This dark comedy really is a winner, gentlemen
PERHAPS I should be worried about the fact that I woke up the other morning with Irish coffee on my mind. Mind you, I’d be even more concerned if I woke up with one on my bedside locker.
Quite why I should have been thinking about that well-loved cocktail at all escapes me. Not only have I not tasted one in years, I don’t even recall seeing one being made in ages.
But there is no question that it is a glorious drink. To the eye, a perfectly made Irish coffee is every bit as aesthetically pleasing as a pint of Guinness. I think it has something to do with the sharp contrast between the slightly sinister appearance of the tar-coloured base and the wholesome-looking topping.
Most of all, it tastes wonderful. The funny thing from my perspective, though, is that each of the individual constituents taken in isolation is capable to making me want to retch.
Generally speaking, I think coffee itself in an unpleasant beverage. Nor do I have much of a taste for either cream or sugar (despite appearances to the contrary). But I reserve a particular dislike for whiskey, which strikes me as a concoction with all the appeal of lighter fuel mixed with rancid chip fat.
Yet it has more than its fair share of devotees.
I’m familiar with a pub that has an entire wall of shelving given over to hundreds of whiskies, many of them of rare or arcane origin.
Given that you’d need to take out a credit union loan to afford even a single measure from some of the bottles, it is no surprise that few enough customers seem to order them. But I also reckon that they are largely there for display purposes on the basis that most people don’t actually like whiskey but think that they should.
It isn’t such an unusual concept. I mean, does anybody in their heart of hearts really like jazz?
I don’t doubt for a moment
that Miles Davis was a musical virtuoso, but listening to him tootling away on the old trumpet can be pretty hard going.
Yet jazz still sells in vast quantities. My theory is that people have been conned into thinking they should like it, courtesy of those vintage black-and-white photos of cool-looking blokes in porkpie hats performing in smoky basements in Harlem.
The same principle applies to comedy, particularly of the socalled subversive or radical variety. I’m not fully convinced that anyone really thinks that shows like Monty Python’s Flying Circus or The Young Ones were actually funny.
Give me Bob Monkhouse or The Two Ronnies any day of the week.
On broadly similar grounds, I’ve always had my reservations about The League Of Gentlemen. My theory is that it managed the unusual trick of (a) being a bit too clever for its own good, and (b) not being half as clever as it thought it was.
Credit where it is due, though, League veterans Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith have maintained a winning formula over three series of the dark comedy Inside No. 9.
Each episode is a standalone production and the season three finale was set at an invitationonly viewing in a pretentious art gallery.
The motley collection of guests included a health-and-safety jobsworth (Pemberton), a pompous art lecturer (Shearsmith), a visually impaired novelist (Felicity Kendall, a reality TV star (Morgana Robinson) and a seemingly dotty Irishwoman (Fiona Shaw).
Before long, their numbers are severely depleted as a mystery killer starts bumping them off.
I’m not going to spoil it by revealing the unexpected twist at the end. But I will say that it managed to be spooky and funny at the same time, thanks to a pinsharp script, some nice in-jokes and brilliant performances all around.
All that said, I still reckon Messrs Pemberton and Shearsmith are something of an acquired taste. But, as anyone who enjoys a pint of the aforementioned Guinness knows, some tastes are worth acquiring.
I might even give The League Of Gentlemen another chance.