But don’t label me a Anglo-snob too quickly as it’s a fair assessment that we are the classier nation, we bore Shakespeare for the love of Jemima …  oh come to think of it, even he might have been a fraud. In fact who are we to judge, we also home John Barrowman, a vision of all things jazz hands with a small concept of actual entertainment (soz).

So, maybe America isn’t crass, instead they’re justifiably confident. There are some things, painful though it is to admit, that America is just better at. Satire is their domain. Whereas we cling on to the wit of Have I Got News For You, an influence which sadly dissipates as soon as we switch over to the intelligence-ridden Total Wipeout, some of the US’s most influential liberals are comedians. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert have stood high over questionable republicans for years, and embrace their role of “satirist”. They mock but they also inform and whether you see it as right or wrong that some people gain their main intake of news through comedy, the fact remains that they are significant because they don’t take no shit. Stateside, comedians are idols and ours are panel show fodder, saying the right words and pressing the right buzzers for the fast track to arena comedy, depressing.  

When you become ready to commit you’re life to a box-set the first ones on the list are probably American with programmes like The Wire and The Sopranos topping the most wanted lists and tend to highlight the archaic nature of our “classic shows”. Recently, however, things have shifted and we have awoken from our creative coma with British cinema at a peak as Submarine and Attack the Block are critically acclaimed for their originality and it’s no secret that behind the biggest US shows is often the most underrated British talent as the God-like status of gawky Blackadder star and silver fox, Hugh Laurie goes to prove. So, it may even be fair to say that America has been craving the British influence, putting aside the rivalry for a slice of our eel pie. 

Since the dawn of Western culture there have been battles depending on whether you screamed for the lip curling sexiness of Elvis or for the freakishly talented mop tops of The Beatles. The arts are competitive in their nature but our tête-á-tête with the good folks over in the US of A is healthy and even necessary to keep culture at its best. We have even learnt to play to our strengths as both countries are co-dependent in our love of good culture. We say potatoes and they say potahtoe but let’s call the whole thing off.

Although I was fully committed to writing a Christmas telly round-up, i’m not ashamed to admit that I was hit bad, real bad by the departure of a certain Pat Butcher so in my emotionally raw and sensitive state I have decided to focus on the Pièce de résistance – the hundreds of thousands on top of the sherry trifle – the return of the original odd-ball, Sherlock (lets not mention the bitterly disappointing return of a jaded Ab Fab)

We start exactly where we left off, in a shady swimming pool being thoroughly freaked out by Begbie-style Moriarty. What follows is a complicated plot involving Americans with guns, a lesbian royal, an EXTREMELY important camera phone (why did they keep stressing its picture taking ability?) and the one thing Sherlock should be incapable of doing … falling in love, or at least his equivalent of it.

The series yet again coincides with the release of Guy Richie’s blockbusting film extravaganza, Sherlock Holmes – Game of Shadows. The latter reincarnation is the cocky smart arse at the back of the bus, who is comparatively cooler than you but nevertheless is still a bit annoying compared to Benedict Cumberbatch’s sparse yet intricate depiction. He is grumpy, stubborn and irritable but we begin to crave the moments when he shows a hint of compassion, whether it manifests by coming to the defense of Mr. Hudson or apologising for his misinterpretation of romantic feelings. But he still can’t resist a sarcy look or ignore his ability to suss anyone out with the blink of his eye. To better the first series, this return had to develop Sherlock further and resist letting these brilliant idiosyncrasies take over the show’s effect and indeed it does. By showing a potential for emotional capacity in his relationship with Irene Adler we are left as intrigued and as puzzled as Watson is.

There has been ridiculous claims made by the “newspaper”, The Daily Mail, which states that  Sherlock is burning the very innocence of our children with heinous depictions of a naked woman pre-watershed, whilst being compelled at the same time to show us such images. Get a grip. This seductive and odd introduction to the infamous Irene Adler (played with precision by Lara Pulver) was an ingenious way of showing that there are flaws in Sherlock’s logic, and when it comes to women, there are many question marks.

As it has come to be expected of this series, the script was drenched with humour and wit, sealing the chemistry between Holmes and Watson, as well as ensuring they we are never distanced from Holmes, despite being infinitely separated by his intelligence. The show never feels consciously pushed into the 21st Century, it is a natural fit and makes us wonder why it had never been attempted before. The use of technology and social media avoids clunkyness by stressing the obvious progression because it would be odd not to write a blog about your weirdo crime solving housemate, surely? Watson (played with an endearing frustration by Martin Freeman) yet again portrays the perfect counterpart, evoking sarcasm and a general disillusionment to the great but infuriating Sherlock.

Richie and Moffat’s interpretations are world’s apart and joyous in their own right but it seems the modern day skew suits a character who was the modern man of his time. Despite a charming nod to the deerstalker, Moffat has moved away from any temptations to sink into Sherlock stereotyping and re-defines him on our terms, in our language and it is unfalteringly successful.

p.s. I feel compelled to put into the interweb-stratoshpere my immense love for Black Mirror, a clever, sharp and through examination of modernity’s progression into self-destruction and one which should (but probably wont) render all of the Charlie Brooker mainstream haters into a stinking silence because yes it was gross at times but it went way beyond any notion of controversy and if that is all you take away from it then you need to re-watch it or go home.

I am a little slow off the mark with this set of videos by SNL writer Mike O’Brian but nevertheless they are just the right amount of awkward and gawky.

“DON’T worry, it’s just Buckfast,” said Wild Beasts lead singer Hayden Thorpe, jokingly pointing to his ambiguously murky pint. The band quickly won over the crowd with their self-confessed infatuation with Edinburgh but most of all because of their endearing modesty.

Support came from BRAIDS, a Canadian four-piece who provided a fittingly ethereal, heartfelt set. Although, with songs lasting over eight minutes, it was easy to lose concentration.

However, as soon as Wild Beasts took to the stage, their presence was established, as an excitement slithered around the room. Thorpe has a striking falsetto voice which holds the attention of everyone, in awe of such fragility. This is balanced with the husky, earth tones of Tom Fleming, the band’s second singer, as well as the overall musical performance, which is strikingly assured. They look like any other indie band: rolled up jeans, smart shoes and good haircuts to match but their music is delicate, complex and surprisingly poetic. The connection between the members is also refreshingly apparent as their shared creativity is clear throughout their set. They are thoroughly engrossed in their passion for music and its special to watch this unfold.

In 2008, they received critical acclaim which included a prestigious Mercury Prize nomination and an array of rave reviews. This year, they returned with their third album, Smother, and it holds up well. The set glimmered with truly beautiful, drawn-out romanticism, as every note was played with a genuine intensity. The band handled their music carefully, orchestrating a melodic, almost hypnotic set which was addictive to watch.

A preoccupation with love and sex took charge of most of the songs, with the visceral and often touching lyrics matching the physically captivating performance. The band created a noticeable atmosphere as their sincere and serious stage presence dignified their sound. This authority created a strange, yet unique balance with their subtle vulnerability.

The band seemed charmingly warmed by the reception they received, but it was truly deserved. From this set it is easy to see why even bigger things are predicted for Wild Beasts.

First published in Edinburgh Evening News.