Standup comedian Tim Renkow’s blacker-than-black comedy Jerk is upping its game for its third series. The sitcom, about a man called Tim who has cerebral palsy and is a self-described terrible person, deserves a bigger audience. It has been given more episodes, moving from four guest stars per series to six – in the form of Sally Phillips, James Norton and Big Zuu, which should help it to gain the recognition it deserves.
Renkow, who co-writes with Shaun Pye (There She Goes, The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Todd Margaret) has come up with the sort of comedy that wants you to laugh and dares you to laugh, at the same time. This is a show that began, in 2019, with the fictional Tim pretending to wet himself in a cafe to embarrass a fellow customer for using the disabled toilet. This turned out to be a relatively gentle start. The first series saw Tim testing whether, as a disabled employee, he was “unsackable”, what happens when you pose as an asylum-seeker for free food, and the surprise discovery of Nazi relatives. The second kept it breezy with methadone, going to the gym and organised religion.
The third reaches for the darkness and the light. It has found an appetite for the casting debate, and sinks its teeth in. An up-for-it James Norton plays himself, cast as a disabled French jazz drummer in an Oscar-bait film called Unbeaten. The casting of Norton angers activists, who stage an on-set protest, while Tim – always on the lookout for what benefits himself or upsets other people – decides to appear as an extra. This mess of bad PR, poor image management, do-gooders, superficial allyship and woeful ignorance ends up in a tangle of spectacularly silly slapstick. Later, Tim gets roped into politics, policy and an alternative career as a drug mule, a job for which he turns out to be particularly well chosen, though not for the reasons he initially thinks.
But, perhaps the bigger surprise is that, for all its sharp fangs, it has opened up its heart, too. The friendship between Tim, his carer Ruth (Sharon Rooney) and his former employment officer Idris (Rob J Madin) has always been briskly sweet – though, in the world of Jerk, “sweet” usually just means marginally less brutal than other social interactions – and it remains the framework on which the rest of the story hangs. They each have a cross to bear – Idris semi-accidentally starts running a Black bookshop, while Ruth corrupts a guide dog – but as a trio they shine. Tim’s mother (a brash, brilliant Lorraine Bracco) still mostly appears by video call, but steals almost every scene she’s in. “As the world’s leading internet expert on cerebral palsy, I can tell you categorically that being a pussy is not a symptom,” she told her son in the first ever episode, making it clear where his personality comes from.
Bracco has more reason to appear in person this time around, as Tim is getting married. Cleverly, the question of “who to?” is kept open for a while. One might be forgiven for, briefly, wondering why; there was a moment when his mother suggested getting married for a visa. As it gradually becomes clear what’s going on, it turns into a love story, though the show is so allergic to romance that it practically runs screaming from it every time it gets close. Even so, the idea is intriguing. Ramping up the discomfort of a man who revels in the discomfort of others, by exposing his potential for sentimentality and even selflessness, leads to some next-level awkwardness.
Much like Alma’s Not Normal, Jerk shows that the BBC is still capable of getting behind comedy that pushes at the edges of mainstream humour. It doesn’t feel sanitised, or overly considered. Despite its new romantic streak, or perhaps because this is Jerk doing romance, it often still feels close to the bone, which is what it does best. I am glad there is even more of it to squirm at.
