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This Saturday was shaping up very much like last: I took Phoebe to the library, where she once again had ants in her pants and couldn’t sit still for more than 2 minutes (though she enjoyed being whisked into the sky when we sang “Zoom, zoom, zoom, I’m going to the moonâ€). But she was then off running round the library and then making a break for the door. No thought for whether I was behind her or not.
Then Catie and me had lunch out whilst Phoebe slept and then I took Phoebe to the park to see if she could run off all this excess energy. Somehow I was managing to keep up with her and pluck her away from trouble. But it’s clear she’s going to be a lot more trouble as time goes by. She ran up to say hello to a little baby on a blanket nearby. The baby’s mum noted how wilful my daughter is and congratulated her on it and then congratulated me. I think it’s a good thing, but I can take no credit. This brave and foolhardy idiot has formed herself this way.
Then back to the sandpit where Phoebe again attempted to undo the work of the other kids and expected them to be happy about it. These kids were less snotty about it than the girls last week. But again no chance to relax. At one point she ran off through the open gate disappearing beneath the railway arches. I was there to stop her getting lost. But she didn’t care.
We stopped at the same bench that I’d given her a snack at last Saturday. I checked Twitter and saw a tweet saying that the star of Gogglebox, Caroline Aherne had died. I was confused. I don’t watch Gogglebox and for a second assumed that there must be someone on it with the same name as the comedian. I mean surely if the Caroline Aherne that I knew had died she would have been called Caroline Aherne from Mrs Merton or The Royle Family or The Fast Show. Unless obituaries were being written by the me from the intro of RHLSTP and choosing wilfully obscure credits.
But quickly the confusion turned to disbelief as 2016 took a break from wrecking the economics of this country and returned to ramming its scythe through the upper echelon of celebrities. I was sure that nothing could surprise me now, but 2016 had wrong-footed me again. How could it be Caroline? 2016 can fuck right off.
I stayed up to watch the Mrs Merton Show that they showed in tribute tonight. What a joy to be whisked back to 1995. It was such fun that I frequently forgot the terrible reason that it was being shown. I liked its simplicity and almost home-made quality, but the central performance is so strong that it doesn’t matter about production values. The audience in the studio love it so much, even though they must be aware that they are part of the joke. But that’s the genius of it. It’s quite scathing and cruel in places and yet unusually the victims get to laugh along with the jokes and are made stronger by them. Mrs Merton is wicked, faux-innocent and I love the conceit that she asks the guests the questions that your gran would ask, but it’s done with such love and ultimately respect. That really takes some doing. To ask Steve Coogan to do Frank Spencer (and for him to be in a position where he has to do it) or (as an audience member does) who Alan Partridge is based on, would be gauche in a normal interview and rub him up the wrong way. But in this, he plays along and answers the questions. It’s wonderful.
Although the episode is famous for the Paul Daniels millionaire question which unsurprisingly is Caroline’s principle epitaph, my favourite bit was having the tallest man in Britain on as a guest and then Mrs Merton asking her audience, “Do you think he’s tall?†and them all answering yes.
It was fun to see the full interview with Debbie (though I was distracted throughout by the fact that Kris Akabusi’s trouser legs were too short, revealing a significant amount of his shin) because you rarely get to see Magee’s response. Not only does she laugh, but she comes back very quickly with “No, he married me for my money,†which is a very witty retort. That famous question would be utterly horrible and rude in the mouth of nearly anyone else, but it’s just cheeky when Mrs Merton asks it. If you need any evidence that comedy is about context and it’s usually not what is being said, but who is saying it and how ,then that defining question of the Mrs Merton show is the perfect example.
Caroline is very much of my generation of comedians and perhaps the first big star of ours to die. I once went to a Mrs Merton show after party (I presume we were on tour in Manchester and Stew got us invited along), but I don’t remember much about it, beyond a slight feeling that I may have got drunk and over excited and been embarrassing (but probably only feel that because that’s what I always did). But I know a few of the people who worked on that show and how much it meant to them and how sad they were today.
It’s more relentless sadness to keep the spirit of that going, just when the knot of dread in the pit of my stomach felt like it might be loosening. RIP Caroline.
