Letter from London

I’m in London, visiting my daughter, Becky. She’s living here, pursuing her dream as a musical comedian. She wrote, and performed in, two one-woman shows in New York City. She’s appeared at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival three times, and she’s headed for a fourth this summer. Now, she’s here. She’s got guts and moxie and a unique talent, and I’m burning with pride for her.

Right now she’s working on a musical parody of The Matrix. She took a bit of it to the streets of London. I also saw her perform another part of it at a pub, The Betsy Trotwood. It was wild. And good!

I’m staying in the Whitechapel neighborhood of London. It’s in East London, not far from where Becky lives. The last time I was in London was 1972. I have little memory of that visit, or of London’s shape and scope. It was over fifty years ago. Essentially, I’m a stranger.

The weather had been cloudy and cool, with intermittent rain, not unexpected for London. The neighborhood my hotel is in is somewhat drab and uninspiring, but, again, I’m here to see my daughter, not to be wowed by architecture.

There were two big protest marches while I’ve been here, both on the same Saturday. One was a demonstration of the far right, a cause Americans are not unfamiliar with at this point. We did not attend, but coming out of the Trafalgar Theater after seeing the incredibly delicious play, Oh, Mary!, we caught the tail end of it. When you catch the tail end of anything, you encounter die-hards and, often in the case of parades and protests, people who have been drinking. We saw a few, most of whom had draped themselves in the Union Jack, and, to me at least, were not types I’d want to engage with.

Last night, Becky surprised me. She arranged for us to see a taping of the very popular British TV series, Taskmaster. It’s hard to fully explain this show, but my daughter adores it, and one of her close friends, the lovely comedian, Nina Conti, arranged for the passes. Taskmaster combines the best of dry, arch, somewhat insulting and slightly naughty British humor with pure silliness, and is beloved by the English. Five comedians vie to complete ridiculous tasks supplied by the creator of the show, Alex Horne. It’s been going strong for eleven years and is now in its 21st season. As I say, it’s beloved.

These tasks combine the awkwardness of smacking a piñata blindfolded with the most absurd scavenger hunt you can imagine. The tasks in no way educate you about anything. The weirder, and the more pointless, it seems, the better. These tasks are completed earlier, filmed, and shown to the audience—us—the night of the taping.

There is a host, in addition to Alex. His name is Greg Davies, a 6 ft. 8 in. gangling giant who resembles John Cleese both in height and acerbic humor. His questions and ripostes add buoyancy to the show and keep it on keel. If there is in fact a keel.

The set is simple and purposefully gaudy. Greg and Alex sit in patently fake gilded thrones and face the five participants who sit in simple red cushioned chairs. There is lots of repartee, and sometimes it’s funny and other times, well, not. But the show moves fast, and so there are very few pockets of dead air.

Greg Davies and Alex Horne

The comedians—some of whom, I should emphasize, are clearly chosen for their underdeveloped social skills—were funnier than others, but that would be the case, wouldn’t it? I often found myself laughing out loud.

The tasks are filmed in strangely unappealing locations—homes that you wouldn’t necessarily want to live in, back yards, caravans (mobile homes in British) and in basements. If you want to see a sample of this insanity, check out Taskmaster’s YouTube channel. It’s all there.

Becky was in heaven watching the show. She has the intense ardor of a maniacal British soccer fan. She was so excited seeing her heroes.

Typical contestants from “Taskmaster”

After the show, we went to the green room, a pass having been generously given to us by Becky’s friend, Nina. We met Alex Horne, the creator, who was absolutely delightful. He and Becky talked for quite a while. Towering Greg made a brief appearance. We also met the director of the show who has been its guide for all the shows 21 seasons. The show we saw taped will appear some six months from now.

Perhaps America’s best examples of silliness might be Sid Caesar’s Our Show of Shows, I Love Lucy or The Carol Burnett Show. But even those shows, good as they were, were never as pointless and as daringly ludicrous as Taskmaster.

What I can say without any hesitation is God bless silliness. I need it. I suspect we all need it. Just to bathe in a world of nonsense and meaninglessness was a balm, an escape, a joy, a relief. You have to become a child again to savor this show, this kind of comedy, and the lovely part is that it’s in us, somewhere, often put away in a locked closet so it won’t emerge in some stuffy “important” moment. Taskmaster opens that door.

The show made a go of it in America, but didn’t catch on. I don’t think we’re silly enough.