Julie Walters in Victoria Wood’s sketch, Two Soups (1986)

Vic­to­ria Wood’s col­lab­o­ra­tions with Julie Wal­ters over the years spawned many a rich reward. Wood’s wit pro­duced great ideas for char­ac­ters, and Wal­ters’ instinc­tive com­ic tim­ing and gift for nuanced phys­i­cal com­e­dy bril­liant­ly brought those char­ac­ters to life. The series of sketch­es around Acorn Antiques, for exam­ple, pro­vid­ed the ide­al show­case for Wal­ters to ham it up as the glo­ri­ous char­ac­ter that was Mrs Over­all, or more accu­rate­ly, the glo­ri­ous­ly inept actress that played the char­ac­ter in this send-up of low-bud­get, shod­di­ly per­formed, day­time soap opera.

The show­case I have select­ed for this blog, how­ev­er, is the sketch, Wait­ress (pop­u­lar­ly known as Two Soups), in which Wal­ters plays an elder­ly, deaf, shaky, and painful­ly slow wait­ress, serv­ing a cou­ple who are only too aware one of them has a train to catch and sim­ply want a quick meal. This sim­ple premise, replete with pos­si­bil­i­ties for that typ­i­cal­ly British com­e­dy of frus­tra­tion, is enough for Wal­ters to take the ball and run faster and fur­ther with it than prob­a­bly even Vic­to­ria Wood imag­ined at first.

Wit­ness Wal­ters’ shuf­fling gait, wob­bly head and fixed smile — this is phys­i­cal com­e­dy of the first order, and we’re laugh­ing before she opens her mouth. With her bad mem­o­ry and dan­ger­ous­ly mal­adroit han­dling of the crock­ery, this unfit-for-pur­pose wait­ress should have hung up her apron strings years ago, but for now let’s thank the for­bear­ance of her employ­er as we enjoy this infu­ri­at­ing but hilar­i­ous per­for­mance. Need­less to say, the couple’s plans for a quick meal are thwart­ed.

Julie Wal­ters

The Book of Kells (c.800)

The Book of Kells, held in Dublin’s Trin­i­ty Col­lege Library, is an illu­mi­nat­ed man­u­script Gospel book in Latin, con­tain­ing the four Gospels of the New Tes­ta­ment. It was cre­at­ed in a Colum­ban monastery in Ire­land around 800 AD, and it’s a mas­ter­work of West­ern cal­lig­ra­phy. It rep­re­sents the pin­na­cle of insu­lar illu­mi­na­tion (“insu­lar” deriv­ing from insu­la, the Latin for “island” and refer­ring to post-Roman art of Britain and Ire­land). It is also wide­ly regard­ed as Ire­land’s finest nation­al trea­sure, and although I haven’t yet made it past the pubs of Dublin to view it, it’s def­i­nite­ly on the list.

The illus­tra­tions and orna­men­ta­tion of the Book of Kells are exquis­ite. The dec­o­ra­tion com­bines tra­di­tion­al Chris­t­ian iconog­ra­phy with ornate, swirling motifs. There are fig­ures of humans, ani­mals, myth­i­cal beasts, along with Celtic knots and inter­lac­ing pat­terns in vibrant colours, all scribed onto leaves of high-qual­i­ty calf vel­lum with iron gall ink (the stan­dard ink used in Europe, made from iron salts and tan­nic acid extract­ed from oak galls) and colours derived from a wide range of sub­stances import­ed from dis­tant lands.

The man­u­script takes its name from the Abbey of Kells, in Coun­ty Meath, which was its home for cen­turies. Its exact place of ori­gin is uncer­tain, although it is wide­ly thought to have been start­ed at Iona and then lat­er com­plet­ed in the scrip­to­ri­um at Kells itself. Regard­less, it’s true to say that the Colum­ban monks respon­si­ble for its cre­ation had skills in cal­lig­ra­phy honed to a remark­able degree.