Diary

Ban the office party – My first act as leader

September 18, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

This week, I’ve spent more time than feels right researching the Peaky Blinders look. If I want to go full Peaky, I need to trawl charity shops for a frusty coat and gain a love of senseless violence.

Why does this matter?

Because my employer has requested the pleasure of my company at a two-day conference. The evening between the days is Peaky Blinder themed. An office party. We’ll have such fun. (Please apply sarcastic inner voice to that last sentence). The minimum dress code specifies a flat cap.

One of my first acts as leader will be to ban ‘enforced work social events’ – or as they are sometimes whimsically known, office parties.

I’m no killjoy. Despite being largely sober these days, I’ll happily go for a drink after work. But I choose who I drink with. The organisation of any works social event where absence is deemed an act of party pooping should be punishable by a large fine and community service. Add an enforced theme to the office party, and I’ll up the punishment to life imprisonment or a spell ‘on the wall’.

What is work, anyway?

Nobody works because they want to. If they did, what we do between clocking on and off wouldn’t be called ‘work‘. We’d find some other term like ‘fun‘ or ‘happiness‘ or ‘the less soul-crushing part of the day between being jolted awake and drinking yourself to sleep‘.

Many of us spend our working hours in open-plan hangers, exposed to communicable diseases and forced to mix with fellow wage slaves. We form pacts with anyone who displays similar signs of horror. These are ‘work friends‘. Some become real friends. Most remain the kind of person you cross the street to avoid during out-of-office hours.

For me, being made to spend three (or more) unpaid hours with such awful people ranks alongside the 8am root canal on the morning of my San Francisco wedding.

It’s not just the office party that needs to go. I will also outlaw ‘Leaving drinks’. Why go to a packed pub to celebrate someone’s flock freedom? Whatever you wrote in the big card someone failed to hide as it did the rounds of the office, you know you’ll never see Bob from Accounts again. He did a lovely little speech about how he’s sad to go and it’s the people not the place he’ll miss. Bob even emailed asking you fabulous peeps to stay in touch. By Monday morning, we’ll struggle to remember his name.

Why put your liver through it? Chances are you’ll end up talking shop with someone you hate. You’re not being paid. Go home.

The office party goes big

The biggest crime is the Office Christmas Party (OCP). Much as those who hold the company purse strings like to insist the OCP is a massive perk, everyone knows better. It’s a production-line dinner with limited caustic wine and a chance to watch Sonia from Sales snog her manager. You’ll find yourself locked in the basement of a Premier Inn while a DJ plays ‘Last Christmas’. At some point, you’ll hear the words ‘Come on, dance. You don’t look like you’re having fun’. Because you’re not.

My first act as leader will bring an immediate end to office parties.

But I’m not a total ogre. I’ll allow in-hours office kitchen bitching. I may even bend the rules for a ‘team’ lunch, but all other enforced socialisation with people you’d cheerfully throw from a very high window must stop.

In the words of Mumsnet, am I being unreasonable?

Tales of the cities

August 21, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

I suppose I knew three US cities in ten days would be tiring, and just for good measure, there was the tiny matter of squeezing in the Fanning gay wedding. I’m back home feeling like a poolside inflatable with a slow but steady leak.

This whole blog piece will sound boasty, but so little ever happens in my writerly life, I hope you might allow me a pass. Just this once.

So good they chilled it twice

We jetted to New York in the full knowledge August makes it the city that never sleeps because of the heat and humidity. The heat slays like a bucket of newly made steam. The hotel boasted climate control – a fancy word for air conditioning, not the answer to a problem that will leave the world gasping for oxygen in fifty years. It translated into a blast of chill aimed at the pillow-end of our bed. Like having an ice cream headache without the joy of dairy. The Fannings formed a tag team, taking turns to switch from chill to warm throughout the night. We opted for the cheapest room to allow swank in later destinations. The bathroom fitted snugly into a modular glass wardrobe, meaning side-saddle toilet-riding and showers taken floodlit behind a sheer net curtain looking out onto the room.

We rode to the top of the Rockefeller Center by night to stare down on a billion twinkling lights. We got roundly screwed by Google Maps in a quest to find The Met, circling Central Park three times, and paid eight Yankee dollars for a sugar-filled ‘healthy’ smoothie from a van.

But I love the city. More than any other. It needs to star in one of my stories.

Fear and loathing

Away we went to Vegas. Jetting once more, though this time domestically … and that was an experience. American Airlines certainly have a way with their ‘First Class’ passengers. A way that makes me determined to never spent a cent with them again.

Everyone should see Vegas once. Even if you think you’ll hate it. I expected to loathe the place and find myself holed up in a gaudy room with gold-plated taps, fending off despair.

Spot on.

We escaped the bright lights for a breathtaking trip in a toy plane that saw us swoop around the Grand Canyon, but otherwise, Vegas was room service all the way. Gay wedding prep. I did a lot of ironing.

At least I now know. It’s not my city.

The wedding planner

A short hop to San Francisco and everything changed. The power of New York, the tack of Vegas and the stress of 15 hours (so far) in the air faded to reveal a shimmering city. Perched on Nob Hill (I did the gags – made all the stronger when I spotted an area on the map called Tender Nob), we stayed at an iconic hotel where the wonderful staff upgraded us to a top-floor room with a city view. Within minutes, every Vegas stress bubble popped when a bellhop (I’m sure that’s what they call them) appeared with cake, champagne and chocolate dipped strawberries.

Did I mention it was Mr Fanning’s birthday? I probably didn’t.

It would have been the perfect start to our golden stay, except …

At 8am the next morning, a concerned dentist set to work on a root canal to cure the pain that kicked off in that Vegas hellhole. She was up against the clock: we had to be at City Hall for 11am to apply for a marriage licence. Time proved to be on my side. Swollen and woozy (and determined not to let on how much pain remained), we made it.

A few short hours later and our marriage happened. I’d expected a production line. Everything I read on line warned three couples would share the same time slot. I should expect little in the way of special. Except that’s not what happened. Our officiant, Claudia made us feel unique, as we spoke of the reasons for being proud this part of society allows two men a gay wedding. I grew up in a time when that seemed impossible. A time of Section 28, of gay bashing, of prejudice. Behind us, the face of Harvey Milk recalled darker days.

Together, we spoke of hard-earned freedom and rights and the dangers that still lurk and threaten. Not just in Russia or Chechnya, but on our own doorsteps, in our liberal home cities. Of how we may never take our existence for granted, because someone can snatch it away with a single second of hate.

I wobbled. I’d expected to snigger when the vows bit came, and yet the weight of words took me by surprise.

Bay life

The rest of our time was a whir of boat trips, a fabulous dinner, hikes up hills and a memorable afternoon hearing pseuds analyse Warhol.

But for me one thing must linger.

How can a city be home to 74 billionaires and yet fail to address a humanitarian disaster? This isn’t mere homelessness, as any politician will have you believe. As if mere is an appropriate word. The streets of San Francisco offer a glimpse into hope gone to hell.

I am friends with people who drink too much. I know people who take drugs. Some of them are walking addicts, keeping their lives together and a roof above their muddled heads. Every single one of us is a banana skin skid away from the gutter. Mental illness and community care ranks low in our materialistic value systems.

They should pull up their socks, try harder, enrol on a programme. There’s work if they want it.

As a society, we give money. To the crying babies or the dying elephants. And yes, that’s a good thing, but we neglect our own because their skin is the wrong colour, or because we tell ourselves they chose to take drugs and got themselves into this mess. We assign blame. Something we’d never do to the babies or the elephants. We make it someone else’s fault.

And we allow this spiral downwards to continue.

The wedding was over. It was a lovely afternoon, and we walked uptown. Once again Google Maps took charge, directing us through the Tenderloin. A part of town that every guidebook warns against.

We didn’t come to any harm. We saw things that turned us inside out.

And that’s the memory I have of my happy day.

The art of doing two things at once

June 24, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

If I could choose a superpower, it would be multitasking. I can do two (or even three) things at roughly the same time, but I won’t pretend I’m doing anything other than dividing my focus. Each task gets a slice of my brain, nothing gets the whole twisted deal.

When I tried my hand at stand-up, I set goals. I would see if I had it in me to tell jokes in front of two hundred people and make them laugh. I’d also find new ways to sharpen my writing.

I performed in front of 200 people last December.

Since then, I’ve continued the quest to write better material, and believe I’ve made headway. But it’s come at a price. My next novel stalled.

Back to the edit

This week, I blew the digital dust off my latest draft and set to work editing. After an enjoyable hour or two of writing new life into the opening scenes, I sat back satisfied and rediscovered the happy vibe of an author who’s totally nailed his story.

With comedy class a day or two away, I put my story to one side and set about writing something new to try out in front of fellow comics. Once more, things went well and the words flowed.

I was multitasking.

The next day, I tried to edit my story some more, except I wasn’t feeling it.

Fair enough, it’s been a while.

I switched back into stand-up mode. An hour brainstorming ideas that would become jokes that might make it through the ruthless edit of class is still time well spent.

Except I wasn’t feeling it.

Multitasking fail

My novel needs my full attention. There are threads to juggle, characters to shape, dialogue to shave, elaborately familiar pictures to write. Stand-up demands choppy delivery. Sketches drawn in five words or fewer. Specific personal attitude. These two different styles of writing don’t fit with multitasking.

I spent a day back in my Amsterdam home town this week. Along the way, I talked to old friends about writing, and what I heard was me admitting something has to change.

I’ve enjoyed the comedy classes. They’ve taught me how to write sharper jokes, but right now, I need to tell stories. And that’s forbidden in the style of comedy advocated by my current mentor.

In July, I’ll take my final stand-up bow (for the time being) and return all focus to writing ‘The Toast of Brighton’. When the nights grow long and I’m itching for validation once more, who can say. Perhaps I’ll find some other comedy class with a different focus. Perhaps I’ll find a different distraction.

Until then, here comes the summer.

Starry starry night

May 3, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

We live in a connected world. My phone knows if I’m about to have a heart attack. I can learn a language and order dinner without getting off the toilet. How come we can’t swipe right and change our marital status?

Later this year – after living almost 8000 days in mortal sin – I’m to marry Mr Fanning.

I’ve never been big on the sanctity of marriage. When my husband-to-be assured me we could get hitched with minimal fuss … in a registry office … with no guests … and that neither of us would need to write special vows, I voiced doubt.

He comes from a family of eager celebrants. No life event is complete without a themed cake and barbecue.

New York, New York

But no! He had thought everything through. I’ve been promised a New York City Hall form-filling affair, in the company of paid strangers, followed by a huge dinner.

It sounds like the best of all worlds.

Except now, his inbred need to mark the occasion has surfaced. Twice he’s asked what I plan to get him to mark our big day. Knowing how little attention I pay to life, I’ve replayed every wedding conversation and can find no mention of gifts. But as anyone partnered to another human being will know, that matters not one jot.

I turned to that font of bad advice, the Internet. After scrolling through page after page of flat-earther claims that carrots cure cancer lurk sites whose raise d’etre is to relieve the pain of gifting.

All I had to do was input Mr Fanning’s age, sex and interests.

After a minute of cat gifs, the recommendation engine settled on a star. In a special presentation box. The perfect way to declare my love.

He’s dropped many unsubtle hints about an Apple Watch.

What does the purchase of a random star say about me?

That I’m an incurable romantic?

Or an idiot who can’t be trusted with access to any joint bank account.

Getting choppy with standup

April 1, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

It’s been a while since I updated readers on my bizarre bid to become a standup comedian. With nearly two terms under my belt, I’m well on the way to being an absolute beginner.

As with anything new, there are times when I despair at the lack of progress. I emerge often from the class with every word I thought hilarious crossed out, and my fledgling comedy brain mired in confusion.

The thing is when it comes to writing a story, I’m on solid ground. When I read back over new chapters, I see at once what works and what doesn’t. And – importantly – I know how to fix what’s broken. With standup, I’m nowhere near that perfect state. I know the theory, but putting it into practice isn’t as easy as it looks. So much depends on the writing.

Standup comedy demands a different skill set. The language is different. Any audience must be able to read my act as standup. I can’t shuffle into the spotlight, grab the microphone and tell a story. That’s been the hardest thing to accept.

This weekend, my ego gave itself a boost … and if you happen to be struggling to make progress with your latest writing project, I may offer help.

Standup comedy – experiment 1

This applies to standup, but you’ll easily adapt this exercise in self-flagellation to any writing project.

Just so long as you’ve read or seen enough of what you’re trying to write.

For this experiment, you’ll need

1 willing partner/friend
1 sample of your writing
A safe space (optional)

Hand your willing partner/friend a copy of your work in progress. Ask them to perform or read your work out loud.

That’s it really.

It’s all in the edit

Mr Fanning picked up my set and put on his ‘let me show you how it’s done‘ face. He started to read and within seconds I was shouting out. He was adding words here and there. Doing the thing my comedy teacher warned against.

Standup calls for choppy, very short sentences. It takes forever to edit six words into four and have it still make sense. And work as a gag.

It really helped to put myself in the shoes of my long-suffering standup comedy teacher. To hear what she hears each time I get up on the stage and try something new.

It made me think I might have learned something.

I reckon this would work for any creative project. As the writer, you know how it should sound and what will work. Get someone else to bring it to life. And you’ll see how easy it is to kill.

One word of warning, this experiment will drive a wedge of resentment between you and whoever you choose to support your quest to become a better writer.

Buy them nice flowers. It works.