by Miranda Hart
The Best of Miranda
Favourite episodes
plus added treats – such fun!
Miranda Hart
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
1
Copyright © Kingmaker Productions Ltd, 2014
Extra funny bits by Jiksaw Ltd, 2014
The copyright in the stills and images form the BBC ‘Miranda’ series is owned by the BBC
The right of Miranda Hart to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in Any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978 1 444 79936 1
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
To all the fans of the show –
thank you for watching.
And to Gareth Carrivick – forever missed.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
How It All Started
Series One, Episode One: DATE
Series Two, Episode One: THE NEW ME
Series Two, Episode Four: A NEW LOW
Series Two, Episode Five: JUST ACT NORMAL
Series Three, Episode Three: THE DINNER PARTY
Series Three, Episode Five: THREE LITTLE WORDS
You Have Been Reading …
Acknowledgements
Publisher’s Acknowledgements
Cast List / Credits
How It All Started
Well hello to you dear book purchaser and thank you for your interest in perusing my book o’ scripts. I have chosen six of my favourite Miranda sitcom scripts from the three series, which include some notes made in rehearsal never seen outside of the sitcom production family. The Series One and Two scripts show how earlier drafts evolved, with some last minute changes – bits that made it, bits that didn’t. The two Series Three scripts are exactly what was seen on screen.
It has been a strange process for me, collating these scripts, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, for Series One and Two it has been 5 years and 4 years respectively since I have looked at them. I know they have been repeated on BBC 1 since their first outing on BBC 2 in 2009 and 2010, but I don’t tend to look out for myself in the TV schedules and think, ‘Oooh, how smashing, I will just sit down with a lovely cuppa and watch me’. That would not lend itself to anything near relaxing. I am a huge fan of television, I have consumed a lot of it over the years, it is probably my favourite art form, particularly the studio audience sitcom, so I don’t want to ruin the joy of an evening of it, by the inevitable self-assassination that occurs when you are staring gloomily at your own visage. So, suddenly after half a decade, I am starkly confronted with what I wrote. And forgive me for being frightfully unBritish – hang up your Cath Kidston aprons by the aga and take a pew if you are from the home counties – but I feel a little emotional. A tiny bit moist eyed. The scripts look short, precise, concise and kind of simple in their end form. How I wanted them. But you see, they don’t pop out like this. Oh heavens no. There was much angst I put myself through getting them to this stage. Oh deary me, a lot of angst. I was angsty. A giant ball of angst. Angst now seems a very odd word. Angst. Marvellous word – something very angsty about the word angst.
I have made no great secret of the fact that I don’t enjoy the writing process. And as I look at the end product I well up as I am immediately transported back to an office at BBC Television Centre and my kitchen table at home and emotionally recall the stress, loneliness, boredom and pressure. The delightful key ingredients that make up my writing process. (Well, probably most writers’.) I put a huge amount of pressure on myself with this sitcom. I didn’t want to let TV audiences down, myself down, the BBC down, and blow the opportunity. It had been a long time coming.
Fifteen years before the sitcom first aired in 2009, I had done the first of my ten Edinburgh Festivals to get in to comedy and acting, and I had only given up office work four years before. In retrospect this was a good thing – it gave me time to hone the character that eventually became Miranda in the sitcom. A producer at the BBC, Jo Sargent, saw one of my Edinburgh shows and asked me to come up with a comedy format – it took me a couple of years on and off to work out what project was best for me and, when I had decided on a sitcom, to then work out what was the right setting and characters to serve this on-screen persona. Next I wrote a pilot script which was then commissioned officially by the BBC, initially called Miranda Hart’s Joke Shop (thank goodness my producer pushed me to rename it). The next development stage is a read through. A read through in a corporate meeting room not in any way conducive to comedy, to which the channel controller, comedy commissioner, and/or other executives are invited to watch and pass judgment on whether a pilot and or series should be commissioned. I had acted in a couple of other people’s read throughs before – sat in a row, reading from the scripts, trying to make a busy controller of a TV channel chortle – and it was at best as cringey as farting in a lift with the man you had an embarrassing date with the night before, smiling at him and then realising an hour later you had a large bit of something green in your teeth. I knew I had to do something a little bit different. I asked the producer if we could do the read through at the end of the day, called the actors in as early as possible and spent the whole day rehearsing it with them. Putting it on its feet, acting it out as much as possible, to give it something resembling a chance. Essentially, making it as much of a play as we could do in a day, and indeed in a meeting room. We were then lucky that a lot of people were around that afternoon so instead of the usual two mates and six executives, we had 30 people in the room, so there was less likelihood of shyness if somebody actually did want to laugh. And luckily they did. And a pilot was commissioned. I believe the read through was Autumn 2007 and we filmed the pilot in February 2008. As a side note, I am eternally grateful to the actors – my friends – who did the read through, including Emma Kennedy, Katherine Parkinson, Katherine Jakeways, Alex Lowe and my sister.
Two months later – April 2008 – I was told that BBC 2 wanted a full series. I remember being on the set of another show for ITV called Monday Monday when I heard. Tom Ellis happened to be in the show too so I could share my bewilderment and excitement with him. I celebrated for about an hour and then sunk in to an immediate decline. I shall explain forthwith. Before finding out about the TV commission, a radio producer who had been at the read through asked if I wanted to do the show on Radio 2. I was a little hesitant as I had written a visual show, it was always very much a TV commission, and I wondered, if it didn’t get picked up by TV, whether my heart would be in it as a radio project. However, it was too good an opportunity to say no to. So between filming the pilot and finding out about the full commission I had started writing the Radio 2 series. And, surprise surprise, I was not enjoying it. For starters I had never written a sitcom before. I had only written one episode. I was on a gigantic learning curve. There were so many technicalities to it. Every story was like a jigsaw puzzle, one thing went wrong or didn’t connect and it would fall ap
art like a house of cards. It wasn’t just a case of linking a series of funny happenings, it was objectives and through-lines and making it real as well as laugh-out-loud funny. Sitcoms are a deeply complex beast.
It was hard bloody work to write four episodes for radio (which I am pleased to say we just managed to make work as a radio series, although the ‘oops, I have just fallen over’ and loud thud sound effects will always make me cringe). Now I had to write six for TV. It was the dream. Yes, absolutely it was. But at the time I was Miss Struggles-To-See-The-Positive-In-Anything at your service, so I went with ‘well, it’s never going to get written’ ‘it’s going to be rubbish’ ‘I will get this opportunity and blow it’ ‘what on earth will all my friends in comedy say’ ‘oh my poor family’. Then I slapped myself in the face and had 25 glasses of cava and knew I would truly regret it if I didn’t give it my best shot. What’s the point in kowtowing to a fear of failure? Surely one of the most debilitating of all fears. It’s just going to be one series, I mulled, it hopefully won’t be too embarrassing, a few members of the WI might like it. Just go for it and hopefully you will still get acting work after a failed self-penned series. Looking on the bright side as ever.
After my one hour of celebration (which involved a mini-roll and a cup of on-set lukewarm tea in a polystyrene cup), and finishing Monday Monday, I went to work. I locked myself away, and worked out the rules to sitcom. I was going to say there is no book for this, but there are some books for this, but none that I found particularly helpful. I watched some sitcoms of days gone by – I was concerned about being influenced by any peers. And eventually I got a sense of how the mechanics of a sitcom worked generally. But then I had to work out how I would subvert them, put my own twist on it, how I would make my own particular rules for my own particular show. More pressure. The number-one rule being no self indulgence: picture an audience member holding the remote control hovering over the programme change button and don’t let them switch over. Keep their interest, keep them laughing. Further pressure.
So, yes, it is a little emotional seeing these scripts now. Rarely have they been in this clean, polished state. Not really until the day of recording. Even then we might be tweaking. All I remember about scripts are the painful weeks of generating ideas, then months of story-lining, all the graphs and jigsaws of that, then the overlong first drafts (sometimes I would write up to double before cutting down), the polishing of a joke and fearing it was going to die in front of the studio audience, the painful phrasing and rephrasing of every sentence, the poring over every word. All the angst. And the teary-ness comes, I suppose, from the fact that it came together. The scripts now actually exist like this. And here’s the proof. And this is the first time I have ever seen them finished. Big sigh.
The second reason it is strange looking at my words now, is because following on from the above, I think for the first time I can feel pride. I know, watch out: deeply unBritish self-congratulation alert. If you are reading this in the home counties this time steady yourself with a scone, an Earl Grey, and stroke the Horse and Hound – magazine and/or actual. But a few years on, I am thinking: be brave, Hart, pat yourself on the back. I told a tiny porky pie at the beginning of this introduction when I said I had never watched the show back when it had been repeated. There was one occasion recently when I was home alone, picked up the remote and started to see what was on. And the first thing I tuned in to was BBC 1 and well, me. I did a panic reflex and changed the channel. And then I risked flicking back. And watched all I could bear of it. (About two and a half minutes.) It was possible to watch as I felt so removed from the person on the screen. It was Series One so I had moved on. The character had moved on. There was enough distance to not be so self-critical. I let go of all the nasty things I had read or heard. I let go of all the embarrassment I felt at my work being recognised and successful. All the worry of Tall Poppy Syndrome. All the anger of people judging and misjudging, quoting and misquoting, convinced it was canned laughter, assuming it was mainly all improvised on the day (even TV journalists) – OK maybe there is a little anger left about that. (All this and more is for another time!) I let go of all the angst and allowed myself a quiet ‘Well done, you did it’. I put the work in and I feel very very lucky that audiences connected with the show, that I got the chance to do three series and, naff as it may sound, to make people laugh. Because that was the main reason I did it.
I still think I don’t fully connect to the success of writing three series. As I look at these scripts I can’t quite believe they came from my silly mind and that people found them funny and that was down to stupid old me. At this point I have to acknowledge and thank the writers who were brave enough to continue helping me with the series: James Cary, Richard Hurst, Georgia Pritchett, Paul Powell and Paul Kerensa. Forever indebted. I never really own the success of the show, but with this book I am doing as much as I can to. And indeed to encourage other British women to pat themselves on their respective backs too. It’s allowed. I say so! For goodness’ sake, men might congratulate themselves for peeing straight, or throwing a peanut in the air and catching it in their mouths, yet female heads of corporations might apologise five times a day for having their job. I have gone off piste to a feminist black run. Again, for another time.
Back to this here book in which follow six scripts with introductions by moi, and some other tit-bits, and silliness. Because no book of this ilk should be without tit-bits and silliness. If nothing else it’s fun to say tit-bits. Repeat after me: tit-bits. You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy seeing the scripts in their pure written form on the page before they translated to what you have seen on screen. And if you’re a lovely young person still at school please let me know if your drama teacher ever lets you do an episode for the school play. Nothing would make me happier. Though I bagsy play Miranda.
Series One, Episode One
Date
· · ·
It made sense to start this book with Series One, Episode One. This started as the pilot episode. The story remained pretty much the same but the characters had developed and changed a little mainly because I had got to know Tom Ellis, Patricia Hodge and last but by no means least tiny Miss Sarah Hadland from the radio series. The latter who had the most influence on her part: tiny Miss Stevie Sutton. Stevie in the pilot was a very serious, suited character whose mission in life was to win The Apprentice. She had no sense of humour and was constantly disappointed in Miranda. But I realised watching the pilot back that Miranda needed an ally. (By the way sorry if it’s weird for you, but I am used to me calling myself Miranda in this context! I have been known in meetings to say ‘no Miranda wouldn’t do that’ and only realise later that people may think I have gone deeply grand slash insane.) With Penny constantly disappointed and ashamed by her daughter, Tilly showing up her lack of social skills, and Gary not understanding her, there was going to be too much negativity around our central character. So she needed a warm friendship. Studio sitcoms need warmth and heart. And luckily Sarah and I became friends within about two and a half seconds, despite having only met at the audition, much to the alarm of most people around us. There were instant hysterics around the stupidest things, an obsession with animals, impressions, songs (including Sarah bursting in to “what have you done today to make you feel proud”) and dancing. An instant childlike kinship. I couldn’t have got luckier. The same with all my cast.
I remember being very worried about Patricia Hodge, who I had barely got to know doing the Radio 2 series. We were all still a little intimidated by working with such a sophisticated, elegant, acclaimed star of stage and screen and I was very grateful to her for taking the plunge in to my comedy (not a euphemism). But on the first day of shooting, we were doing some exterior shots and it was the scene where Penny had to faint and collapse on to a pavement on seeing Miranda wearing a wedding dress. So her first experience of the show was lying on a dirty pavement in Hounslow with a camera up her nose. I was dying inside. Now I know Patricia is game
for pretty much anything (well not anything, steady on) but I was very concerned she might quit at that point.
Script-wise, it was a difficult episode to write because there was the pressure to grab the audience, to set up all the central characters and establish the situation whilst making sure that was done in a story as if the audience had just jumped in to the world, rather than hideous over-exposition and introductions. Tone-wise, I remember being concerned about Miranda being too self-effacing. I wanted her to be recogniseable to men and women alike as a 30-something who hasn’t quite got the confidence to deal with her slightly unusual physical presence. That is a big part of her life and some comedy should come from it. From the fact that she wasn’t ready to be ‘sexy’ which I believe is a very real thing for a lot of women (and indeed men) up to varying points in their life. But it had to be funny. The rule was: no pity. So if the audience ever went ‘aaaah’ instead of laughing then we would rewrite or perform it in a different way. I think it only ever happened once. And once Stevie got a ‘boo’ for being rude to Miranda. We took that out and I had to work on the tone of Miranda and Stevie lovingly teasing rather than ever being offensive to each other. It was a celebration of women and all their marvelous different forms, not an attack.
Talking of not feeling sexy and appearances, my favourite scene in this episode to film – and a deeply cathartic life moment – was the cut away of Miranda doing her own version of a Trinny and Susannah-style clothes programme. Here is Episode One, Series One. Enjoy.
INT. MIRANDA’S SITTING ROOM
MIRANDA: (TO CAMERA) Hello to you and thanks for joining. This is exciting isn’t it? Eh? Now let me get you up to speed. Previously in my life, my mother tried to marry me off.
EXT. OXFORD STREET (FLASHBACK)
