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The No 7 bus from Portslade to Brighton Marina has temporarily been renamed the 007, book drop off points have been established across the city, and Ian Fleming’s nephew has even dropped in for a visit. Yes, this year’s City Read festival is now underway, with bibliophiles and occasional readers alike getting stuck in to the classic spy novel From Russia With Love. But if you’ve yet to get involved with this fantastic city-wide reading scheme, perhaps this special event will do the trick. There’s no rarer treat these days than being read to; and every Thursday throughout April you can enjoy an exclusive session with ‘reader in residence’ Damian Barr in MyHotel’s luxury penthouse suite. While Damian’s reads extracts from Fleming’s work, your own barman will mix you a complimentary vodka martini – shaken, not stirred.
Thursday 8, 15, 22 and 29 April, MyHotel, Jubilee Street, Brighton, hourly from 6pm, £5. Max four people per session, ages 18 plus. For more info visit www.cityreads.co.uk

In the family way

The saying goes, ‘never work with animals or children’. I suppose it all depends how good the animals and children are at their jobs. And how good the team surrounding them are too. What I think I’m really saying is – it depends if you’re working with the Outnumbered team.

The nifty thing about this award-winning comedy programme is the kids. They get to be centre stage without being brats. Well, anymore than your average kids are ever shown up as brats when you deny them chocolate biscuits on a weekly shop. The kids are great, from the seven-year-old, academically competitive Karen to the ‘boisterous’ middle child Ben, and the moody, mobile-addicted teenager Jake. When Karen argues with her Dad, Pete, that she’s only seven so is still learning – whereas he’s ‘older’ so should’ve learnt not to lose his temper – there’s really no arguing with such logic. Or Ben’s convoluted reasoning about how to introduce the lions to Trafalgar Square in an appropriately British way, as, ‘you don’t find lions in fields in Kent’.

It’s fair to say that the part-improvised nature of this programme, combined with the generous nature of the adult actors in letting the kids shine, is to thank for these gems. It allows the quirkiness of ‘kids’ stories’ to come through and prompt bellowy laughs without seeming contrived. We all have those stories from our own kids/nephews/nieces/mate’s kid/cousin: my niece loves vinegar so much she sucks it off the lettuce leaves in the grown up salad, presents it to an adult, and then asks why you’re not eating it. The trick is telling them without it sounding made up.

Also, doing so without a laughter track. Family comedies are not a new idea. My Family has been going for years and has picked up various accolades along the way, but is an entirely different beast from Outnumbered. My Family has its laughter track, relies on older kids, and the parents are the stars. They get themselves into increasingly bizarre situations and have a gag per minute rate. Outnumbered takes the kids on a day out in London and looks like harassed parents trying to stop each child running off in a geometrically opposed direction. No laughter track, just a conversation with a child.

To be honest, I didn’t watch the first series, or the start of the second, as I was fed up with everyone saying how good it was. Anything that’s that highly acclaimed has a strong possibility of being Emperor’s New Clothes and I hate feeling like a numpty. Like when I try and see those magic eye posters and just look half blind with squinting. I’m glad someone foisted it upon me though, and that there’s a new series starting this week. We’re going back to the start and finding comedy in what’s there naturally. Who needs to contrive to have three people on a window ledge when there are bronze lions to play with?
Outnumbered series 3 starts on Thursday 8 April.

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Andrea Fox goes American Rumble Wrestling

Apparently in Brighton nothing says ‘Happy Mothers Day’ like a trip to see some wrestling. In a back room at the Brighton Centre, I experienced my first taste of American Rumble Wrestling, which involves chucking contestants out of the ring to win, and some good old tag team action.

Wrestling, or fake-fighting between two professionals for payment, is often considered one of the oldest sports still in existence, probably because we’ve been beating each other since we learned to walk upright. But in the UK, wrestling hasn’t always had the popularity it’s enjoyed in America or even Japan.
Even now I’m still not sure what makes ‘American Rumble Wrestling’ American, but I’m guessing the name. What I actually got to watch was a beautiful piece of odd English entertainment.

“Poor guys. They’ve got it bad enough with the outfits: imagine pantomime dame and minimise the amount of material used”

Taking our seats and looking around at the crowd of excitable kids and slightly less interested parents, my fears were confirmed. I am not the target market for lycra-clad men. Surprisingly, 10-year-old boys made up a captive audience, and the judges did nothing to stop the rampaging young boys from screaming and waving their foam fingers at the poor fighting grown men in their funny little costumes. Poor guys. They’ve got it bad enough with the outfits: imagine pantomime dame and minimise the amount of material used and you’re nearly there.

The wrestlers had names as beefy as their arms, things like Danny Driscal and Chris Kay, and there was even a Robbie Williams. I didn’t hear anyone making any ‘Angels’ jokes. The looks of pain on the wrestlers’ faces aren’t that believable but the thuds of the springy board of the ring and the rehearsed cries of terror certainly convince. RADA training needed, but I’m not going to tell the wrestlers that to their faces.

For me, the most amusing part was the creatively worded family-friendly shouts of encouragement: “COME ON YOU SCUMBAGS, WHO IS THE BEST?” Scumbags? Last used as a cuss by pirates in 1700.

The crowd enjoyed themselves, though I’m sure some of the mums in the audience would have preferred a face pack and day in. If you have sons who like chucking each other over the sofa then take them along to this and they can pick up some new tips. I left thinking, my brother would have loved that as a kid, and our mum would never have taken him, because she didn’t approve of the fighting. I think I’m turning into my mother because it turns out I don’t approve of the fighting either.

Listen to The Guy & Andrea Breakfast Show on Brighton’s Juice 107.2 every Monday to Friday from 7am

You see the name Alan Bennett and there is immediately a level of expectation. It’s hardly surprising – he is an immense talent, intellectual, social commentator and wit. He is also an entertainer, and as such he is brilliantly positioned to convey ideas and ideals.

The History Boys is a play about both. At the centre is Hector, the idealist teacher. Hector cares more about the boy’s intellectual and emotional growth than he does about them passing exams. The boys love Hector and, although they perhaps do not see his real motivation, they respect his approach to learning and revel in his colourful methods.

The headmaster has other ideas; obsessed with leagues, he wants Oxbridge success and employs a young academic, Irwin, as tutor. It is, however, not that simple; Hector is homosexual and as it turns out, so is Irwin. Of course the adolescent boys are a heaving mass of hormonal change. Posner is awakening to his own homosexuality and is brilliantly and movingly played in this revival by James Byng. He also leads most of the well placed songs with a voice like gold. Dakin, the school sex god played by Kyle Redmond-Jones, is screwing the headmaster’s secretary but is also aware that he has sexual power over men too, and he is prepared to exercise that power. Rob Delaney as Scripps has God. He has God pinned down, I should say. All eight young actors are excellent but these three are sensational.

Gerard Murphy comes to the part Richard Griffiths made his own and brings to it a vulnerability and sadness that outweighs any bluster and pomposity. Truly tragic, his Hector is a deeply moving portrayal of a man bound into marriage by convention, into teaching by necessity, and who as a result is unfulfilled sexually and intellectually. Ben Lambert is excellent as Irwin, the closeted tutor, not ready to face his own sexuality.

Amongst the testosterone is Mrs Lintott. Penelope Beaumont’s performance is superbly measured, all-seeing and never surprised by the antics of the boys or the male staff, and she is utterly dismissive of the appalling headmaster played with a chilling lack of heart by Thomas Wheatley.

Bennett turns his audience inside out with arguments and counter arguments. The value of art, the value of education and certainly the value of exams are all brought into question. But perhaps beneath all this is the most important question: how we value each other as human beings. In the end the staff and boys alike are equally cruel, equally ruthless and equally vulnerable, too. The great talent is that Bennett can show us this whilst entertaining us.
Theatre Royal Brighton 29 March
5/5
Andrew Kay