Father Christmas lives. I know this because it has been announced that there will be a spin- off of the BBC show Motherland, called Amandaland.
It has come to my attention since moving from London to Meath that Irish mothers are not always familiar with the series Motherland which is a real pity. In London, every mother, absolutely every single one has seen Motherland. It is the glue that binds. I have been in greenrooms with very, very lefty women and the one thing that unites us is our fundamental love for Motherland.
When you want a break from the Christmas movies, which you will, you could do worse than watching Motherland which should be on Netflix. I trust readers in the UK can still obtain it on iPlayer.
Motherland is a series set in London about, you guessed it, some mothers, but also a stay-at-home dad and the down and downs of motherhood. Ok, there might be some fuzzy moments in there, although I can’t think of any, but it does reveal in a very brutal manner the reality of motherhood. Motherland brings home the reality of motherhood like The Office brings home the reality of working life. At times, the accuracy hurts.
Motherland features the obligatory middle-class mother Julia (if she owned that Victorian town house in North London then she is sitting on at least 2 million pounds worth of real estate), the very glamorous middle-class mother Amanda, working-class single mum Liz, Irish mum Ann and stay at home dad Kevin. For me personally it evokes a strong sense of nostalgia especially the Victorian school buildings, the school run where you get to chat with all the other mums at the school gates (goodness how I miss the school run) and the nail on the head depiction of the ruthless school receptionist, ironically called Ms Lamb.
Later, in order to diversify the confident Meg enters. The series has a strong Irish connection as two of the creators are Sharon Horgan and Graham Linehan. But trust me, this series is much funnier than Father Ted.
There are many very funny moments in Motherland. The one where all the mums go for a night out, which results in predictable carnage is great. The one where they all head off to an Air B and B weekend away resulting in stay at home father Kevin dragging in from the garden a pig he had intended to roast, dumping it in the living room and shouting at the moaning mothers ‘there’s your pig, bitches’ is comedy gold.
But my favourite episode features the “pool party.”
Now if you are a normal person, like myself and my colleague Niamh you will agree (as Niamh did when I put this to her at the Christmas party) that when you hear the words Pool Party you think…. fantastic! It’s pool party season! This should feature, as surely as night follows day, me in a bikini with a Piña colada in one hand and an espresso martini in the other (that’s for Sarah Ryan, can’t enough of the espresso martinis that one) by the pool, preferably in Ibiza with us checking out the hot young lifeguard. That is what a normal person imagines when they hear the words “pool party.”
Not so the motherland scene. If you live in Motherland, a pool party is somehow transformed into you attending a birthday party for some brat hosted at a hideous council swimming pool full of repulsive children, screaming and jumping around in your face. Before you have even left the most disgusting changing rooms known to man you can feel the verruca developing on your feet. Dear God, the smell, the noise, the children. Get me anywhere but here, Dante’s 5th circle of hell would be a better alternative than the “pool party.” And then you have to actually get in the swimming pool.
Anyway, in this episode, the ever-miserable Julia, thinks the “pool party” is a drop and go, not a stay and play (a critical difference). She has a work event to get to, is all dolled up, but of course as the “pool party” is a stay and play, she ends up in the swimming pool, make- up ruined, inhaling all the ghastly pool fumes and surrounded by children, including her own. Let’s just say she is not looking her best by the time she manages to escape to the work party.
My son was invited to a “pool party” once in London. Not being a complete idiot and knowing exactly what was coming, I said wild horses could not drag me to that thing, so I sent the husband instead. And sure enough, like Kevin, husband ended up in the swimming pool with the chlorine fumes, the verrucae and the feral children. I was made to believe that this made him Father of the Year, for the rest of the year. Whatever.
Speaking of fathers, and as I’ve mentioned the Christmas party, there were two new dads around the table this year. Oh, how they glowed, cooing and passing around photos of their delightful, bouncing little babies. You wait, the angels of doom (myself, Niamh and Sarah Ryan announced – nine children between us) you just wait.
We encouraged the dads to drink up and then told them some cold hard truths of what was to come. The reality of motherhood and fatherhood. I don’t want to say that there were tears afterwards, but the scales certainly fell from their eyes. Meanwhile the childless John just there and maintained his steely yet smug smile at the other end of the table.
So, there you have it. When you want to cheer yourself up this Christmas, when all the stress gets too much and you want to see how hard other people have it, just watch Motherland. It will cheer you up in five minutes.