Reviewed: Solos on Loneliness

First person singular.

Solos on Loneliness
Radio 4

To a programme on loneliness (9 April, 11am), currently being pushed as a “modern condition” – families scattered, too long spent on computers with virtual friends. Yet this half-hour seemed instead to stretch down the decades to any time, any place, so long as there was a clock on the wall and a stove to boil water. These sounds turned up repeatedly. A timepiece ticked as someone spoke about being “embarrassed” by a life reduced to “hellos and goodbyes”. Water boiled loudly as another insisted “you just have to draw strength from being self-contained” (were we to imagine the cooking of a solitary egg?). The sound effects worked.

Anyone who has ever lived alone – I did for ten years – knows that time can both harden and soften a hundred times over the course of a day, and that the most innocuous of noises becomes distorted, giving you a strange, beckoning jolt, sometimes a whole new brain-rhythm. The programme was sensitive to sound in general and to the music of the human voice. One woman, a widow, recalled the times she would wake up with her husband and say, “What shall we do today?” Her inflection altered with the terrible happiness of the memory. A man who had lost family in a bitter divorce spoke about “falling down” a lot (“I need to talk to someone otherwise I will fall down”) and his tone flattened every time he said it, as though physically sinking back.

If the programme seemed at first to baby the issue – the psychosomatic peculiarities of being human reduced to the plain, quiet need for company – when the broadcaster Andy Kershaw talked about his overwhelming loneliness, he brought an enabling anger with him, challenging the world to bring him a more gadding, sybaritic existence (or return him the one that he lost). His loneliness didn’t sound modern. How could it?

A few hours later, The Essay (Radio 3) – 28 episodes in April, considering Anglo-Saxon figures of significance – included the bones of an anonymous smith buried in a field in Lincolnshire (“a lonely place, a marginal place”). The craftsman was found with his tools and holding a bell rung 12 centuries ago by the lone traveller to indicate that although he was that most frightening of things – solitary – he was not a threat. 

Many of us are lonely. Photograph: Getty Images

Antonia Quirke is an author and journalist. She is a presenter on The Film Programme and Pick of the Week (Radio 4) and Film 2015 and The One Show (BBC 1). She writes a column on radio for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 12 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Centenary Special Issue

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How did Don’t Tell the Bride lose its spark?

Falling out of the love with reality TV’s wedding planning hit.

Steph, 23, from Nottinghamshire, is standing in a drizzly field wearing a wedding dress. Her betrothed, Billy, is running around in a tweed flat cap trying to make some pigs walk in “a continuous parade”. A man from Guinness World Records is watching with a clipboard, shaking his head. Bridesmaids gaze sorrowfully into the middle distance, each in a damp pig onesie.

Thus ends the second wedding in E4’s new series of Don’t Tell the Bride – and the programme’s integrity with it.

When the classic programme, which follows grooms attempting to plan their wedding (punchline: human males doing some organising), began a decade ago on BBC Three, it had the raw spark of unpredictability. For eight years, the show did nothing fancy with the format, and stuck with pretty ordinary couples who had few eccentric aspirations for their wedding day.

This usually resulted in run-of-the-mill, mildly disappointing weddings where the worst thing that happened would be a reception at the nearest motorway pub, or an ill-fitting New Look low heel.

It sounds dull, but anyone who has religiously watched it knows that the more low-key weddings expose what is truly intriguing about this programme: the unconditional commitment – or doomed nature – of a relationship. As one of the show’s superfans told the Radio Times a couple of years ago:

“It’s perfect, and not in an ironic or post-ironic or snarky way. The format has the solemn weight of a ceremony . . . Don’t Tell the Bride is not about ruined weddings, it’s about hope. Every wedding is a demonstration of how our ambitions curve away from our abilities. It’s a show about striving to deserve love and how that’s rarely enough.”

It also meant that when there were bombshells, they were stand-out episodes. High drama like Series 4’s notorious Las Vegas wedding almost resulting in a no-show bride. Or heart-warming surprises like the geezer Luke in Series 3 playing Fifa and guzzling a tinny on his wedding morning, who incongruously pulls off a stonking wedding day (complete with special permission from the Catholic Church).

For its eight years on BBC Three, a few wildcard weddings were thrown into the mix of each series. Then the show had a brief affair with BBC One, a flirt with Sky, and is now on its tenth year, 13th series and in a brand new relationship – with the more outrageous E4.

During its journey from BBC Three, the show has been losing its way. Tedious relationship preamble has been used to beef up each episode. Some of the grooms are cruel rather than clueless, or seem more pathetic and vulnerable than naïve. And wackier weddings have become the norm.

The programme has now fully split from its understated roots. Since it kicked off at the end of July, every wedding has been a publicity stunt. The pig farm nuptials are sandwiched between a Costa del Sol-based parasail monstrosity and an Eighties Neighbours-themed ceremony, for example. All facilitated by producers clearly handing the groom and best men karaoke booth-style props (sombreros! Inflatable guitars! Wigs!) to soup up the living room planning process.

Such hamminess doesn’t give us the same fly-on-the-wall flavour of a relationship as the older episodes. But maybe this level of artifice is appropriate. As one groom revealed to enraged fans in The Sun this week, the ceremonies filmed are not actually legally binding. “It makes a bit of a mockery of the process that the bride and groom go through this huge ordeal for a ceremony which isn’t even legal,” he said. Perhaps we should’ve predicted it would all eventually end in divorce – from reality.

Don’t Tell the Bride is on E4 at 9pm

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.