Bring Your Husband To Heel
This is rare for me, a jaunt into television of the 21st century. But it’s a pungent era, 2005; a place both three weeks ago and almost twenty years behind us. The mid-noughties were the bully’s era, with every tabloid sidebar, every celebrity gossip magazine cover a collage of paparazzi’d thighs deemed too thunderous, tummies too large and saggy, and red circles gleefully highlighting crow’s feet and cellulite dimples. If you had the gall to exist while not being a size zero, or failing to fulfil whichever arbitrary requirements would prevent Perez Hilton from drawing globs of spunk dribbling from the corners of your mouth, you were in for it, buster! 9/11 was but a few years ago, so if you’re upskirted getting out of a taxi by any one of a dozen hooting photographers laying in the drains, that’s on you.
Television wise, this all manifested in a fad for self-improvement through humiliation, with participants demeaned and belittled into proper worthwhile human beings, rather than disgusting and fat (Fat Families, Fat Club/Celebrity Fit Club, Supersize vs. Superskinny), disgusting and frumpy (What Not To Wear), or disgusting and old-looking (10 Years Younger). Benefits was a well-tapped vein, with the rich/poor divide focus of explosive us/them series like Wife Swap and Holiday Showdown, or Anne Widdecombe Versus, where the pudding-bowl Tory stayed with various “scroungers” living off the state, including Mick Philpott and his wife, in perhaps the all-time worst collection of people gathered in a single room. Noughties telly was also big on sending aghast experts directly into people’s council houses to take charge, over naughty kids (Supernanny) or a toilet full of skids (How Clean Is Your House?), and of course, reality talent shows were in their ascent, through viral savaging by celebrity judges, destroying the dreams of hopefuls with learning difficulties, who’d been hand-picked and lied to by producers, to end as punchlines in weekly montages backed by a comedy soundtrack.
Into this landscape of cosy evenings watching dry-heaving presenters gasp “look at the state of that!” at nervous housewives clad in underwear and surrounded by full length mirrors, came perhaps the weirdest of all the “stop being such a wretched loser!” series. Bring Your Husband To Heel‘s premise sounds like a fetish, aiming to bring feckless British husbands in line solely using actual dog training techniques. BBC2’s expert presenter is Annie Clayton, a former actress of some note, best known for over 100 television appearances with Morecambe and Wise, but having left showbiz to forge a new career as a dog trainer. There’s a real push for Annie as an eccentric ‘character’ presenter — not your daddy’s Barbara Woodhouse! — in the brand of a David Dickenson, having aged into the category of ‘very posh old lady’, and trying to bed in catchphrases like “you clever old baggage!” to dogs who’ve done well, along with the Kim Woodburn style pseudo-sexual undertones of praising human participants with a “good boy/girl!”
Heel and Clayton herself are very much from the TV ads school of gender; a world casting men as drooling Neanderthals returning from Sunday league caked in mud, as nagging wives, hands on hips, tut a knowing “what is he like?!” before slinging his kit in the machine. Opening credits depict one of said oafs slouched in an armchair surrounded by empty cans, as a kennel falls on him bearing the label DOG HOUSE. Knowing men, he probably blew up a birthday balloon with his farts or summink! Wandering on with two lovely pups, Annie tells Britain’s housewives to worry no more, as “I’m going to get them ship shape by using dog training techniques…” Yeah, that’s the only way to deal with those dumb stinky animals you exchanged vows with, isn’t it, ladies? The stupid fucking idiots in your bed. Morons. Beasts. Turd-eaters!
Men and dogs are both creatures of habit; “they’re happy when they’re fed, aren’t too fussed what they drink, have a healthy obsession with balls and enjoy sniffing out the opposite sex.” A montage breaks us blokes down to our component parts, shovelling food in our gobs, playing 5-a-side, vigorously scratching ourselves, and wolf-whistling as we crane our heads to get a good look at a stranger’s nice arse. Guilty as charged on all counts, officer! Annie is living proof men and dogs think as one, as thanks to her system, “I haven’t washed a dish in years!” It is truly unfathomable that a woman this posh doesn’t have cleaners and a dishwasher she’s never had to touch sat next to the Aga.
First to demonstrate are Margaret and John. Married 37 years, they live in an enormous country house, and their issue is that John’s a bit untidy. Forget the fashions or chunky video recorders; the most mid-noughties thing on display here is that Britain’s biggest stress was living in a mansion with someone who didn’t put their dirty plates in the sink. Unknown to John, Margaret’s been sent to Annie’s dog training school, where the magic formula for fixing his innate male fecklessness (other than a ruddy good neutering) is written on a blackboard — IGNORE, REPLACE, REWARD.
Annie pisses herself as Margaret’s dragged around a field by a dog who doesn’t listen, a moment designed to show Margaret that all women do is nag, nag, blummin’ nag, so it’s no wonder their husbands tune out! The full range of stereotypes are at play here, and if men are lazy good-for-nothings, barely human in the ladies’ chats, it’s because their better halves never stop moaning. Keep telling a fella to put his mug in the sink is exactly the same as repeatedly shouting a dog’s name and expecting it to stop jumping at strangers. Do you see?! Consequently, Margaret’s taught the positive re-enforcement method, gradually retraining him by doling out treats and a “good boy!” for any minor efforts.
Preferring the Pavlovian clicker training method, Annie’s constantly snapping a little plastic device in her palm. There’s so much focus on it, with an animated clicker popping into the corner of frame when a husband displays good boy behaviour, had the show taken off, there’d have definitely been a branded range in pet shops. The crux of the show’s premise is that the husbands themselves are not in on it, believing they’re being filmed for a plain ol’ documentary about relationships, with hidden cameras installed all over the house to chart their progress (even one in the toilet, Chris Evans style). Let’s hope he doesn’t get the Rosemary Conley tape out and drop trou.
As training’s put into practise, Annie commentates over cam footage — “I feel a nag-alanche coming!” when silly old John leaves his coat on the back of the chair rather than hanging it up. Mags uses the very 2005 bargaining chip of suggesting John help clear the table so he can have “a bit more time on the broadband,” while there’s so much hidden footage, it feels like illicitly hacking onto an unsecured webcam. Margaret teaches a dog to fetch its toys in return for treats, which can be applied to a husband and his dirty cups. Thanking him for making a brew earns Margaret a “good girl!”with John having no idea he’s literally being treated like a dog.
There’s a telling moment when John gives her a kiss goodbye, and Margaret says she can’t remember the last time that happened. Then he’s peeling apples for tonight’s crimble crumble, and the sight of a bloody man cooking — surely moments from putting a football in the oven and getting his nob stuck in the tap — is soundtracked by the sort of wacky music you’d hear in a Ronnie Barker silent film where a postman’s trying to force a big parcel through a small letterbox. Can you believe what you’re seeing, folks?! Now trained to prepare food and not just stuff it into his cakehole, after which it will be converted into foul-smelling faeces, Annie’s work is done. For the denouement, John’s sat down in front of a video message, revealing the truth; that his wife has trained him as you would an animal, complete with humiliating footage of his obedient compliance. Incredibly, he doesn’t immediately file for divorce.
They make use of the end credits by filling them with doggy safety tips — “never drive with a dog loose in a car, because when you crash, you could both be injured!” In another, we’re warned off extending leads beside busy roads, and Annie bids us goodbye with a “see you next week, dog fans!” That’s me! I’m a dog fan! And despite the otherwise appalling content, there are at least plenty of lovely dogs, although each time you think “what a lovely dog!” it’s immediately followed by the awareness they are long-since a jar of ashes.
A second episode — opening with the big statement “your husbands aren’t hopeless, they’re just not properly trained” — follows Michelle and David, the latter of whom’s ‘thing’ is obsessively working on his computer in the kitchen, spending four whole hours a night staring at its screen, the absolute fucking amateur. “Oh dear,” sighs Annie, “a computer geek. Time to start rebooting him right away.” Husband analog for Michelle’s training is a golden retriever who doesn’t come when he’s called, “just like naughty David,” sat at his PC browsing nipple pokies from EastEnders on Robbs Celebs all night. But the dog won’t listen to Michelle because “forgive me, but you’re boring,” so she must adopt the marital equivalent of the high voice one might use when calling an animal. She’s made to chuck bits of chicken at a miniature poodle called Tinker, directing it towards plastic cones, and if a dog can learn this in an hour, “ladies, imagine what you can get your husbands to do in a lifetime!”
There’s a real sickly psychosexual quality to this system of treats for good behaviour, David installing a flat-pack dining table while Michelle pushes grapes into his mouth and peppers him with kisses. For this, he compromises, hiding his computer from view with a dressing screen, like something a shy cowboy would watch a pair of stockings get slung over. “Not wanking behind there while we’re eating our dinner are you, love?” “[sounds of wanking] No, definitely not. [a nob-full of hot jizz arcs above the top of the screen]” He doesn’t seem particularly thrilled with the reveal video and the realisation he’s been trained to respond like a dog, as the old ball-and-chain teases him with a “here, boy!” Annie crows another of the nation’s husbands has been brought to heel, “just 10,940,299 to go!” Over the credits, she handily tells us the stink of dog piss can be removed by leaving a bowl of vinegar in the room overnight. Now you tell me!
By episode three, the show’s already at full-stretch, having used up most its ‘dogs = men’ possibilities, with Ron and Elaine, another well-off pair in a massive country house, married forty years. He’s a retired ex-jockey, and now spends his days reading the Racing Post, watching gee-gees, and taking his own horse for a gallop. Big W for Ron, who seems nice and supportive, telling Elaine not to venture too far when she goes for a walk, and speaking to her respectfully. This is simply a man with a hobby, though Elaine wishes he’d “spend more time with the old mare at home.” Given the opportunity, the show goes hog-wild with horse puns, from “stubborn as a mule” and “champing at the bit” to “swaying around like a big smelly horse cock!” (one of which I may have made up).
Elaine’s lesson is to have a dog walk to heel, which it won’t with her saying its name over and over. “It sounds like nagging, doesn’t it?” says Annie. To lure hubby by her side and away from Channel 4 Racing, she needs to be metaphorically slinging sausages at him. Good luck being more interesting than John McCririck! They do the crossword together, Elaine polishes his trophies, then they go for a walk, but when she breaks the no-nag rule, he’s pissing off to his horses again. “Now Ron’s shot his bolt, and he’s off to find something more interesting!” Annie, mate, I don’t think you know what that means. But really, it’s all about Elaine finding the confidence to explore new hobbies — confidence gained after making an Italian greyhound jump through a hoop — and she comes in laden with newly-purchased drawing equipment for a sketching session. Ron describes the resulting drawings as “rather nice,” and then she’s away to the ceramic-painting shop to make an anniversary present. What this has to do with dog training is anyone’s guess, and they’re a couple with a good relationship, whose story isn’t a bad husband and neglected wife, but a woman who needed some hobbies of her own. Though Annie takes the credit anyway.
Bring Your Husband To Heel ran out of ways to use its own format after two episodes, and though it carried on for six, it was not renewed for a second series. Even aside from notions of all men as complete morons who can — and should — be correctively brainwashed into performing simple tasks by having slices of salami dropped into their gobs, if nothing else, it’s an extremely limited idea. Once you’ve done fetch and roll over, what’s left? If it’d run to multiple series, how long before a “hapless hubby” ended up getting his nose pushed in shit? Although, at least he’d have gotten some idea of what watching the show was like.
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