Shitcoms – Andy Capp

Since the MCU took comics mainstream, in the mad rush to bring every forgotten minor character to screen, one sub-genre got completely ignored; the syndicated newspaper strip. Where Americans were treated to Peanuts, Nancy, and Calvin and Hobbes, readers of British tabloids had stuff like Amanda, Hagar the Horrible, and George and Lynne; a strip with so much needless female nudity, it seemed the artist was drawing it in rushed rehydration breaks during one continuous wank. Generally read by men who open a newspaper at the back page, Britain's most successful daily strip was Andy Capp.

Nominative determinism at play, a flat-capped capital-N Northerner, Capp was every working class cliché, as a workshy boozing gadabout, practically living in the pub/bookies to escape from the missus; a nagging charwoman forever chasing him with a concussion-giving rolling pin. I had a book of collected strips as a kid, and didn't really understand them beyond “haha, he hates his wife!” but even then, this felt a very grim window into what possible future awaited me, sat in the corner of the local, hiding from the old ball and chain, and concocting various failed schemes for cobbling together enough cash to keep the bailiffs from the door for another week.

For something so region-specific, the syndicated Andy Capp found surprising success in America, established enough to have appeared twice in – of all places – Family Guy; in one cameo performing a 'Capp smear' on Lois, who's got her legs in stirrups. Andy Capp's, a brand of crisp, were introduced to American mouths in 1971, and are still available today, with a new flavour (Andy's Fire Fries) debuting as recently as last November. This is just one of many spin-offs, including a terrible ZX Spectrum-era computer game, and a 1970's stage musical, with Tom Courtenay in the lead and songs co-written by Trevor Peacock. There was a West End cast recording released in '82, and even a 2016 London reprisal. One forgotten connection is that Buster from the comic Buster's full name is Buster Capp, as he's Andy's son, though it's never been acknowledged in the newspaper version. But best known in the Capp oeuvre, because of its appalling quality, is the 1988 sitcom.

Written by Keith Waterhouse, who was behind the Worzel Gummidge series, and directed by John Howard Davis, who'd been Oliver in David Lean's 1948 Oliver Twist, the famous cap was plonked on the dependable, and more importantly, northern head of James Bolam. In the late 80s, newspapers occupied the same role as waking up and checking your social media. Everyone read a paper, with the choice of title a political statement about which class you occupied. Were you a well-to-do Telegraph reader, or a man of the people, laying the Sun or Mirror across your bare thighs while making tud? Capp was found in the Daily Mirror, giving him a head-start ratings wise, with a huge in-built audience and brand recognition. However, the transition to television meant figuring out the formula for turning a four panel strip (just a single panel in the early days) into a half-hour format. Weirdly, this is both the only thing that really works, and the reason Andy Capp is so dreadful.

To me, an extremely Southern man of the beach, a north I'd only ever seen on television seemed particularly bleak, where people in long overcoats struggled up hilly cobbled streets past women in headscarves scrubbing their front steps, a backdrop of factory smoke, whippets, and black pudding, and chimney stacks rising into overcast skies. If the sun ever came out on a northern-set show, I don't recall it. Although I should clarify, as far as I'm concerned, London is the north, and anything further inland than two miles from the south coast is where the Wildings live. This sense of desolation is captured perfectly by the opening to Andy Capp's first episode, Bolam's cap cresting over a sloping road, hands in pockets, staggering bandy-legged, and backed by the sort of mournful trumpet which usually accompanies a clown bursting into tears. From atop a bridge, Andy spots Tosh Lines off The Bill, who's chest deep in a foggy canal. “Morning Walter,” calls Andy, half of his mouth keeping hold of a roll-up, “you alright, kidder?” This sets the tone, and already, I feel a monumental depression sliding over my head like a binbag.

One of those cheery comic strips about two people trapped in an unhappy and violent marriage, ITV's Capp was filmed on location, multi-cam, with no audience nor laughter, which in 1988, must've given the air of a comedy-drama, at best. Flo Capp is played by Paula Tillbrook, aka 90's Emmerdale Farm busybody, Betty Eagleton, and her first scene is a neat encapsulation of all her scenes, hair in rollers, thrusting an alarm clock in Andy's face with a “What time d'ya call this?!” to which he retorts “Oh, shuddup, woman!” before dragging himself upstairs to bed as she threatens to leave him. Reader, get used to that.

Immediately, it's genuinely impressive how well they've replicated the feel of the strip, in a way few – if any – adaptations have managed before or since. Characters all have simple costume designs; Flo with green headscarf and blue cardie, Andy with his trademark hat and scarf; though they should've gone the whole hog and left Bolam only visible from the nose down. Everyone's identifiable by silhouette alone, as indeed they're sometimes seen, behind doors and windows, and it's all very cartoonish. The council landlord's a stern-faced, Hitler-tashed chap clutching a black book with RENT on it in large white letters, while the debt collector swings a bag bearing DEBT COLLECTOR as he strides towards the Capp residence. Tool boxes have TOOLS written on the side, and Flo cooks breakfast in a chef's hat so enormous, even the Chuckle Brothers would've told the costume department to tone it down a bit.

The front of buildings fill the screen exactly as they would in a newspaper panel; the Capp's terraced house, bookies, pawn brokers, pub; for characters to traipse in front of with a cartoonish gait, Flo to drag Andy back home on his arse by the collar, or him to get chased by debt collectors, everyone exaggeratedly knees-up jogging at the exact same speed. Framing's lifted straight off the page; the backs of couples stood at the bar, barman in the middle, as we hear their dialogue as if in speech bubbles. Wives sit on first floor windowsills, chatting while they clean the glass. The camera's often stationary, or with simple back-and-forth pans, to give the feel of a comic, while all the many 'walking along the pavement' shots are done wide and from the side. The forth wall is practically non-existent, through which characters address us with little asides, and a third of the dialogue's aimed straight at us, delivering their bon mots as they would've done to readers in the Mirror.

But this isn't a newspaper; it's telly, and you can't fill 24 minutes a week with nifty cinematography alone. Episode one's got a loose plot about Andy wanting to change his ways or else Flo will leave him, taking a vow to be a different man, doing the housework and “I'll even stop wearing me cap in bed!” But once he's ceased all the mucking about, and even sold the TV to take her to the cinema, Flo now finds him too dull, dragging him to a marriage guidance counsellor, whose suggestion that Andy get a job has him running through the exit at door-shattering speed. And like that, he's back to his old ways, getting Jazzy Jeffed out of the pub, and waddling home to find Flo waiting with a rolling pin. “Oh, it's lovely to have him back, but don't say anything,” she tells us, before conking him over the head, where we hear the chirp of birds, as Bolam tips stiffly out of frame with a thump. At the very end, Flo bids us “see you next week!” and just imagine getting your parasocial relationships from Andy Capp. (Has anyone ever told me they loved me? Of course; Adam Buxton at the end of every podcast!)

The tragic denouement of episode one is the admission they're both aware of playing their part in this marital war, and the plot's whole 'without the battle, what's the point?' revelation kinda ruins the rest of the series, where they're living out the same cycle of threats and abuse. At least it looks good, with its drab olive colour pallet, though it's unclear what year this is meant to be. The vehicles, fashions and décor are all 1950's, the policeman wears a cape, and there's no denim to be seen, seemingly setting us firmly in the early post-war years. Their telly is distinctly a 50's model, and Andy washes in a tin bath in the living room, filled with water boiled in a kettle on the stove. But then Flo references the last time Andy took her to the pictures – back in 1981 – suggesting it's set the year of release. Perhaps this is simply what the north was like back then, spoken as an southerner who was busy roller-skating round with my Walkman. Then, when Andy takes Flo to the cinema, she names the film they went to see as Rocky IV, placing us at the beginning of 1986. Even the existence of Stallone in this world feels hugely out of place, yet fits perfectly with the comic counterpart, running for decades with nobody aging or changing their look, but still throwing in the occasional contemporary reference.

I have to be honest, one episode in, my initial sense was that Andy Capp's far more interesting than it is notably bad. This'll change. The second episode revolves around his obsession with sport, mostly (as with all men in the series) as an excuse to get away from the missus. When he's talking to his racing pigeon, he shuts Flo up by stuffing her gob with clothes pegs, and left to clean pigeon poo off all manner of enraged locals' clothes and bikes, Flo once again threatens to leave. She starts playing him at his own game, doing bets at the bookies, joining the opposing darts team under a domino mask as The Masked Marvel, and taking up football. He does not change. She does not leave.

There's a moment here where Andy's playing darts, chucking them offscreen, and it cuts to all the debt collectors, angrily drumming their fingers on a table, each with a dart sticking out of their hats. It's a perfect three-panel gag, and likely a direct adaptation from the strip. These comic moments are Andy Capp's strength, and its downfall. The sight of him traipsing back from the canal with a fishing rod over his shoulder, still-hooked fish swinging from the line is delightful, like being presented a big pile of mash with sausages sticking out for your tea. Characters talk in annoyed growls, audibly gulp when afraid; after a thumping, have black eyes like they've been pranked with a telescope; and stand frozen in the back of frame until it's time to be involved in the scene and suddenly come to life.

But Andy Capp the newspaper strip is thin, repetitive gruel, even over four daily panels, and laid bare over half hours, starts to feel like when it's 4am and you've been laid awake with the same 10-second blast of music reverberating around your brain (usually the Peanuts music from Shooting Stars). Perhaps it's different when playing out over six months of Daily Mirrors, but here you're forced to mainline the same few plot devices in a maddening loop. Andy's arsehole behaviour – “boozin', cadgin', womanizin'” – striking a match on Flo's arse as she hammers down the lino, so coddled, she blows on his tea for him; and her threatening to leave, suitcase packed once more. Pacing wise, it's basically a sketch show, restlessly jumping from scene to scene, structure rarely able to hold more than a few exchanges before the weak punchline. It's torn between very wordy back-and-forths, and visual gags; such as Andy staggering home drunk, falling in a canal out-of-frame, and a load of water splashing over a policeman, who says to camera “every town has one, you know.” It's not really a sitcom, but a collection of short comic strips, like those books I didn't understand as a child. Consequently, you're often missing the big resolution of normal sitcoms right before the credits, as most scenes, lifted from the page, have their own endings.

Incidentally, that policeman's played by the hunky vicar from Keeping Up Appearances, while the bookie's the dad from Beadle's Beginner's Guide to Practical Joking. The cast is packed with familiar (and northern) comedy players, each unable to save the show from itself. Episode two's end credits do reveal lyrics to the dour theme, sung by a man with a Geoff from Byker Grove accent – “Well, it's great round here, and the beer's good too, with a snooker hall close by; there's fish in the river and birds in the pub, you can catch both if you try...” Episode three revolves around Flo wanting a new dress for an engagement party, and Andy literally thrown out of the house again – “I wonder if you need planning permission for a safety net strung between two lampposts?” He also falls down an open manhole while reading the paper (Mirror, of course). In the next episode, He's home blotto from the pub, causing Flo to pack her bags and threaten to leave. Then she's back, and he's thrown out. He's back by the end, status quo in place, and then they both threaten to leave, “Goodbye for good!” “If not, flipping sooner!” but are straight back in the front door, screaming at each other.

I'm light-headed by episode five, as Andy vows to change his ways after the bailiffs take all their stuff. It's just white noise now, and I've gone from thinking “this is nowhere near as bad as I was led to believe” to “would a fall from this height be enough to kill me?” There's a mother-in-law who exists only as a shouting voice through a front door, and another obvious comic-lift, where final demands arrive, only to reveal Andy's put the dustbin under the letterbox to catch them. “Any more bright ideas?” says Flo. In the final episode – Andy Capp did not get a second series – he's forgotten their wedding anniversary, and gets ganged up on by the entire cast; bookie, pawn shop owner, marriage guidance counsellor, vicar, milkman, Tosh Lines; into making an effort. He blindfolds Flo for a surprise trip, which turns out to be the pub, and says he'll leave her if she doesn't go inside. Instead, she marches to the river to kill herself – “this is goodbye!” – but eventually goes in (covered head-to-toe in mud from her suicide attempt) to find the gang set up a surprise party, and here's to another 25 years of comedy domestic violence between two people who despise each other. If Andy Capp is viewed as an experiment in bringing a comic to screen as directly as possible, it proves that you definitely can, but also definitely shouldn't. I think I'd rather have been watching an adaptation of bulletins about war atrocities.