit extortionate, but I was in the city-living mindset, it came as a bit of a shock. It wasn’t George’s only surprise – I did some research (facebook stalked him) and found he knew one of my old housemates from Lancaster! Small world. I knew he was at med school too but never would’ve placed them together.

Yesterday I picked up the things I’d left in George’s house and was reluctant to unpack. It stayed in my boot because I’ve already been on gumtree and seen rooms available immediately. There was also an offer to live with my editor, but I foresee that being a weird dynamic, especially as his girlfriend is also a colleague. Still, it’s an option. Or I can stay here a while, see how the market looks in the new year.

I’ve got itchy feet now though.

Movin on up.

It’s been a busy few howeverlongitsbeens. As I predicted would happen, writing all day long has diminished my drive to do it recreationally, as seems to have happened with all the other people I know who started blogs before they got into journalism. It’s the way of the world, but local journalism’s fairly formulaic (it’s been suggested that we’ll soon be replaced by computers who can track down the six Mr Ws (who, what, where, why, when and how, even though the last one’s only an honorary member) better than us mere humans ever could) so it’s a relief to flex every once in a while. And that’s now.

So working at the Herald’s ace. There’s about as much politics to keep track of in the office as there is to report on, plenty of resentment and power vacuums to fill whenever someone takes a few days off. Since I started there have been maybe two weeks when the full reporting team’s been assembled. In the seven weeks I’ve been here, the majority of the Herald has been written by a team of two for maybe four of those – I don’t know what’s normal! And there are four days of holiday I still need to account for myself.

So it’s been a steepish learning curve, with the occasional disappointment along the way. Not for me so much, more me inadvertently or otherwise letting people down – or being made to feel like I have – because there wasn’t space for something in the paper, or it wasn’t covered in the right way. Two examples:

1. The inaugural Sidmouth Science Festival was last week. There was this supposed, tacit agreement between them and the Herald that we would give them all this free publicity, fill reams with a programme of events that were happening across the town on a handful of dates. Quite impossible. So at the surgery – which we hold in Sidmouth since the paper moved its offices to Exeter Airport – on the Friday morning after the paper comes out last week I got an earful because I had wrongly claimed editorial control over what went in from them. Then to top off the science fest, at the headline event, one of the organisers signs off with a snarky, unnecessarily-political comment about coverage of them getting squeezed out by an interview with a controversial district councillor. It’s clear to anyone which would have sold more papers. But I got an apology from someone with higher authority than that dweeb so it worked out.
2. A woman from my patch phoned up the office, mistakenly thinking that I’d contacted her since she opened the new John Lewis, a major operation in Exeter that my Exmouth colleagues’ competitors devoted front pages to on perhaps five consecutive weeks. So in my first news-grabbing coup, I stole the stole her story from the Express and Echo. All was going well, lovely piece, by most accounts well written, yet she phoned up again this week distraught and humiliated that the village was a-flapping at what she’d done, that the world had seen her in such a compromising position, that when she’s dead and gone she will forever be remembered as That Woman Who Blinked! Maybe she thought it set a dangerous example to youngsters – look where you can get if you cut ribbons with your eyes closed, kids. Yes, the poor old dear looked like she’d been stuffed and mounted for the cameras, but it’s a legit photo and the best we had. Yet she said that because we hadn’t sent that photo to her so that she could vet it, we should somehow post a pictorial apology, showing that she does indeed wield scissors fully aware and always remembers to check her mirrors at each turn.

Apart from the odd heartbreak like those, things are pretty swell, but I was called into Phil, the group editor’s office yesterday, along with Stefan, the Herald’s content editor. My bosses, basically. All was fine and dandy work-wise, but they were concerned about my social life, or lack thereof. Or they were concerned that I was concerned. Anyway, to cut a dull story less long if not short, they said I could move house. At my interview it was strongly suggested that I live on patch so I can get to know it better, so obligingly, I found a place in Sidmouth. For finding my way around and making contacts, it’s all gone to plan, but outside of that, the place is SLOW. There’s for you if you’re a politically active, too-much-time-on-your-hands pensioner who wants to see Sidmouth stay in the Regency period (as, debatably it should, but it’s not for me to comment as a neutral journo), or a go-getting power couple raising a litter of children because there’s literally no crime here and the only physical violence demonstrated by teachers towards five-year-old kids is completely within the bounds of a reasonable response, but moving from Manchester where there’s no dearth of hip, young cats like myself to somewhere where the younguns are too young and the oldies are mental has been a bit of a culture shock. Dull story shortened, I had a cracking night out in Exeter last night with my colleague Alain and his friends and acquaintances, the best I’ve had in a good two months, and have already looked at renting a place nearby.

Now I just need to bring it up with my landlord. It’s not been easy to define them. I’m their lodger, so are they lodgees? They’re a couple with three kids, of two, seven and 12, and they’re a nice bunch and we get on well, but the 10 minutes or so I see them each day doesn’t really fill an evening. They’ll understand I have to leave. It’s not them, it’s me. And I’ve been seeing other people.

An overdue update

My first three weeks in Devon are up. There’s been a definite dichotomy between life at work and back at the house. On the one hand is the addictiveness of writing stories that get a decent response from my editor and colleagues, and in the other is me still not really knowing anyone outside the office.. I played my hand early and went out on my own for the first time, seeing a new side to Sidmouth last Friday, but it wasn’t an experience I’m in a rush to repeat. The weekend before that my parents were still about so I didn’t have much spare time to fill, and with moving house I managed to stay busy, but last weekend and this, I’ve struggled a bit more to find stuff to occupy my time. I find myself actually looking forward to going back to work! Which is good in a way, I don’t think many people are in such a fortunate situation, and I don’t even think other people at work can relate.

Last weekend was interesting though. Friday was an experiment, and whether it was a success or a failure, it had to be done. Once the cider loosened me up I got talking to the locals – something I’m not sure people up north would be that open to – sidling up to people and saying, “I’m new and don’t really know anyone here, what’s up?” actually worked! Just took a bit of Dutch courage. This quiet little seaside town revealed itself to be as fun and rowdy as anywhere else, as far as the kids are concerned. There’s even a nightclub, a grotty little dive of a place, the sort where you’d go and dread seeing people you know from school and having to make small talk. Within the confines of the walls, you could been anywhere. I was suffering on Saturday and feeling super antisocial, but I’d stumbled across a festival in Exeter my colleagues said they’d go to and I wasn’t gonna miss that so I powered through to the evening. I’m glad I did – it was billed as alt-folk and Americana, so right up my street and a great intro to the city.

This weekend’s been a mixed bag. I was in the satellite office in town (HQ’s at Exeter Airport cos it’s cheaper) and on patch, so didn’t see anyone or get to make plans, but Sidmouth Carnival was last night, so that drew people in. It was immense, it was on such a colossal scale compared to what I expected. When they said it was a carnival with a parade, I figured it would be like Kirkham Club Day, a bunch of misfits from churches and obscure societies walking the streets with standards and flags that’s evolved into another chance for all involved and more to get absolutely pixellated. This was a lot more sophisticated (see photos below), and if Sidmothians were getting lashed afterwards, I didn’t see it – I had an early night. Yep, I was shattered after an epic walk from Sidmouth to Beer. Beer’s part of my patch, and there was a council event on so I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone and rock up. Little did I know the three hours I gave myself to cover the indeterminate length would be inadequate. I got there a frustrating 10 minutes late, so found a bus that massively diminished my achievement by delivering me back in Sidmouth in 20 minutes – hiking took four hours! But missing the event wasn’t a big deal, my colleague said weekends are sacred and I shouldn’t be working on them.

As for working in work time, there’s never a dull moment. I underestimated the area. In what I assumed was too quiet and quaint a place for much to happen, I figured the Herald would be a lot more in the pocket of the council than it is. But there’s plenty going on, even if I’ve missed the tourist season. You just have to look for it. Like a story about an old woman who fell down outside the health centre and couldn’t be helped by the staff due to health and safety. I know, another health and safety gone mad story, but it got me the front page in my third week! Pic below.

I feel this blog is pretty incoherent so I’m gonna go ahead and just upload some shots I’ve taken over the last three weeks. They’ll represent my new patch better than this, and better than the horrible, drizzly outside is doing.

So here are the photos, I hope to capture the weirder elements of life in Devon.

Photographing the photographer

A tamer example of the carnival floats

Words cannot describe this

That’s some Back to the Future 3 madness.

It really is the only way to travel.

Yep, that’s an intergalactic combine harvester

This man did not participate in the carnival, because it’s easily the worst advertisement for chips I’ve ever seen.

Finishing a draft and starting anew

Leaving my admin job left me plenty of time to administrate myself and get my affairs in order before I went over the top and down to Devon. A fun couple of days were spent researching car insurance and another two or three went on a new phone contract and trying to get my PUK/PAC code out of Three. I’ve dug out my rusty research skills to compare dictaphones and satnavs, all to don the guise of a journo. This job’s been a shortcut to a new life, but I probably didn’t need those two weeks to sort it out. I could’ve stayed at the hospital a while longer and earned a bit more money but I didn’t know how long it all would take. But it all paid off and I’m now mobile and insured with a new second home and mobile.

I’ve been in Sidmouth for a week now, and despite working four of those days, I still feel like I’m on holiday. Sure, I waved my parents off yesterday and settled in with my new family (more on them later), but the seaside setting doesn’t feel like home yet. There’s still the novelty of being able to walk down to the beach and jump in the sea; to live on a diet of ice creams and pasties with minimal guilt; to have my heart lifted by that wonderful seagull call – and I don’t think it’s going anywhere any time soon.

The flip side, of course, is not knowing anyone down here. I always knew I’d be coming down to a fresh start and would have to make an effort to meet people, but if anything it’ll make me a better journalist. I’ll retain that eagerness to talk to people, which I hope doesn’t make me sound like too much of a lonely soul, because that hasn’t set in yet. And with all the people who’ve said they’ll come visit, I don’t think it will. It’s one of the benefits of living somewhere desirable. The most expensive postcode in the country, or so I’m told. Around 80% of homeowners buy their property with cash. I’m spending a relative pittance on accommodation, holed up with a family trying to boost their income without paying extra tax, so my rent is capped by the government tax allowance. They seem like a decent bunch so far; it’s a couple with three young girls, and my initial worries that the youngest might be the rumoured terrible two-year-old haven’t borne true so far. Our mealtimes clashed yesterday after I moved in and bought all my groceries, but I just need to work out their rhythm. I’ll be finishing either later than them or earlier most days so should be able to fit in somewhere. And I’ve made a massive ratatouille that should last me three days or so.

My first day at work added to the rose-tinted vision I have of Devon, which began with seeing the streets flooded with beardy weirdoes and sandy-toed harpists at Sidmouth Folk Week. Shadowing my editor, the first time on patch we go to a protest at the council offices against them cutting down trees to build yet another retirement home. Playing up the melodrama for the BBC Spotlight cameras, one of them came dressed as the Grim Reaper, with a poorly modified pair of (presumably) his wife’s old tights as a mask. There was a definite panto vibe as they broke into a customised version of Jerusalem – they well should’ve gone for the Lumberjack Song (I know full well you know what I mean, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate the reminder).

The rest of the week was comparatively less quirky. Most people I met just told me how Quaint Sleepy Village X wasn’t very newsworthy. Do they not know I have a paper to fill? Attending the Beer Parish Council meeting was lucrative, in wordcount terms. There were plenty of leads to follow, but my job would’ve been a whole lot easier if I’d proceeded with them in the first place rather than becoming tangled in a web of half-truths and illegible shorthand outlines. Not knowing what were legitimate, society-wide complaints and which discussions originated with personal gripes started the confusion, but mostly I blame my parents. I was keen to get back to make the most of their presence so my attention waned. Plus a 12-hour first day felt excessive after only that morning being told I’d be eased into it.

I felt more on the ball at Branscombe. That village is the definition of picturesque – it was a distractingly pleasant day, and most folk seemed to be out enjoying it rather than where they should’ve been,which was patiently waiting for my arrival with a list of events and horrendously out of character, Midsomer Murders-esque crimes. It wasn’t to be, but there was one person who was all too keen to help. I was sent to see the head teacher, something that’s not really happened since I was in primary school. She provided more reminders of how important the church is in these communities, a fact that I’d been completely oblivious of – a victory for the atheist-humanist lobby who baulk at the idea of such C of E indoctrination – but which makes sense in a small farming community with a greater connection to the world around them. September is important to them as the time of Harvest. I don’t buy into the rest of it, but appreciating the fruits of the land is something I can get behind. I love that I can get a lot of what I need locally here, it makes supporting the community feel a lot more worthwhile.

This blog has an inordinate amount of time. The first paragraph was a good 10 days in the making, as I tried to avoid making it a conceited list of Why Life Is Good at the Moment, but things are going well. I’d exemplify with photos of the hospital filing room versus the Sidmouth promenade but the internet connection here’s not playing. Maybe next time.

Defenestrating myself

My temping days have come to an end. That elusive entity, the full-time job, finally revealed itself to me, and I leapt on it. It took a couple of goes but the Sidmouth Herald has taken me on. I went down to the quaint little Devon town in March-ish, but was pipped to the post. Yet the person who got the job didn’t take to it – he couldn’t drop gears from high-rev London down to trundling Sidmouth. His loss is my gain! Given how close the  competition was between us last time, the groundwork I laid down meant I had that friendly rapport that’s always so much easier to achieve the second time you see someone.

I had had some reservations about even going. Given the distance it meant taking two days off work, as well as paying for transport and somewhere to stay for the night. Added to that, my unemployment stint made me massively pessimistic that I would even get the job, so it seemed like it would just be £150 down the pan, and it was such a crushing blow last time. So I tried for a Skype interview, but they wanted me in person. After I’d booked everything they said I could’ve done it by webcam, but I figured it was best not to seem noncommital. And it worked – they called me up 20 minutes after I finished the interview, which means the guy who was  after me must’ve been a no-show, or horrifically offensive to their small town sensibilities. Hazel and I celebrated by stretching the trip back from a four to a seven hour drive, with a detour via Stonehenge. Had to be done!

So today was my last day, and I’ll miss the hospital, in a way. Sure, going from unemployment to running about in a sweaty basement all day made it seem like I’d been condemned to a labour camp, but knowing my sentence was coming to an end made me appreciate the place more. I’ll miss the head traumas from low ceilings, the Scooby-Doo-villain-esque sliding bookcases, the wacky, occasionally maladjusted characters, the head traumas from low ceilings (sorry, couldn’t resist), the miles and miles of file chasing, the childish office banter. My colleagues were shocked to hear I’m moving so far without knowing anyone down there, but the thing is, I’d not really thought about it. I have an amazing capacity for denial. I’m keeping a rose-tinted sheen on the idea, seeing the move as an adventure, and of course it is. I knew I had to escape the dungeon. Some people have been working there for over a decade. I’ve invested too much time and energy into getting a job, I’m in no position to turn it down.

An apple a day

Temping has brought me to Blackpool Victoria Hospital, and I’m getting a cog in the machine vibe. Everyone plays an important role, and most people do it well, because, at the end of the day, what we’re doing matters. People’s lives are on the line. It’s at least as important as extending a supermarket’s Sunday licensing hours, like in my last temp job. So I run about being a good little MS DOS elf, taking file requests and heading down to the dungeon to retrieve patients’ case notes. If I can’t find them I pop up with an error message.

The hospital’s memory is about to have an upgrade. The archiving department is due to move the case notes into shiny new (well, refurbished) offices because the files have outgrown the storage capacity. Moving the files will be a monumental task in itself, I can’t see the files ever being electronicised, unless they start signing new patients on that way. We have to wait to move in. The fitters decided to install shelving in front of the fire exit, which isn’t ideal. There’s enough smell of death in there already – it’s an old operating theatre. Smelling decay really makes you appreciate the fresh, dusty air of the basement.

Still, the new place has the benefit of plenty of space. Fewer low ceilinged braining hazards and moving shelves to threaten bear-hugging you out of existence. It’s not a place for those prone to claustrophobic panic attacks, but a hospital’s a better place than many for it to happen, I suppose. You might get a nice juicy shot of adrenalin.

For the next three weeks at least I’m tasked with pulling. Not as sexy as it sounds but I’m doing a fair few miles as that animated egg timer spins round. It’s only a matter of time before I start seeing faces on the paper clips.

Taking stock in the garden

The brief spell of good weather meant we returned to the garden to make the most of what was happening out there, and grab some of the spoils of our work in conditions that just left us scratched, not wet and scratched. Given how long it had been since I was out there last, I marvelled at the progress that it had made, all on its lonesome. Actually it was more down to Julie’s maintenance, she’s less of a fair-weather gardener than I am (but not much). I took advantage of the decent lighting and vibrant colours to take the camera for a spin, something I don’t do often enough. See what you make of the place.

Apples

100 words on the Manchester Skyride

Sunday saw Manchester’s SkyRide, an event organised for the dual function of infuriating drivers and liberating cyclists. Calls for bike lanes were heard, and then some. A route was closed off for all numbers of pedal-powered wheeler-dealers; bipeds took to the streets in a display that was less Planes, Trains and Automobiles and more bikes, trikes and buggies. I mounted my unicycle to celebrate this environmentally-friendly day of fleeting community spirit. To relieve saddle-soreness, the 15k track was broken up at either end with family events, displays of mind-blowing BMX skillz and a meet-n-greet with the delightfully sporting Kelly Brooks.

On a related note, below is just one of many reasons I love Lancaster:

A freakin’ unicycling bear!

Temping fate.

Nothing lasts forever. Not least temp jobs. I had one on Wednesday and Thursday this week. I’d been a bit reluctant after making plans for Tuesday night with a couple of guys I’ve not seen in ages, but I upped sticks and made the move back to Manchester. I’d been home in Kirkham for a few days, for a tantalising mix of applying for jobs, attending interviews and getting rejected from dream positions.

Best not to dwell, and my tastes of actual employment helped that, as did a brief visit to Lancaster, if you’ll forgive the tangent. I figured it was time to visit Dave as we hadn’t been united since Mallorca, which feels like an age ago. It’s been a long six weeks. We went out on the tiles, Dave showing me the seedy underbelly of Lancaster that exposes itself when the students go south for the summer. It’s eerily quiet. Anyone who’s been to Lancaster knows it’s not the most vibrant metropolis, but it never feels like home when it’s devoid of people. Its inhabitants’ outlooks change; club owners have to lure locals over the threshold with promises of free entry and cheap but ineffective alcopops in an attempt to bring the buzz back. Standards drop and the chavs and 16 year olds flood in.

Once the sugar rush and the hangover from that night subsided, I dropped in on Alex/Alan, one of my uni housemates. I was expecting just a quick hello, but, hospitable as ever, he invited me to hang with his coursemates for Mexican night. How could I refuse? There I met a great, diverse bunch of people. Alex’s Icelandic girlfriend, an Egyptian girl who’d been in Tahrir Square during the revolution, a German couple who had just got back from travelling around the world, an insightful Muslim guy who’d spent three year in India learning about his religion, and a lovely Norwegian girl. While I felt a tad inadequate and ignorant in comparison to these worldly, multilingual people, they were all delightful and fascinating. I envied their confidence to make the move and set out to live in strange new countries, they inspired me to gain focus and do it for myself. I also realised that with such a range of people coming here, I don’t even have to travel far to make discoveries. The majority of students have gone home for summer, yet in a way that’s better. It leaves behind the people who really want to be there. The postgrad students who work throughout the year rather than just a few months of it because they’re passionate about their subject. The foreign students who wanted to make a new life with our education system but can’t afford to go back.

My temp job exposed me to a similar group and compounded the idea. The nature of the work means it attracts students who just want to work for summer for some extra cash, but it also draws people who aren’t ready to settle down, who are willing to work as and when for the ability to get up and go. That determination is contagious.

In the meantime, my next idea is a couch-surfing staycation. Because you don’t have to leave Manchester to leave Manchester.

One last thing before I publish this. I love the inadvertent poetry of non-native speakers of English. A Polish guy I met yesterday lamented the weather in Burnley: “You can see the clouds on the roofs of the buildings.” Couldn’t have put it better myself.

What to watch this week. Or whenever.

From what I’ve seen, there isn’t a service that recommends what to watch on the UK’s currently inferior version of the American sensation that is Netflix, barring the obvious ballache that is looking it up on imdb, but that’s like, so inconvenient midflow. So rather than using the deficiently telepathic starring system that makes guesses on what you’ll want to watch based on what you already have, I’ll have a stab at reviewing films to make you want to get out and watch them, or save you wasting your time on guff (unless it’s so bad it’s good).

If this thing takes off and I actually write another, know that I’m purposefully avoiding NSFW viewing, not because I’m at work, that’d be crazy, but because I’ll generally be watching this with prudish parents and so wanting to avoid the squirming discomfort for everyone involved. You’re on your own with that lot.

I’m gonna bash forth and assume that most pe0ple have splashed out on this entertainment bargain (£6 a month, it’s cheaper than Spotify!). For those who haven’t, look away now.

The last film I watched on there was the Irish black comedy A Film With Me In It, starring stalwarts Dylan Moran of Graham Linehan’s Black Books fame, the beefy keyboardist David O’Doherty and his brother Mark Doherty who penned it (the O’-lessness doesn’t diminish the family likeness), and Sheriff of Nottingham Keith Allen. I’d never heard of it so it seems an obscure enough starting point.

Mark cast himself in the leading role of the same name, what with him being the vain actor type and seemingly on a shoestring budget. His life, and his house, are falling apart. Without money he can’t afford to treat his girlfriend to keep her around (he was massively punching above his weight to begin, but, suspending disbelief and accepting their relationship), and not using the rent money she gave him to pay off the rent probably didn’t help. This gets the landlord’s (Allen) back up, and Mark knows he isn’t in the best bargaining position to get the repairs made. So the deus ex machina reveal themselves before it’s even clear that the picture’s hue is going to be both black and noir: a window that slams at will, guillotine-like; an oversized chandelier suspended tenuously in a grungy room above a disabled brother (O’Doherty); a clarinet stand which comes to a needlessly vicious point; and a stool to be used only while wielding sharp objects. We soon see that the flat’s position as a deathtrap goes beyond threats, as a rickety old cupboard falls on the rickety old dog.

While this comes as a shock to Mark, he is presented with the unwelcome surprise of the people around him starting to drop like flies, and for each human victim, there is motive as well as means. Despite lacking an accompanying guilty mind, it’s evident that it wouldn’t look so innocent to the police when he came to explain them. He recruits Pierce (Moran) to help make sense of it all. After all, he’s a gambling, drinking writer struggling to piece a film together, who better to ask?

The title is an early indication that things are going to get a bit meta. As well as commenting on how unlikely the events are and how no one does farce any more, Pierce takes the most exciting and testing event in his life (at one point he plans to move a body upstairs and recreate the scene by getting Mark to collect up blood with a dustpan and brush) and turns it into an poorly-concealed screenplay. And after covering their tracks and Mark faking his own death – as you would – he undertakes the role of a lifetime – playing his silent, wheelchair-bound brother.

At its fundamental level, it’s a film about making the most of a bad situation. About realising that as bad as your life gets, it’s a life lived. It’s a far-fetched farce and it’s good, unclean fun.