BOOK REVIEW: Young Once: A Life Less Heavy by Nigel Planer

This article was originally published in The Big Issue in March 2026.

Young Once: A Life Less Heavy by Nigel Planer, out now, John Murray Press, £22

The actor and comedian Nigel Planer is fully aware that, when he dies, his obituaries will lead with the fact that he played Neil in The Young Ones. He doesn’t mind. On the contrary, he’s proud of the role he played in the alternative comedy revolution and he’s grateful for the opportunities it afforded him.

As his highly entertaining and endearingly droll memoir Young Once: A Life Less Heavy reminds us, Planer has enjoyed a long, successful career doing something he absolutely loves. It’s been quite the colourful life so far; he’s packed a lot in. 

Smart, funny, self-aware and thoroughly likeable, Planer is an engaging raconteur with anecdotes to spare. Inevitably, the most riveting chapters are devoted to his memories of working with the groundbreaking Comic Strip gang, a period he writes about with a vivid combination of fondness and unsentimental honesty.  

Scholars of memoirs written by ageing alternative comedians will be pleased to note that, as always, Keith Allen comes across as a massive pain in the arse, while Rik Mayall emerges – just as you’d hope – as a charismatic force of nature. Planer’s account of the day his old friend died is so very sad and beautifully written.  

It’s also a touching love story. Planer first met Roberta when he was an unknown jobbing actor in the late ’70s. They hit it off immediately; actual soulmates. To cut a long story short – it involves a long period of estrangement and some other romantic relationships, which Planer covers discreetly – they’re now happily married.  

As he notes in his foreword, the whole thing resembles an utterly implausible Richard Curtis romcom. But so much better than that.

BOOK REVIEW: After the Flood: Inside Bob Dylan's Memory Palace by Robert Polito

This article was originally published in The Big Issue in March 2026.

After the Flood: Inside Bob Dylan's Memory Palace by Robert Polito, out now, WW Norton & Co, £25

Received wisdom dictates that Bob Dylan’s imperial phase was in the ’60s and ’70s, with everything after that little more than an extended footnote of only occasional interest. That, argues the celebrated author, poet and academic Robert Polito in After the Flood: Inside Bob Dylan’s Memory Palace, is arrant nonsense. Dylan’s genius didn’t fade, it continued to evolve and mutate in all sorts of fascinating ways. 

His persuasive thesis unfolds from around 1991 to 2024, 30-plus years of peripatetic creativity during which Dylan released 13 albums, played over 3,000 dates on his never-ending tour, published two books, co-wrote and starred in a film, hosted a weekly radio show between 2006 and 2009, exhibited his paintings and sculptures in galleries all over the world, and received – with typical wariness – the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Polito provides in-depth analysis of all the key works from this period in a kinetic prose style befitting his subject. His fluid torrent of questions, allusions, digressions and theories never loses focus, there is method to his idiosyncratic approach to this material.

It flits back and forwards in time, thus emphasising his overall point that, for Dylan, history isn’t a thing of the past, but rather something that is constantly in flux, a vast tapestry of characters, incidents and places, an infinitely repeating hall of mirrors, a swirling collage of facts, memories, fantasies and dreams he can draw upon to create timeless works of art.  

The Dylan we find here is a voracious collector of weird Americana, a man steeped in decades of popular culture – both so-called high and low – who continues to delight in confounding expectations.

While it’s impossible to imagine Dylan ever reading a book about himself, I suspect he’d get a kick out of this one. It’s thoughtful, enlightening, slightly offbeat and never dull.

BOOK REVIEW: Box of Delights: The Story of BBC Children's Television – 1967-1997

This article was orginally published in The Big Issue in February 2026.

Box of Delights: The Story of BBC Children's Television – 1967-1997, Richard Marson, out now, Ten Acre Books, £29.99

During his downtime while recording episodes of Play School, Johnny Ball would sometimes cheerfully drop-kick Humpty through the round window.

That's just one of the many vivid details contained within Richard Marson's Box of Delights: The Story of BBC Children's Television – 1967-1997, which serves as both a celebration of and elegy for a lost epoch of creativity pioneered by a colourful gang of mavericks, eccentrics and ideologically dedicated professionals.

A former editor-in-chief of Blue Peter, Marson has authored several excellent books about the 'golden age' of British TV, but this may be his magnum opus. It isn't a nostalgic list-based reference tome – not that there's anything wrong with those – it's a meticulously-researched, narrative-led piece of history examining the politics and culture of the BBC at a time when the in-house Children's Department was more or less left to its own ingenious devices.

Marson emphasises the important fact that so many of the brilliant producers who thrived during that era were women. He provides detailed character studies of all the key players while also finding room for information on seemingly every single programme the department produced during its heyday.

The epic narrative is anchored by all the behind-the-scenes drama of cornerstones such as Blue Peter, Grange Hill, Jackanory, Newsround, Record Breakers and those Saturday morning live behemoths, the latter of which basically invented a brand new form of TV presentation.

Marson's mission is ably abetted by an often delightfully indiscreet cadre of interviewees, including Johnny Ball, Zoe Ball, Russell T. Davies, Sarah Greene, Chris Packham, Andi Peters, Phil Redmond, Michaela Strachan and Anthea Turner. Their frankness is one of the book's key assets; at this stage in their lives and careers they clearly have nothing to lose by telling the unfiltered truth as they see it.

There's no point denying the gossipy allure of a book in which a certain beloved children's TV presenter – not one of those mentioned above - is accused of being an insufferable egomaniac. And some of the more hair-raising anecdotes were, as Marson and his interviewees are quick to acknowledge, very much the product of 'different times'. To examine the past truthfully, outdated attitudes must occasionally rear their ugly heads.

But this is, fundamentally, an affectionate tribute to the vast array of gifted people who devoted their professional lives to making high-quality television steeped in those core Reithian values: inform, educate, entertain.

We will, for various maddening executive-led reasons, never see their likes again.

BOOK REVIEW: A Mind Of My Own by Kathy Burke

This article was originally published in The Big Issue in January 2026.

A Mind Of My Own by Kathy Burke is out now (Gallery UK, £22)

Kathy Burke’s mother, Bridget, died of cancer when Burke was only two years old. Her late father, Pat, was an alcoholic prone to violent rages. As Burke half-jokingly declares in the foreword to her frank, funny and wise autobiography, A Mind of My Own, Pat is the only ghostwriter you’ll find in these pages.

This is no misery memoir by any stretch of the imagination, Burke is far too self-aware for that sort of nonsense, but she does capture the stark reality and tedium of growing up with an alcoholic parent in the house. She and her two older brothers would long for the peace that would descend when he was asleep, away on days-long benders, or those occasional periods of sobriety.

Burke also writes about her own problems with heavy drinking in the 80s and discreetly alludes to a dark period in the early '90s – “the bad, sad days” – when she was involved in a difficult romantic relationship.

Otherwise, this is an upbeat and enoyable account of a talented working-class woman who only ever wanted to act, write, direct and entertain.

Burke comes across just as you’d expect, a thoroughly decent, kind and non-judgemental person who reserves her ire for those who deserve it, eg she didn’t enjoy working with a pre-Trainspotting Danny Boyle (“He reminded me of a supercilious priest from my childhood.”), and once called Helena Bonham-Carter a “stupid cunt” in a letter to Time Out after HBC complained in all sincerity that it’s harder for attractive posh actors to evade typecasting than it is for “non-pretty, working-class” actors. She has no time at all for patronising luvvies.

Seriously, be more like Kathy Burke.

BOOK REVIEW: Ringo: A Fab Life by Tom Doyle

This article was originally published in The Big Issue in January 2026.

Ringo: A Fab Life by Tom Doyle is out now (New Modern, £25)

It’s reasonable to assume that no one these days, apart perhaps from the most pig-headed fans of hack jokes and received wisdom, regards Ringo Starr as anything less than a great drummer with an instinctive knack for enhancing a song. A characterful player and unique stylist who never knowingly drew attention to himself, he was the perfect drummer for The Beatles, and therefore the perfect drummer. QED.

But as Tom Doyle observes in Ringo: A Fab Life, his engrossing, affectionate and well researched biography of Sir Richard Starkey, maybe we’re still guilty of treating him as a two-dimensional caricature. Good old Ringo, the jovial, lovable, unpretentious, easy-going clown. The happy-go-lucky everyman Beatle.

And while that persona is certainly true to an extent – Doyle rarely refers to his subject as “Starr”, as it’s just too jarringly formal – the book reminds us that Ringo endured a traumatic childhood scarred by life-threatening illnesses. Doyle is no glib armchair psychologist, but he clearly illustrates that Ringo’s adult anxieties can be traced back to his difficult formative years.

A sensitive character prone to self-doubt, he was the first Beatle to leave – albeit briefly – when that surrogate family became dysfunctional in 1968. All he ever wanted to do was play drums with his friends. Doyle emphasises that simple, touching fact throughout.

His bleak account of Ringo’s post-Beatles descent into alcoholism is a valuable corrective to anyone who thinks those Brandy Alexander Hollywood years were remotely amusing. When Ringo and his wife Barbara Bach enter rehab in the late ’80s, the last few chapters/decades unfold serenely. They’ve been together ever since.  

You’ll also find a heroically detailed deep dive into Ringo’s erratic film career. For that reason alone, Doyle deserves a medal.