Why We Like Sitcoms - Various ramblings on the importance of stories in our day to day interactions with our loved ones.
We often recall the time we lost our virginities, went on a bad date, or even got walked in on showering by your mate’s dad. Yes, these are the stories we cherish more than our ones of success. Fuck hearing about how we won a prize or got our dream job. The stories I’m concerned about remind us of being faulted, unable to get ourselves out of shitty situations. We say ‘lesson well learned’ when really the story at the end of it makes it worthwhile. People who fear of being flawed love to surround themselves with those who aren’t afraid to admit their fuck ups. People like me live on the side, hibernate then once in a blue moon go out, have fun and retreat. For so long I missed so much. I knew less and less about my friends as I did when I was always with them. I felt like when I would see them I would top up on my bank of funny stories and second hand memories to last me until the next time.
I had a conversation with a friend. They’re on their way to being successful, much more successful than I will ever be. They told me about someone they knew did who didn’t have their own stories. They hung around to listen to other people’s stories and appropriated them. I suddenly had a thought in my head of a cartoon robber wearing black and white striped clothing with a sack over one shoulder, going around snatching other people’s stories. The Story Snatcher.
Now I think of Shane Meadows. I think of writers who mostly used their own stories for characters who weren’t real. They had snatched their own stories. Or even they donated their stories to someone who wasn’t really there. Perhaps they wanted to pass on the pain to somebody else. You can’t really do that properly in real life. It’s a controlled environment when you make fiction. My stepdad was in the process of writing about his life . He asked me if I could read it. I said no. He had stories I enjoyed him telling me. Other stories I felt as though I was too close to being a main character in. Once you’re one of the stars of the story it doesn’t feel the same. It doesn't quite give that punch you wanted when someone’s telling you about when they went on a date with the same guy a friend went on a date with three days before and the guy brings a stove with hot chocolate as a way of wooing you (and pissing five feet away from it).
People who tell me their stories are generous in a way. Not only because they share their vulnerability but also because we can use them. When we are the star of the story we feel the pain from it. Whether it may be that we feel unloved or just the memories of witnessing that person’s pain. You know you can feel the person’s pain sometimes when they tell the story. About how they made a tit of themselves to try and get someone to love them back or how they were cheated on or how one of their family members was being a cow to them. They are selfless because they are making a show of their pain for us. I admire their bravery as well as their foolishness. It’s pathetically beautiful.
‘They like my stories more than the person I am. I’m sorry but I am not your story.’ That was something I had heard once. It was phony. Though it was true, deep down they loved being the story. You’re iconic. You’re immortal, right until your friends are in their 50’s telling their teenage children about in an effort of reminding them that your youth existed at one point.
I was talking to my stepdad about the pub experience he once knew. You could go everyday and afford to do it. The pubs were sweaty, with fruit machines, loud music, drunk people, friends and lots of swearing. The pub experience for us was go to the pub Mais was working in, embarrass her in front of her boss, act like idiots, create an incestuous environment within that space (one of our mates fucks on of them then it gets awkward) then Mais moves from that pub and we talk about how we never liked that group anyway. Funny but true. I’m going to call Mais about what I said. She’d like it. Might rehearse it on Ruby first.
Why do you think we like sitcoms? As an English and American Literature graduate I can’t help but wince when my more intellectual peers comment on how Fleabag is much better than 'that Friends shite.’ I like Friends. I like Seinfeld, I like Parks and Recreation, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia and even Gossip Girl. I am cultured though, I like Fleabag. I like my plays and the odd classic novel from the literary canon. A show like Friends was designed for us to watch over and over again, with every episode title starting with ‘The One With…’ We witness multiple occasions where the characters humiliate themselves, giving us our artificial dose of stories without the ethical repercussions of real life ones. However, we somehow live in a world where those can’t coexist. It does coexist, in fact. We carry on watching them then smile accordingly when a different ashamed and guilty person talks rubbish about Two and a Half Men. Think what you like about them, the world of the sitcom is the Disneyland of stupidity and fuck-uppery.
Post break-up, I walked with my friend up One Tree Hill. In between my brief sporadic moments of crying, we sat on a wall, looked at the London skyline and spoke about sitcoms. ‘Everyone talks about Friends being rubbish but I love it. Do you watch Girls?’ We spoke about that for a while. We both agreed that with Friends, it had the mates you wanted. With Girls, it had the mates you got.
Jade Bellevue de Sylva
