Sketches from Memory: UK-Russia Crisis Special

"Fearing no insult, asking for no crown, receive with indifference both flattery and slander, and do not argue with a fool." - 'Exegi Monumentum', Alexander Pushkin

"Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough." - English football chant (traditional)


Technically speaking, the contents of this post are classified under the Official Secrets Act: but then, as regular WordJam readers know, I've never been one to play by the rules. In the interests of world peace, I hereby present my first-hand account of key events in the Sergei and Yulia Skripal case as they actually unfolded and continue to unfold. So without further ado, prepare yourselves for intrigue, razor-sharp insight, strong language, ellipses and libel... Just make sure you delete your internet history after reading this, okay?

[Note: You'll notice the name of my, for want of a less euphemistic expression, 'significant other' has been removed from these pages. This is not an act of censorship, but simply that divulging her identity isn't in the public interest. Besides, if the relationship goes tits-up at least I've still got the option of an exclusive tabloid deal.]

* * * * *

4th March, 2018

It's 10:30pm and I've been called to an emergency Cabinet meeting. I don't need this - especially when [Grammy Award-winning singer]'s waiting for me in bed with a KFC family fun bucket, a bottle of Jack and a battery-powered plastic toy in the shape of what can only be described as a disco stick.

"Shall we get started?" Theresa May says, shuffling a series of pages back into a folder adorned with a crayon drawing of a rainbow and the words 'Brexit: An Idiot's Guide' inscribed in red biro. Foreign secretary Boris Johnson raises his hand and asks if there'll be nibbles, whereupon defence minister Gavin Williamson smacks the back of his head with a ruler.

"Gentlemen," May says, deliberately avoiding eye contact with home secretary Amber Rudd, "As some of you may have already heard, this afternoon a former Russian double-agent, now a naturalised citizen of this country, has been hospitalised in what we suspect is a chemical attack..."

Silence descends upon the room as the assembled ministers exchange grave looks. As the enormity of the situation sinks in, one of them finally gathers his nerve and addresses his fellow statesmen.

"What about pizza?" Boris says. Williamson rolls his eyes and smacks him again.

"But this is terrible, PM!" treasury minister Philip Hammond exclaims. "Who's responsible?"

"Russia, you tosser!" Williamson shouts. "Who do you think: Paraguay?"

"So what's the situation so far?" Rudd asks earnestly. May looks around the room, pretending not to hear her. After an impolite nudge from Williamson, Boris repeats the question.

"Well," May says, "the former intelligence agent and his Muscovite daughter are currently unconscious. What's more, the policeman on the scene has also been admitted to hospital in a critical condition."

"Those evil, slitty-eyed bastards!" Boris barks.

"Awful business though it is," May says, waving her hand dismissively, "I think we can use this to our advantage. Just think, gentlemen: a sleepy English village in the heart of the home counties, a foreign attack on British soil... It's the stuff that Brexit's made of!"

"Of course!" Rudd replies, snapping her fingers. "When the great unhosed hears about this they'll feel better about leaving the EU! And if we take on Russia, it'll earn us no end of kudos from the European community..."

"Well, duh!" May says under her breath.

"It couldn't have worked out better if we'd planned it ourselves!" Hammond chuckles. The room falls silent again, save for a polite cough from May.

"Anyway!" Williamson says suddenly, clapping his hands and rubbing them with glee, "This is our chance to show those namby-pambies in Brussels what the old British Bulldog spirit is all about! Eh, fellas?"

Boris leads the room in a boisterous sing-along of "We Won Two World Wars and One World Cup". Even May joins in, slapping her thighs in time to the rhythm.

"One World War, actually," education minister Damian Hinds says, looking up from his copy of Nuts. "Ivan won the second lot."

"Yes, but Johnny Sixpack doesn't know that!" Boris smirks before fixing Hinds with a startled look. "Does he-?"

"Well, you won't find it in a GCSE textbook," Hinds replies.

"But isn't this all just a tad kick bollocks, scramble?" I ask. "I mean, we don't have any proof Moscow ordered this."

"Oi!" Williamson snarls, jabbing a finger at me. "If you don't like it, shut up and go and live in Russia!"

As the Cabinet cheer and stamp their feet, May leans over to Williamson and pats his head.

"Very good, Gavin. Just needs a teensy bit of work, though..."

* * * * *

 

15th March, 2018

"Twenty-three!" Putin growls, slamming a basketball through the hoop opposite his desk. "Twenty-three of theirs for twenty-three of ours. I'll teach those motherfuckers to give me an ultimatum... I'm an A-1 mushroom cloud motherfucker, motherfucker!"

I tell him that by flouting the ten day disclosure time set down by the Chemical Weapons Convention, legally the UK doesn't have a leg to stand on. It does little to soothe his temper.

"I couldn't give a sweet motherfuck if those assholes sent the Queen over here in a pair of boxing gloves and a flak jacket: how dare they treat a nuclear power like this?!"

"That kind of talk really isn't helping," I tell him. He stares at me for a moment, the intensity in his eyes making me bow my head.

"Novichok..." he mutters bitterly. "That bastard Brezhnev and his bastard defence spending! God rest his soul."

"But didn't Yeltsin [spits] close down the Soviet chemical research facilities back in '92?" defence minister Dmitry Rogozin asks.

"Kinda..." Putin says sheepishly. "But we scrapped our chemical weapons last year, didn't we?"

"In accordance with stipulations from the OPCW," foreign affairs minister Sergey Lavrov replies. "But you try telling that to... Oh, what's his name? That infant in a man's suit..."

"Johnson," I answer. They start sniggering.

"Can you imagine him trying to negotiate with Chernenko?" Putin snorts. "There wouldn't have been a Britain left to back out of Europe! Or a Europe, come to that."

"Any word on whether a consul can visit the hospital yet?" Rogozin asks.

"No," Lavrov shrugs. "Yulia's still out of bounds."

"It's outrageous!" Putin booms. "This is a Soviet citizen-"

"Russian citizen," Rogozin corrects him.

"A Russian citizen," Putin continues, "and they're treating her like a pawn in a chess game. May acts like she's the fucking Madonna, but she's just a hard-faced bitch in Thatcher's hand-me-downs."

"Did you see the way they greeted her in Salisbury?" Lavrov says. "It was like the second coming of Saint Xenia."

"More like Xena, Warrior Princess," Putin quips. They start sniggering again. Putin leans back in his chair, shaking his head incredulously. "Do they really think I'm dumb enough to order something like this with the election on the way and all eyes on the World Cup?" he sighs. "She's really dropped the ball on this one."

I start laughing. Rogozin and Lavrov exchange wary glances as Putin looks up at me.

"Something funny, friend?"

"She's dropped the ball!" I giggle before the awkwardness sets in. "I just thought that was funny, is all..."

"What, I say I didn't order it and you find that funny?" Putin asks, eyes narrowing with a sinister quizzicality.

"No, it's like what you said about Xena... You're just a funny guy, Vladimir!"

"Funny how-?" he demands, rising from his chair. "Like a clown?! What the fuck is so funny about me??"

"It was..." I croak, the words lodged in my throat. "I mean - I didn't mean..."

He suddenly bursts into a huge belly laugh, patting my cheeks before scooping me up in a bear hug. Rogozin and Lavrov clutch their stomachs, guffawing at the look on my face.

"I'm just breaking your balls, Rich!" Putin chortles. "Anyway, enough about this bullshit: tell me about [Grammy Award-winning singer]... Is it true what she says about how when it's not rough it isn't fun?"

* * * * *

 

26th March, 2018

I wake up to the news that the US has expelled sixty Russian diplomats and the consulate in Seattle has been closed. I call Trump on the Oval Office direct line.

[Dialling tone, then-]

"Trump residence."

"Hi Don, it's Richard."

"Huh?"

"Richard English."

"[Pause] Hey, Dicky boy! How's it working out with [Grammy Award-winning singer]? You poke her face yet?"

"..Yeah, it's going pretty well, thanks. She-"

[I sneeze]

"You got a cold? You know, for a minute there I thought you were Rocket Man! That little douchebag called me this morning at 4am - 4am! - and asked me to bring six cases of Johnnie Walker Black to the summit! I said, 'What do you think I am, fucking room service?!"

[Laughter]

"Smooth, Don!"

"Isn't it, though? 'What do you think I am, fucking room service?!'"

[More Laughter]

"So anyway, Don, I'm calling because-"

"[Sniggers] Fucking room service!"

"Uh-huh."

"You know why that's funny, don't you, Dicky Boy?"

"'Cos you run a hotel chain-?"

"[Pause] What do you want, asshole?"

"Well, it's a delicate subject, Don, but it's about these Russian diplomats..."

"Shit... Listen - that was a favor, okay? Mustard Tits Teri called me up, said she had this situation going on... Well, you know how she talks: it's like a tarantula crawled up her pussy. Anyway, 'Teri,' I said, 'anything to help our greatest ally... Besides, it'll get those FBI cocksuckers off my back for a while.'"

"But this tit-for-tat approach... The UK kicks out twenty-three, Russia kicks out twenty-three; you've kicked out sixty, now they're probably going to kick out sixty... Aren't we in danger of reigniting a cold conflict here?"

"[Pause] Not if I get a second term, baby. I've got it all planned out, believe me! The Don doesn't just make it up as he goes along: there are bright days ahead, kiddo!"

"I've got to ask, Don: do you really think Russia's behind this? May says she's sharing intelligence with Britain's allies, but she hasn't presented any conclusive facts yet."

"Facts-? [Blows raspberry] Facts don't mean anything!" It's like all this shinola about the Russian gas pipeline... People don't wanna hear about that: they wanna know about The Don's plan!"

"'Shinola'-?"

"It ain't shinola making America great again."

"No, I meant the Russian pipeline."

"And that's part of the plan, Dicky Boy! Let's say America has a milkshake and Russia has a milkshake - but these milkshakes aren't milkshakes, they're gas reserves. Now let's say Europe has a straw that reaches across the sea from... well, wherever the hell you are... to here, okay? So now you're drinking our gas. But let's say you can't afford to pay premium rates for our milkshake and you want something more competitive. So you extend that straw the other way and start drinking Russian gas instead. Where does that leave America? I'll tell you where: sitting on a big milkshake no one wants while those bear hugging assholes get fat on gas! So we find a way to isolate Russia from the rest of Europe and let them drink our milkshake... You get me? [A member of White House staff addresses Trump] What? [Inaudible conversation, then-] Sorry, Dicky Boy - it's time for my two o'clock. Catch you on the flip flop, okay? Just don't forget what I told you: people don't care about facts, they wanna see results! [To White House staff member] Let me tell you something, hot stuff: if Obama's a Panatela, I'm a fucking Havana, sweetheart..."

[Phone clicks dead]

* * * * * 

3rd April, 2018

Cameras snap and flash as Boris ascends the podium, ready to greet the hungry men and women of the press.

"Gabba gabba hey!" he begins, prompting a polite titter. "Porton Down... Yes! Marvellous organisation... Keeping us safe and all that; breeding chemicals to help fight against those who use chemicals against us... Leading us not into temptation, but delivering us from evil... The Evil Empire, as Reagan called it... Russia! Land of Rasputin, Stalin and... [thinks] the other one. Putin... Putin, yes! Autocrat... Murderer... Propagandist... Chemicals being developed, poisoning British citizens... Tests at Porton Down - marvellous organisation! - say they don't know where the chuckle gas was manufactured, but I stand by my position... Foreign secretary... Foreigners, yes! Coming over here, poisoning people... Not the one who came over here and got poisoned... Maybe she poisoned herself, who knows? I know: she didn't! [Pause] Any questions?"

A flurry of arms shoot into the air, fingers waggling in anticipation. Boris selects a stubble-faced man in jeans and a brown overcoat.

"Andrew Dawson, The Sun. Given what you've said about jumping to conclusions and misrepresenting the findings of an official government body, Putin is a mad bastard, isn't he?"

"111% mad!" Boris replies. "Spinal Tap crazy times a hundred... Next question."

"Rebecca Jones, Daily Mail. What's your favourite colour?"

"Blue... Red, white and blue! Johnny Poisonaspyovitch can't boast that, can he? Any more questions?"

I can't take any more. I leap onto the podium, grab the microphone and make myself heard.

"Yeah, I've got a pretty fucking good one, actually. When Theresa May was home secretary she handed out 650 investor visas to Russian millionaires, many of whom invested capital in prime property - including former deputy prime minister Igor Shuvalov. Conservative backbencher Jacob Rees-Mogg's fund management company Somerset Capital's sixth biggest holding is Sberbank, which has been on international sanctions lists since the so-called annexation of Crimea in 2014. Just over a month ago, defence secretary Gavin Williamson accepted £30,000 from Russian banker Lubov Chernukhin to dine with his wife, and only last year you yourself accepted £161,000 from the same banker to play tennis. Two weeks ago May expelled twenty-three diplomats, saying, and I quote: 'We don't want these people - or their money - in our country'." So - in light of the obvious financial advantages the Conservative Party have enjoyed from its connections with Russia, which may have had some bearing on May blocking the public inquiry into the murder of Alexander Litvinenko for a full year until the high court intervened; global economic sanctions that already exist against Russia which would inevitably be stretched even further in the event of a diplomatic incident such as this; the eyes of the world already fixed on the Russian election and the World Cup; America's attempt to monopolise demand for gas reserves in the face of Russian competition; and the fact that a 60-something retired double-agent who's been living in relative anonymity as part of an internationally-agreed exchange for the last eight years poses no further threat to the security of his homeland - I put it to you, BoJo-"

I suddenly hear the sound of guns cocking behind me. Several guns. I look at Boris, whose face twists into a demented grin. My edgy, rapid breathing causes the microphone to echo and hum.

"I put it to you, BoJo... the England team have got a pretty good chance this year, haven't they?"

Boris raises his arm above my head and makes the 'V for Victory' sign as a Guardian journalist asks me if Lady Gaga's any good in bed.

WordJam Review: Darkest Hour (d. Joe Wright, 2017)

There's a not at all contrived and unconvincing scene in Darkest Hour where Churchill, wracked with self-doubt and despondent at his War Cabinet's insistence on brokering peace terms with Nazi Germany, forfeits his chauffeur driven limousine for a trip on the London Underground. As old duffers in stiff collars and starched shirts prepare to compromise our nation's political liberty, Winston pools his fellow commuters for their views on peace with Herr Hitler. Naturally, the good men and women he speaks to doff their caps in class deference, utter gnomic, epigrammatical comments about freedom, and generally behave like the sort of salt-of-the-earth archetypes that play well in, say, Peoria or Peterborough. (He even shakes hands with a black man when he realises his dusky friend is conversant in the poetry of Thomas Babington Macaulay. What a guy!) With renewed vigour, Our Winnie heads to the House of Commons post-haste, makes his "We shall fight them on the beaches" speech and finally wins the approval of both cabinet and nation.

 

You probably know that this wholly fictional episode is intended to evoke Henry V, where Prince Hal wanders his camp incognito the night before Agincourt to ascertain his troops' feelings on the impending battle; but of course, whereas Shakespeare's depiction of ordinary people caught up in the machinations of kings, princes and territorial conflict is nuanced and emotionally effective, the Darkest Hour version trades in glib, jingoistic sentiment so lacking in self-awareness that it feels like a skit from The Comic Strip. If the scene had gone on any longer, there was a fair chance one of the ushers would've kicked me out the auditorium for causing a disturbance.

To be fair, though, it's a sequence that doesn't sit comfortably with anything else in the film (which, on the whole, is well-acted and directed with competence, if not exactly flair). The friend who recommended Darkest Hour to me said they suspected it was included for the American market, but I don't happen to believe that. If anything, it's attempting to speak directly to the British public about its indomitability in times of crisis. "Look!" it says in its own clumsy way, "This is you! You're in this film, too! And guess what? It's people like you who make a difference!"

 

Darkest Hour raises questions. Not whether it's going to clean up at the BAFTAs, or if Gary Oldman's finally going to win a Best Actor Oscar, but big questions: namely, why this particular story right now, and what's its purpose? Well, call me crazy if you like, you can even call me paranoid, but if the recent glut of Anglo-centric World War Two movies has taught us anything it's that Brexit parables are big business at the box office right now.

Don't believe me? How about the woeful Dad's Army remake, where a bunch of loveable British stereotypes take it upon themselves to guard our borders from the dastardly forces dominating mainland Europe? What of Dunkirk, which not only depicts an actual British retreat from Europe but elliptically states that if we're to compete with an autocratic foreign power we need better organisation at home?

From green light to premiere, the average turnover for a film is about two years. In some cases, as we all know, production can be accelerated to meet market requirements. This perhaps explains why Dad's Army appeared out of nowhere just in time for the 2016 European Referendum, and how Dunkirk gate-crashed the party in its aftermath. Now that the first phase of Britain's withdrawal from the European Union is over, Emmanuel Macron has speculated that a special deal maintaining economic relations without impeding UK independence may be possible and Theresa May has managed to silence the 'Remain' rebels in her own party, it's only natural the latest instalment in this spiritual franchise features a Prime Minister who overcomes incredible odds and opposition to rally their country behind them.

More than literary adaptations or original stories, historical events are the most powerful resource in the filmmaker's armoury, particularly when that filmmaker has an agenda. They know (quite cynically, and from experience) that mainstream audiences are less likely to quibble with films based on fact than those trading on fantasy, no matter how 'realistic' the presentation. They also know that by repurposing the events they're depicting as a mirror for contemporary issues they have the power to affect our perception. As a commercial film ostensibly about the 1940 cabinet crisis and Britain's subsequent declaration of war against Germany, you would expect Darkest Hour to explain why Churchill was so opposed to fascism, why other members of the coalition government were more favourably disposed towards it, and what it actually means to live in such a society. Darkest Hour doesn't feel the need to contextualise the events it depicts or the moral conflict it vaguely alludes to because they don't fit with what's happening in the here and now. In fact, I counted the number of times the words 'German' and 'Nazi' were used in the dialogue: 'German' three times, 'Nazi' twice. Only an idiot would struggle to name the belligerents in World War Two, but for a film about the politics of that conflict to ignore the very reason why it was fought in the first place suggests you're either looking at a poorly crafted script or a thinly-veiled piece of propaganda.

Anyway, let's look at the film on its own terms: after all, that's why we're here. So, what about Churchill? How does the Great British Bulldog come out of all this?

Very well, unsurprisingly. We're all familiar with John Ford's famous quote about the choice between the truth or the legend. On the surface, Darkest Hour attempts a bit of both, but in reality it's firmly rooted in the latter. The Churchill we see plagued by self-doubt and moments of depressive anguish is just a by-product of narrative convention; if he were to breeze through the film as a force of nature, demolishing his enemies in the cabinet with the acerbic wit or moral gravitas he was fabled for then the audience wouldn't find him sympathetic enough. Unfortunately, some critics have mistaken this for genuine character study and written a load of bollocks about how this is a deeply humanising vision of Churchill. There's an effective scene where he telephones Franklin Roosevelt and asks for assistance in the evacuation of Dunkirk, only to find the President wrapped up in red tape following the 1939 Neutrality Act. For a brief moment, we get a genuine glimpse of the impotence Churchill must've felt as events spiralled out of control, but the film soon snaps back into 'Churchill: The Enigma'-mode and we don't learn anything we didn't already know. He smokes cigars, makes the 'V for Victory' sign (with no mention of its origins during the Hundred Years War, oddly enough) and delivers rousing speeches. Some character study, eh?

There are frequent references to Churchill's ill-fated Gallipoli campaign throughout the film, but the man himself seems to treat it as a minor blemish in an otherwise spotless political career. At no point does Anthony McCarten's screenplay attempt to explain how it damaged Churchill's reputation, and refuses to allow that disaster to weigh heavily upon Winnie's shoulders as he spearheads the rescue of British forces in France: it just ends up as another detail thrown into the mix that doesn't require elaboration, 'cos, y'know- if it did we'd lose sight of Darkest Hour's agenda. There are also several references to the 1926 General Strike, which are very interesting because they seem to suggest Churchill had no part in those events. Again, it's easy to see why the script skirts round this: in a film where Churchill's meant to be the figurehead of British liberal idealism, modern audiences wouldn't take too kindly to the knowledge he sent in the army to deal with impoverished working men who simply wanted a decent wage and more food on the table. Perhaps it was inevitable, then, that Churchill advocating compulsory sterilisation of, as he put it, the "unintelligent working class" wouldn't get a look-in.

The most intriguing character in Darkest Hour isn't Churchill, in fact, but Chamberlain. In many ways, his portrayal here brings to mind Clive Wynne-Candy in Michael Powell's 1943 classic The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp. Chamberlain is presented as a man whose firm belief in Queensberry Rules and British fair play seem out of date in a world where politics is no longer beholden to gentlemanly agreement and death can be manufactured on an industrial scale. It would've been very easy to mock him, but the film is remarkably even-handed on this account. The scene where he confides in Lord Halifax that he won't live to see Britain in peacetime again is incredibly touching and handled with considerable restraint. In one, perfectly crafted moment we understand that Chamberlain is part of a dying breed, and the tragedy is he knows it, too.

We should've had more characterisation like this, but sadly everyone else seems to serve a plot function. It's never explained why Anthony Eden doggedly supports Churchill as party leader: he just does until dramatic tension dictates otherwise. Much is made of Halifax's bid for power and the support he receives from George VI, but the only reason the monarch appears to back Halifax is because they share a speech impediment. (Okay, I'm being facetious now- but that really is how it comes across.) His sudden, unexpected U-turn in favour of Churchill seems to take place off-screen, making their subsequent conciliation appear forced and extremely awkward.

"I don't have many people I can be truthful with about this sort of thing," Winnie tearfully confides when it becomes apparent the British Expeditionary Force may not make it out of France alive.

"Nor I," George smiles, placing his hand on Winnie's shoulder. "But we don't have to be alone anymore."

Yeah, sorry- it's sweet and everything, but we need a little bit more than that. If his nibs really is troubled at the thought of having to rule in exile because the Nazis will fail to honour a peace accord, then show us: don't just info-dump us and expect us to buy the sentiment. That's not how storytelling works.

The two characters who are short-changed the most, however, are Churchill's secretary Elizabeth Layton and his wife Clementine. The former is posited as an audience surrogate, allowing us a port of entry to observe Winston's quirks and moral drives up close. Once we reach the halfway point, her narrative function falls away because the film wrongly assumes we're up to speed enough to understand her employer. As a consequence, Layton becomes increasingly less important until she reaches the point of near-invisibility. Conversely, Clementine remains a visible presence throughout, offering emotional support for her beleaguered husband at the expense of us getting to know her in any meaningful way. She obviously idolises Winston's inner-strength and determination, but what of her own? Again, as far as the script's concerned it seems to be enough that she's there and fulfilling the remit for a strong female character. The only real arc she has is looking after the household and complaining to Winston about his expenditure, and even that only occupies a couple of scenes. You could argue that the role reflects that of women at the time, but like the other characters she's just another satellite caught in Winston's orbit.

 

I can't fault any of the performances: everyone acquits themselves admirably despite the flimsy material they've been given. Kristine Scott Thomas and Ronald Pickup as Clementine and Chamberlain are the real stand-outs, and Lily James recalls the plucky spunk of British leading ladies of the '40s. Oldman, on the other hand, I'm undecided about. It's a good performance, but not a great one. Some critics (and, indeed, friends of mine) have said they accepted him as Churchill right from his opening scene, never once pausing to think those jowls are glued on. I wouldn't go that far. Underneath those layers of padding and latex, we find an actor who doesn't so much inhabit the part as approximate it. Oldman's real triumph here is to play the part with his eyes. which lighten or darken to fit the mood of the film at any given moment. It's a characteristic we see as far back as Oldman's breakout role in Alan Clarke's marvellous football hooliganism drama The Firm, where a maelstrom of love and hate twinkles in Bex Bissell's iris. In Darkest Hour, it's vulnerability and defiance we see behind those eyes. The Churchill we see here may only be The Legend rather than The Man, but it's Oldman's expressiveness that keeps it from descending into caricature.

I suspect, though, that if Oldman had been playing Sir John Falstaff or Robert Maxwell the critics wouldn't even be discussing Oscar nominations. It's a worthy role, and as such one that makes people sit up and take notice when there's actually no real cause for them to do so. And here we go back to the filmmakers' awareness of how uncritical audiences are when confronted with films based on real people and events: just bung a load of acclaimed actors in the mix and watch 'em hoover it up. Joe Wright's direction, which is pedestrian at best, seems to rely almost solely on the performances to sell Darkest Hour. (We'll overlook the daft ticking-clock inserts: imagine 24 using an Art Deco-style countdown and you're close to understanding the garishness of the effect.) Given the cast is made up of the cream of the British acting aristocracy, old and young, there's an imperious sense of authority that seeps through the screen and clouds our judgement. We accept what we're watching because that bloke from Our Friends in the North is arguing with that guy from Track 29 while that fella from The Long Walk to Finchley waves his fists. It doesn't really matter what we're being sold, our function is to buy whatever the message is because the actors have the weight of a thousand quality productions behind them.

So, that's Darkest Hour, then: a party political broadcast on behalf of the 'Leave' lobby. Whatever I personally feel about Britain's exit from the EU is immaterial as far as this article-cum-essay is concerned, but I do have a problem with films like this. For one thing, they're practically worthless on an artistic level since they refuse to encourage debate about what it is we're looking at, and for another they play into the hands of predatory elites who perpetuate their own ideologies by reshaping our view of the past to suit their purposes. By anchoring itself to one of the soberest episodes in British history, Darkest Hour manipulates the audience into accepting its Eurosceptic ethos: it likens us to those gormless cockneys on the Tube who told the PM to stand up to the Nazi war machine, reminding us how we in the UK also made a difference in voting to leave the EU and, so doing, reasserted our British sovereignty to Johnny Foreigner. Bully for us, eh? Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves... etc. Perhaps we shouldn't have expected anything else from the director of Charles II: The Power and the Passion: a TV drama that makes it perfectly clear the Restoration was A Good Thing because ...erm... Well, we've always had a monarchy, haven't we? So, there. How he ended up directing "Nosedive" for Black Mirror is anyone's guess.

For what it's worth, I believe the Second World War was one of the few conflicts in the history of mankind that was fought out of moral necessity (or, as George Orwell charmingly described it, "common decency"), but the kind of thinly-veiled politicking Darkest Hour peddles in not only cheapens itself but the people and events it purports to be honouring. We live in a culture now where The Image is everything. As such, anybody who works in visual media has an obligation to use the medium responsibly in a way that doesn't distort or mislead. They would do well to remember the words of the late, great art historian and philosopher John Berger in his seminal work Ways of Seeing - and this is not a suggestion, but a warning:

"Images were first made to conjure up the appearance of something that was absent. Gradually it became evident that an image could outlast what it represented."

The Churchill we see in Darkest Hour is not the Churchill who led the coalition government during the Second World War, the passengers in the Underground do not represent us and this film does not mirror the first step for British independence from Europe. If this production is held up in twenty years time for capturing the cultural zeitgeist sweeping the UK right now, then 2016-17 will truly have been the British film industry's own darkest hour.

"Look, up in the sky!"

War of the Worlds: 2018

 

That is all.

New Year, New WordJam!

 

Well, not really.

As WordJam races towards its second birthday, I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank all my readers for their continued support. It's been a pleasure, guys.

 

But this isn't the end! There's plenty more to come in the months ahead...


HUMOUR!

"I say, I say: my wife's suffering from radiation sickness due to a North Korean nuclear missile falling short of the US mainland and landing on an island in the West Indies where she happened to be stationed at a local hospital in preparation for such a scenario."

"Jamaica?"

"No, she went there to provide medical assistance of her own accord..."

FILM ESSAYS!

"...And I can honestly say, without fear of contradiction, Sharknado 4 is the greatest movie ever to boast a shark, a tornado, and a film poster resembling the one for The Force Awakens..."



COMMENTARY!

"...And from one incompetent, corrupt, geriatric media whore to another, I say to you, Mr Trump: DON'T BUILD THAT FUCKING WALL..."

COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT!



 

...Yep, all that and more is coming up in 2018 on WordJam: the greatest blog on the ethernet.

 

 

But don't take my word for it: let's hear what the great and good are saying about WordJam...

"Richard English is a fat, attention-seeking git." - Kim Jong-un

"I don't give a flaming fuck about WordJam, or the sad, sorry bastard behind it." - Rupert Murdoch

 

"Like Laurence Sterne, Lenny Bruce and Lady Gaga, Richard English disassembles faux-intellectual pretension with Occam-like precision without pandering to popular trends. #WordJamPML." - Alan Yentob

 

"What's a blog?" - Theresa May

Onwards, folks!

Crap Observational Humour # 44: The Cab Home

You've just been on a wild night out with friends and hail a cab to get back to the warm, welcoming embrace of your bed.

On a Sat Nav, the address you give the driver looks like this:

In their head, however, it looks like this:

Merry fucking Christmas, folks xx

Agony Hour 2: Agonise Harder

 

Eighteen months on from my first foray into agony uncle-hood and my email continues to heave with cries for help from the lost, lonely, loveless and desperate. These people depend on me, and what sort of man would I be if I turned my back on them? (Even if I am busy trying to rewatch the first season of Ash vs. Evil Dead, or polish off a bottle of Jack while doing Patrick Stewart impressions into a mirror.)

It is in this spirit of selflessness that I hereby present another open surgery to cure the emotional maladies of my fellow man: no problem too small, no pain too deep, no credit cards that won't be accepted.

Read on, my brethren, and grow.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

 

My journey into work doesn't feel complete without grabbing a latte from my favourite coffee franchise. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than walking down the street, cup in hand, letting the whole world know I'm a thrusting go-getter and nothing's going to stop me. But last week my preferred chain closed down my local outlet and now I don't know where to get my morning coffee from. I'm missing target after target at work, and none of my colleagues talk to me because they think I can't afford to buy ridiculously over-priced beverages anymore. What should I do?

- Perturbed, Camden

Richard says...

 

Coffee shop chic isn't really my bag, so you're probably talking to the wrong person. (Frankly, I get fed up with seeing self-important, neo-yuppie gits such as yourself wandering round like you own the place.) Nevertheless, there are options open to you here. It may not be as sophisticated or 'go-getting' as buying your morning cup of saccharine-flavoured tar, but have you thought about Red Bull? Everyone knows it gets you wired in no time, which may help in hitting those targets. You could also supplement the sugar/caffeine rush by taking up smoking (proper cigarettes, that is - none of that liquid shit): nothing says 'hard-working' better than a hacking cough, nervous irritability, a wild-eyed stare and breath that smells like a First World War field hospital. Trust me, in time people will start taking notice of you again.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

It's my mum's birthday and I forgot to get her a present. Please help.

- Flustered, Devon

Richard says...

If you've asked if there's anything she'd like and been told not to worry about it then she can't complain if you don't bother; serves her right for having false humility. If she is expecting something, however, then you're going to have to improvise. People like to feel special, so one gift would be spray-painting her name across every wall in the house. It's a simple idea, but devastatingly effective. Just make sure you do it in her house and not your own. I made that mistake when using the same trick on Cate Blanchett for Valentine's Day. It was only after I'd covered every inch of wall space I realised that she'd never been to my house and didn't know who I was. I felt like a right twat, I can tell you.

 

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

Why doesn't anyone like me?

- R. Mugabe, Zimbabwe

Richard says...

Well you may have secured Zimbabwe's independence and brought an end to white-minority rule in the country, but you can't deny you came across as a bit of a dick when you dismissed your critics as traitors, refused to give up office when voted out and brought in the militia to safeguard your presidency at any cost. People don't like dictators - and let's face it, that's what you were. I recommend you see your GP and get your name down for some Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Failing that, an investigation into your activities by the International Court of Human Rights should help curb your thuggish, totalitarian tendencies.

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

Why does J.J. Abrams insist on using lens flare in his movies? It's not even real and it gets on my fucking tits.

- Narked, Tokyo

Richard says...

It gets on my tits, too, Narked. Abrams uses lens flare in the mistaken belief that it'll convince people his films are artistic statements instead of brainless, multi-million dollar popcorn fodder. As you point out, the fact that it's artificial emphasises just how superficial and conceited this gesture really is. Next time you watch one of his movies and a blue splodge appears on screen, I recommend phoning the film company and demand they pull the film from distribution to remove the offending material. It worked when I called 20th Century Fox and asked them to remove the scene from A New Hope when a storm trooper bumped his head against the Mos Eiseley tavern door. 'Course, it took 20 years and George Lucas claimed it was his idea, but that's showbiz.
 

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

I've invited this girl I really like round to my place for a meal but I'm terrible at cooking and money's a bit tight. Can you suggest a budget-friendly menu? I've been wracking my brains for days!

- Anxious, Salford

Richard says...

No need to panic, Anxious - we've all been in this situation. Luckily, most supermarkets these days stock affordable gourmet options that require very little culinary expertise. If you want to make this a romantic evening, you should go all out for a three course meal. Here's a combination that's bound to get her mouth watering:

Starter

Main course

 

 

Dessert

Make sure you get two of each, though, otherwise she'll think you're a tight bastard. But of course, no meal would be complete without a suitable aperitif. You need something with a finish, not to mention a touch of devil-may-care, earthy sophistication:

All together, this should come to just over a tenner. If this is beyond your budget, however, there is a much cheaper option. You'll need:

Grass

A hammer

 

 

Next door's cat

A sachet of ketchup.

Bung the result in the oven for, say, 20 minutes and you're in business, kiddo.

 

* * * * *

Dear Richard,

I have serious reservations about the next Doctor Who being a woman. People call me a male chauvinist for saying that, but I'm not: I'm just worried it's going to be an empty, patronising gesture like the Ghostbusters reboot.

- Pensive, South Shields

Richard says...

I see where you're coming from, Pensive. I didn't give a shit that the lead roles in Ghostbusters were all female; what bugged me was how the movie expected a free pass because of its casting and dismissed legitimate criticism of its artistic shortcomings by accusing its detractors of sexism. In terms of Doctor Who, although the character's always been a positive role model for young males, perhaps it is time to flip the dynamics of the show and break the cycle of relegating the strong female lead to a supporting role. Who knows - it may well revitalise the programme after the seven years of timey-wimey (gimmicky-wimmicky) plotting, negligible characterisation and shameless fanwanking we've had to endure under Steven Moffat's stewardship.  Let's reserve judgement until we actually see Jodie Whittaker in action. Having said that, if Torchwood taught us anything it's that incoming showrunner Chris Chibnall's grip on sexual politics has all the subtlety and reserve of Bill Cosby at a feminist rally.

 

* * * * * 

Dear Richard,

For the love of God, will you please, PLEASE stop writing to me. We've never met, I don't love you and there is absolutely zero chance of us getting married.

- C. Blanchett, Sydney

Richard says...

Well if you just want a physical thing, that's cool. Tuesday, my place-?

 

* * * * *

...And I'm afraid we have to leave Agony Hour there. Until next time, try not to piss each other off too much, okay?

Onwards, folks.