Hilarious BBC Three sitcom People Just Do Nothing has been going for a couple of years now and finally got the recognition it deserved when it won a Bafta for best something or other last month.
It’s about a bunch of deluded stoners who run a pirate radio station from a council flat on a dreary-looking estate in Brentford.
Brentford is a dismal suburb on the western fringes of London. It sits beneath the grime and rumble of the elevated section of the A4; with its looming tower blocks, rows of tiny terraced houses on narrow streets and derelict patches of wasteland, it has more in common with (and I do not say this lightly) the small working-class towns of the north of the country than it does with its classy west London neighbours.
I should know, I lived the first few years of my life on the same estate that provides the setting for People Just Do Nothing. Who knows, had the council not granted us a transfer to a nicer class of motorway-side accommodation up the road in Chiswick when I was seven, I might have ended up like one of the sorry lads behind Kurupt FM, rather than the urbane sophisticate I am today.
One of the characters in the show lives in what appears to be the exact house once occupied by my childhood bestie, Alex Jones. I was so excited by this when I first saw the programme that I tracked down Alex’s number and texted him about it. It was the first time I’d made contact with him in 20 years and he responded quickly, saying he hadn’t seen the show but would be sure to check it out. He also suggested a catch-up over a drink. I was thrilled by his proposal. We were once as thick as thieves and I had often lamented the way in which we had drifted apart in our late teens. I quickly sent him a number of possible dates for our reunion and an array of potential locations.
