Lawks alive and no mistake. That Micky Flanagan, so street he can’t even be bovvered with an ‘e’ in his first name, aint ‘arf good. He’s the genial, unpretentious to the point of actually defining the word, host of a trip down his own memory lane, from his schooldays when driving a van seemed like a dream too far, to his youth as a porter at Billingsgate Fishmarket, drinking lager and pulling women. He now has a house, a degree, a partner, a son and a £500 buggy - but the accent and attitudes remain gloriously intact.
Quite profound musings on class and status lurk amid the smart and joyful descriptions of his former incarnation’s seduction technique, involving a bottle of Blue Nun and a nylon black kimono with a garish picture of a dragon on the back.
I particularly liked it when he imagined being shouted at in Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen. “It’s only a bit of dinner, mate,” are the words of a man who instinctively shoots at the heart of things and refuses to be altered too radically by life’s progress , even if he now has pasta and olive oil at dinner parties and lights candles when having a bath. His show’s something of a right “bubble barf” too.
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