Review 56 – Gillette Mach3

I’ve been trying to carry-off the designer stubble look for nearly a decade, so I rarely have cause to buy razors. Turns out, I’ve saved a small fortune.

The other day, I was asked to pick up some Gillette Mach3 blades for a friend. Not Mach3 Turbo blades (with advanced lubrication) or one of the many varieties of Gillette’s six-bladed offering, the Fusion (five on the front, one on the back). Just plain old Mach3, first launched in 1998.

A razor that, for the past 15 years, we’ve been told has been superseded by newer and better technologies many times over. Roger Federer, Tiger Woods and Thierry Henry have been paid millions to tell us that the newest Gillette model is the best a man can get. The Mach3 is not even second, third or fourth best. It’s way down the list.

The original ‘bondi blue’ iMac was also launched in 1998. You can’t buy them new any more; with each new revision the previous model has been dropped and consigned to the vaults of history.

But not the Mach3. There it is, bold as brass, in supermarkets and chemists across the land. It’s not marketed towards ironic hipsters who love a bit of retro, nor is it intended to evoke a Werther’s Originals style nostalgia towards a simpler, happier time.

In my local Sainsbury’s, an eight-pack of these sub-standard, ancient and laughably under-bladed things sells for £13.

More than twice the hourly minimum wage for a packet of 15 year old razor blades.

At a loss to explain the cost, I started to do a bit of digging and found an old article that suggested Gillette spent $750 million researching and testing the Mach3 before releasing it.

The only way it could possibly have cost this much is if they set up a laboratory on the moon and sent Tom Cruise with a million gallons of Evian to have a shave.

Still, those figures don’t add up. At £1.63 per unit, surely enough money has been made to recoup those staggering costs and lead to a price-drop.

And it’s not as though the Fusion cost $750 million to develop. The sum total of research and design into the Fusion consisted of:

Millionaire Gillette Employee 1: I see Wilkinson have released a four-bladed razor.

Millionaire Gillette Employee 2: Those bastards! I honestly never thought the three-bladed razor could be topped. We’re ruined!

MGE1: Hang on, how about a five… no, a six-bladed razor!

MGE2: You bloody genius, we’re saved!

As I said at the beginning, I’m not clean-shaven and this comes with it’s own challenges. Sometimes hours will pass before I notice I have fluff stuck on my stubble. I’ve been known to spend all day with an asymmetrical beard because my battery died on me. And yes, my Gran still gives me an earful for looking scruffy.

But as I look back on the £40 I’ve spent on beard trimmers over the last decade, it’s not just bum fluff you can see on my face, there’s a slightly smug smile too.

Review 55 – Derek on Channel 4

Ricky Gervais seems to spend as much time on David Letterman’s couch as he does his own. So there’s something quite sweet about him returning to Channel 4 to create, write, direct and star in Derek (Wednesdays 10pm).

Following last year’s pilot episode, the show is about the staff of a care home for the elderly. Making a low budget show, largely set in the one room for a British TV channel reminds us that Gervais has not forgotten his roots.

Unfortunately, this also proves to be the programme’s biggest flaw; nothing about Derek feels new.

For example, it’s still shot in the style of a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Still. As many before me have asked, why are these documentaries being made? Who is making them? Who are we supposed to believe is watching these? Every time Derek cuts to a talking head it’s like being transported back to The Office. Except, back in 2001 it was a novelty and slightly believable.

Arguably the best thing about the show is Karl Pilkington’s performance as Dougie, the janitor. Yet Dougie’s character appears to be entirely based on the actor’s public persona and his conversations with Derek are lifted wholesale from old radio shows and podcasts.

Finally, the show tries a little too hard to be both moving and funny at the same time (see The Office, Extras). The lingering shots of the care home’s elderly residents and the gentle piano music in the background felt incredibly forced. And, bar Pilkington’s performance, the jokes are thin on the ground.

Gervais acknowledges this to a degree and about an hour before the first episode was broadcast, he tweeted:

Derek is not really a sitcom. It’s a heartwarming drama with funny bits. Also it has a series arch & ep 6 is the best thing I’ve ever done

— Ricky Gervais (@rickygervais) January 30, 2013

For those who like a series arc that builds gradually, you’ll be disappointed to know the whole thing was pretty much outlined in the opening few minutes when council inspectors visited the care home.

Of course, whilst Derek is a Gervais solo project, many of the things I’ve compared it to were jointly credited to Stephen Merchant. Over the years people have asked whether Merchant was always the more creative of the two. Perhaps. However, I’d argue neither of them has equalled – much less bettered – The Office or their XFM shows and the under-rated Cemetery Junction was their next best project.

All that said, Derek certainly isn’t down there with Life’s Too Short. I really do hope it turns out to be great and that come episode 6, I’ll be in agreement with Gervais.

Review 54 – Marching to save Lewisham Hospital

I was in two minds whether to write a review of last Saturday’s march to save Lewisham Hospital.

The last thing I’d want to you to think is that I’m reviewing or even questioning the motives of the march (rock solid) and the efforts of those that took part (again, top notch).

Rather, this is a review of my first marching experience.

Here’s the background:

Last year, the South London Healthcare NHS Trust went into administration with debts of over £150 million. Subsequently, a recommendation was been made to the government that neighbouring Lewisham Hospital (financially sound) should lose it’s A&E department and run a downgraded maternity ward in order to rescue the failing trust.

Make sense?

No?

Well, quite.

The resulting outrage has sparked the well-organised ‘Save Lewisham Hospital’ campaign, which climaxed on Saturday when 25,000 people took to the streets to protest.

When I heard about the march, I quickly decided I would be joining it. Just as quickly, I realised I’d never been on a march before.

I wondered what I needed to know:

Is there a marchers’ code? Should I prepare a placard? Would my inexperience mark me out and lead to a sub-march forming, demanding my apathetic arse is booted out?

I’m not proud to say I’d never marched before. Two huge protests kicked-off on my watch – war on Iraq and raising tuition fees – and I did nothing. But not this time.

First things first, it was a glorious day for a march. Following a week of snow, glorious sunshine warmed the packed streets of Lewisham. I don’t say this to trivialise the day, but good weather means a good turnout.

And what a turnout it was. There were so many people, spanning all corners of society – and the middle bit that doesn’t really fit into that turn of phrase.

What really struck me, was the number families, together with prams, pushchairs and baby carriers bearing the legend ‘born in Lewisham’. Very cute and such a powerful reminder of what this march was all about.

The presence of families reassured me it would be a friendly and peaceful march. The only kettles that day would be those in the shops we marched passed.

That’s not to say everyone was on-message. Near me was a chap with a loudspeaker who led chants of “save Lewisham Hospital” to which we replied, “no more cuts”. Occasionally he’d change the reply to “occupy now” and although the syntax was the same, the sentiment wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine what purpose occupying the hospital would serve, other than to prevent the care and treatment that we were fighting to save.

About halfway along the high street, I was tapped on the shoulder by lady asking if I’d mind helping with a banner. I soon found myself carrying an enormous and beautiful banner belonging to the National Union of Teachers.

I quickly confessed that I was not a fully paid up member of the NUT. In fact, I admitted, I wasn’t even a teacher. Fortunately no one seemed to mind and within the space of an hour, I’d gone from a marching virgin to a banner-waving trade unionist.

Marching with a big banner requires strength and coordination – two words not readily associated with me. The banner acted like a sail and even a gentle breeze made carrying it a herculean task. As it became clear no one would be taking over from me for the rest of the march, I half-wondered what the union would have to say about these working conditions.

Nonetheless, I was happy to help and the number of people that complimented and took photos of the banner was quite touching.

Of course, my experiences are of little consequence though I’m certain that I’ll march again.

What matters is that this Friday 1^st February, the government take notice of the campaign and save Lewisham Hospital. I hope it’s not too late for you to add your support.

Review 53 – DVDs

You read that correctly. This isn’t a review of the latest releases or a fancy pants box set. I’ve decided to cut to the chase and review them all.

From Transformers the Movie to Geri Halliwell’s Fitness Workout and everything in between.

Every. Last. One.

I recently decided to ditch the packaging for my DVD collection and put them all in a big ringbinder-come-wallet contraption.

(The ringbinder-come-wallet actually claims to be for CDs. I could barely keep a straight face as I paid at the till knowing full well I would be using it for DVDs. “Suckers!” I shouted as I’d snatched my change and ran into the street waving my arms.)

Once upon a time, I enjoyed watching DVD cases colonise empty shelves; inching further and further along before creeping on to the next one. However, I recently reached the point I was now sick of the sight of them.

As I plucked the discs from their cases and moved them to their new home, I found the whole experience quite depressing. Not because I was breaking up a collection nearly a decade in the making, but because I realised two things.

1. How rarely I’d watched any of these discs.

2. How unlikely I was to watch any of them ever again.

I wondered what was the point of them and why I had spent so much money over the years amassing them.

Most of my DVDs were things I’d already seen and were bought so I could re-watch them. As my life got increasingly time-poor, the reason changed; now owning them meant I could re-watch them should I wish.

It had long since ceased to be a collection of hours of entertainment and had become just a stack of objects that I owned.

What starts as an attempt to amass things you derive pleasure from morphs into an eternal quest to own things for the sake of it. Whether it’s stamps, commemorative plates or beanie babies, chances are a time will come when you feel you should keep collecting, rather than you want to.

So, having ages carefully removing each disc and gently sliding it into a plastic sleeve, I’m now inclined to just give them away.

Not only will it take me an eternity to find the right cases to return them to, I’ve spent money on a ringbinder-come-wallet that I don’t actually need.

Perhaps, after a slice of humble pie, I’ll use it for my CD collection.

Review 52 – Time Out

I wonder how many people can remember the poster for the 1995 film Assassins starring Sylvester Stallone and Antonio Banderas? Or Beyond Rangoon? What about Four Rooms?

Perhaps rightly, none of the above made it into cinema’s hall of fame. But they’ll always bring back happy memories for me.

In the mid 1990’s, to coincide with my becoming a teenager, I got into films in a big way. However, being barely pubescent I couldn’t actually watch many of the films I was interested in. Furthermore, growing up in a single parent household, I didn’t have a middle-aged father’s wardrobe to call upon.

What I could do, was tear out the full page film ads from Time Out and blu tack them to my bedroom walls. With the arrival of each issue I’d eagerly scour the pages for the latest ads, after a week had passed and the listings were redundant, I could take my free posters.

As well as going some way to satisfy my appetite for cinema, this weekly ritual introduced me to London’s famous listings magazine and started an on/off relationship that is itself in its teens.

Having started out reading the family copy, I later became a subscriber and eventually – whilst working in PR – found myself badgering various section editors pleading for coverage.

In September of last year, Time Out switched to the ‘free sheet model’. Every week hundreds of thousands of copies are handed out gratis to bleary-eyed commuters at the capital’s railway and tube stations.

So is this free magazine the same product that sold for £3.25 in newsagents?

Unfortunately not.

Although the magazine is divided into familiar sections (film, music, art, theatre etc…), each now carry only a handful of reviews and no general listings. Whereas you could once see at a glance which exhibitions were taking place across London, now you’ll find only reviews of the newest shows and a handful of other ‘top picks’.

The TV listings have gone too, though these always sat a little awkwardly with the rest of Time Out’s content – ‘out’ being the operative word.

Of course, all this missing information is available online, but the beauty of Time Out was that they’d done the hard work of compiling everything in one place. Despite having owned a smartphone for several years, I still liked carrying a copy of Time Out to act as my guide on a day out.

It’s still early days, and I’ll see how things go, but my first impression is one of disappointment and genuine sadness at the wonderful treasures hiding in London that I may well miss out on.

Review 51 – How I Escaped my Certain Fate by Stewart Lee

One of the golden rules of comedy is “if you have to explain a joke, it isn’t funny.”

It’s fair to say that whilst Stewart Lee is one of the most established comedians around, he isn’t a stickler for the rules. Lee doesn’t do panel shows, he’s never tried to fill the O2, he doesn’t seem to like his audience much and boy does he go to great lengths to explain his jokes.

How I Escaped My Certain Fate is the first of two volumes Lee has released that feature heavily annotated transcripts of his stand up shows.

In fact, heavily annotated is an understatement. On the average page, just a quarter will be taken up with a snippet of the show. The rest will be a lengthy footnote that stretches onto and devours the next page too.

(As an aside, I remember feeling very grown-up the first time I read a book that had footnotes. They said ‘sophistication’, ‘intelligence’ and  ‘academia’. Or rather, that’s the impression they left with me. I don’t actually remember what the footnotes were.

So How I Escaped My Certain Fate isn’t the most natural way to experience a stand up show, but it is a great read and an incredibly insightful glimpse behind the comedian’s curtain.

Lee doesn’t do one-liners or observational skits. His routine is built around a general cynicism and knowing dislike of everyone he comes into contact with – including his audience. He’s well known for lengthy repetition, holding imaginary conversations with himself and ending his shows curled up in a far corner of the stage rocking back and forth.

Not only is his style incredibly refreshing – and very funny – it’s the result of a hell of a lot of graft.

The annotations and footnotes reveal in great detail how much thought, hard work and fine-tuning goes into creating each show. What can seem like a very chaotic routine is a carefully mapped out voyage, expertly captained by Lee.

Whilst How I Escaped My Certain Fate is most likely to appeal to Lee’s loyal fanbase, I also think there’s plenty in it for those that aren’t fans or indeed, actively dislike him. Very few comedians would have the skill, patience or inclination to produce a similar tome, so if you’re after a sophisticated, intelligent and academic study of comedy, Lee is your man.

(A further volume is planned based on his BBC Two series, Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle. Given the publishing date has already slipped from last year to this autumn, one can only imagine it will again be a thoroughly rewarding read.)

Review 50 – Air fresheners

Pine fresh. Ocean breeze. Summer meadow. Citrus burst. For years, the choice of air fresheners had reached a dead end.

It’s a familiar but sad story.

The baby boom that followed the second world war coincided with a revolution in domestic science. As the number of little people – and the mess they create – shot up, companies were devising new fangled detergents and cleaning agents at rate of knots.

Having reached market saturation in terms of the number of bleach-rich bottles on sale, the big players searched for new areas of growth.

One plucky researcher fresh from university hit upon the idea of fragrancing the home to mask unwanted smells. As companies raced to be the first to market, small fortunes were invested in laboratories to test and produce the first air freshener. Adverts were placed in newspapers seeking people with an exceptional sense of smell. Those who made the grade helped produce the scents that became so famous for decades.

And then – ironically for an industry devoted to freshness – things began to stagnate.

Giddy with their own success, the big companies scaled down their research departments – many of whom famously had insured their noses for hundreds of thousands of pounds – and innovation was stifled.

Yes, occasionally someone would experiment by adding orange to the traditional citrus blend of lemon and lime. Famously Nordic pine was replaced with Bavarian pine during the late eighties. But by and large, nothing new emerged from the industry.

Until now.

Every once in a while a breakthrough appears that completely re-invents the proverbial wheel and becomes the best thing since the proverbial loaf of sliced bread.

First there was the wheel.

Then came sliced bread.

Now we have Babyface Airoma – the scent of a baby’s faces. In a can.

Science – take a well earned break, you’ve won.

Review 49 – Getting On

In a TV schedule overrun with procedural crime dramas, reality shows and Jack Whitehall, Getting On was all too easy to miss. But for those who did catch the third series on BBC Four last year, they’ll have enjoyed a superbly dark and very funny sitcom.

I’ll pause while the blogosphere shouts in unison “there’s a BBC Four?!?” and goes to dig out an old TV guide from the recycling bin.

Are you back? Good.

I’m just teasing of course, but when flicking through the channels it’s very easy to lose all will to live when you reach BBC Three and decide your TV would be better off buried in the back garden alongside Gnasher the hamster. With your ex-flat screen pushing up the daisies, you’ll miss out on all of BBC Four’s gems.

Set in an NHS hospital, Getting On revolves around the staff and patients in a care of the elderly – geriatric – ward. It’s primarily told from the point of view of the nurses and ward sisters, which is quite refreshing given how often TV shows set in the medical world focus on doctors.

Much of the humour arrives from the bureaucracy and politics of the NHS where new initiatives are constantly being dreamt up to distract the staff from patient care. And yet whilst this could make for a very cynical show, it can be incredibly warm and tender.

This is largely due to the interplay between the excellent leads; Jo Brand, Joanna Scanlan and Vicki Pepperdine – who also share the writing credits. There are some heart-wrenching scenes, though as I mentioned earlier, the sadness is often played to darkly coming effect – perhaps inevitable given the setting.

Yet, there are two potential barriers to getting on with Getting On.

One: it’s so blue.

In appearance that is, not language. Whilst the colour palette of washed out blues does mirror the aging population of the ward, I’d prefer it if things looked a little brighter.

Two: shakey-cam.

Shot with handheld cameras there are lots of jump-cuts and random zooms. I watched an episode after an evening in the pub and the two pints of ale resting in my stomach suddenly felt like half a bottle of whiskey.

Having said that, whilst it does take me a moment to get used to the above as I sit down to each episode, I soon forgot and become totally engrossed. What’s more, Getting On is further proof that Jo Brand is a national treasure.

Whilst the series isn’t on the box at present, you can pick up DVDs or download episodes from the usual suspects.

Review 48 – The Magistrate at the National Theatre

I’m still haunted by John Lithgow’s performance in Santa Clause: The Movie. Playing the greedy head of a toy company, he corrupts one of Santa’s elves and vies to replace the big man as the face of Christmas.

When he tries to escape his eventual comeuppance, he is pure evil maniac. At least, that’s how I remember it. It may simply have been scene-chewing maniac. Regardless. John Lithgow, I decided, was not a man I’d like to meet in an alley (dark or otherwise).

The next time I came across him was as the far more likable Dick in 3^rd Rock From the Sun, a harmless 90’s sitcom that launched the career of thinking person’s action man, Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

Unsurprisingly, given it took place thousands of miles away in his native USA, Lithgow’s acclaimed theatre career completely passed me by. Nevertheless, I resolved to do something about this and fortunately saved a packet on airfares when I noticed he was appearing at the National this winter.

Lithgow takes the title role in Pinero’s Victorian farce, The Magistrate at the National Theatre. You know the drill; outrageous secrets, frequent misunderstandings and several doors leading off the same room. So far, so farce…

What lifts this above your average production is a fantastic set-design that looks as though it’s lifted from the pages of a pop-up book and strong comic performances.

Lithgow does a great job of being pulled in all directions at once, though the real star of the show is Joshua McGuire who plays the older-than-his-years Cis. Kids doing grownup things is inherently funny though no credit should be taken away from McGuire, whose portrayal of a port-drinking, cigar-smoking 14 year old is joyful to watch.

I’m afraid this review comes a little late in the day as there are only a dozen or so performances left. Though there is also the chance to catch it in cinemas courtesy of National Theatre Live on 17th January.

Review 47 – The new Routemaster bus

A brand spanking new Routemaster bus

Some months ago, I was minding my own business when suddenly an unfamiliar red object the size of a double-decker bus whizzed past. It was a double-decker bus. More accurately, it was a new Routemaster.

Like all trendy young things, I keep my finger on the pulse of public transport developments. (Few people realise that all the cool kids moved to Shoreditch recently not for the bohemian atmosphere and nightlife, but to experience the magnificent British Rail Class 378s that serve the London Overground on a daily basis.)

I remembered Ken Livingstone announcing he was going to pull the iconic Routemaster bus from London’s streets. And I could remember Boris Johnson’s election promise to give the capital a brand new Routemaster. After that… well, my memory is a little hazy.

In fact, you can still catch an original Routemaster (the 9 and 15 heritage routes) and now catch the new Routemaster (on route 38).

Transport fans rejoice and wave your Oystercards in the air like you just don’t care about the recent above inflation fare rises.

So I promised that one day I’d ride the new Routemaste and write a comprehensive analysis of Transport for London’s latest innovation in urban mass transit.

Unfortunately, it didn’t all go to plan.

First of all, not all buses on the 38 route are new Routemasters. After half an hour in the cold watching bus after bus go past, my chariot finally arrived.

Then I made the rookie mistake of boarding via the front doors. The whole point of a Routemaster is that you can get on at the back. To ignore the rear doors and board by the driver is the equivalent of finding a genie’s lamp and using it as a gravy boat.

Having climbed up to the top deck I took a seat near the front. Again, big mistake. I could hardly see any of the bus and would have to use the front staircase again or look very suspicious marching along the length of the bus when my stop came.

To cap it all off, a man with a can of Diamond White sat next to me. Never particularly pleasant, this also meant I spent the remainder of the journey looking at me knees as I tried to avoid conversation, confrontation and cider.

All in all, not a very successful trip, though I found some solace in the irony of the situation. Along with promising Londoners a new Routemaster, one of Boris Johnson’s earliest actions as Mayor was to ban alcohol from buses and tubes. Perhaps, like me, cider man’s memory is not all it could be.