Andy’s long term girlfriend Jen, with whom has been living for a few years, has broken up with him. He is a scruffy English comedian (I couldn’t help but imagine Josh Widdicombe in the role), not doing so well on the circuit, not hugely ambitious. He thought himself happy with Jen in their ‘tribe of two’ and with their mutual best friends, who have forged ahead, married, started a family while he and Jen roll unburdened into their mid-thirties. The unexpected breakup knocks him sideways. Andy makes his living out of observing others and making comments on the human condition and ‘Good Material’ eventually comes out of his break up. But hell, does he have to suffer for it.
Who knew a man’s emotions could be so complicated? He doesn’t know what has gone wrong with Jen; he stalks her obsessively and beats himself up. “I feel overwhelming disappointment in myself that I have screwed it up so badly.” We can only guess Jen’s feelings as we’re hearing all this from his side. He seems a hopeless case, but an incredibly likeable one.
Andy is frustrated that his mates are so emotionally inadequate with his trauma but, despite talking for a living, he struggles to talk about himself. “Women think we don’t want to talk to them about our emotions because we’re embarrassed of being vulnerable. It’s more that we’re embarrassed of seeming stupid. Every time I hear Jane and Jen or Mum and one of her friends talk about something emotional, it’s like listening to an orchestra perform. Often with no warm-up, they launch effortlessly into the chosen symphony of feelings for the day.” Some of this musing could be lifted straight from Live At The Apollo.
He and Jen had brought their two cultures together to make one.
There was Jen’s culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she’d already learnt she loved before we met. Chorizo and Jonathan Franzen and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Big dogs and Greek islands and poached eggs and tennis. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the words absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP Sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, fried eggs, ten hours’ sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. … And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. That instinct never goes – look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I’ve chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other’s self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drunk from very large mugs.
The detail of this is heart-breakingly intimate. Why on earth would Jen let such an emotionally intelligent man like this go?
The books starts with Andy making a list of “Reasons Why It’s Good I’m Not With Jen” which is funny: she can’t dance, doesn’t drive, talks to dogs, talks in the cinema. The book ends, surprisingly, with Jen. She gives her list of “Reason’s Why It’s Good I’m Not With Andy” (they feel horribly honest but I wont give these away) and this, and the chapter from her viewpoint that follows, is a very smart way to raise a mirror to everything Andy has been telling us to see how it looks from the other side.
Good Material is insightful, clever and very funny. I also loved Alderton’s earlier: Everything I know about Love. I’m turning into a Dolly fan, for sure.
Cristina Sanders' blog 