Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

Modern life is heck

Cancel culture – a new word for feeding trolls?

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Cancel CultureTwo perfectly innocent words when combined have become toxic: Cancel culture.

The easiest way to become ‘cancelled’ is to post something sexist, racist, or trans/homophobic online. In the olden days, we called this ‘trolling’ and implored everyone: Don’t feed the trolls. These days, because online life is the only life we have, no dodgy stone must go unturned.

But how effective is the practice of cancelling someone who you don’t agree with or whose views you find offensive? Most trolls thrive on being cancelled. If there’s no audience, there’s no point in their being online. Each time you bite back at Katie Hopkins, you justify the Uber Troll calling her a respected British journalist (as opposed to a self-publicising waste of skin cells).

Rebuilding Alexandra Small by Mo FanningIn 2019 Barack Obama noted: “If all you’re doing is casting stones, you’re probably not going to get that far.

Another argument against online cancellation is that it simply sends the trolls underground. Free speech sites like Parler provide ready homes to hate. Poke the trolls enough and you get insurrection.

In Rebuilding Alexandra Small, I explore cancel culture. When a TV couple split, it’s Megan Macmillan who finds herself out of favour, while Clive hosts their popular weekend show solo. Like Alexandra Small, Megan finds ways to rebuild her life.

What do you think? Should we cancel those whose views we find abhorrent online, or fight their words in other ways?

My next book ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small‘ set in Brighton, city comes out in June. If you’d like to read early chapters and enter the draw for free signed copies, please join my mailing list.

Covid lockdown madness – recording history

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We're COVID-Safe

It’s lockdown, but we’ve had someone in. He came to remove two radiators and deal with the bizarre (and clearly lethal) electrics in my mum’s old house. The very idea of hosting a stranger caused much excitement.

The word ‘hosting’ suggests something far more involved than it actually was. So read on.

In readiness, we stocked up on extra strong masks. Not the usual namby-pamby blue ones. The Fannings went for five-layer filtering half masks. Mr Fanning invested in three cans of spray antiseptic. Two hours before he was due to arrive, we threw open every window. And let’s not forget it’s February. In the Midlands. And positioned bottles of hand sanitiser randomly throughout the house. We opened each possible cupboard he might need to touch and left interior doors ajar. The dog was bribed with a bone and confined to a bedroom, and I was instructed to stay in my office and not emerge until the coat was declared clear – through a complex system of knocks and code words. (I may have made the last bit up).

Gone too soon

He was here all of ten minutes, wore a mask and gloves, and refused any suggestion of tea. Not that one was on offer. Mr Fanning offered this as a test, to test how lapse he might be with staying Covid-safe. Had he said yes, we would have felt obliged to raze the building to the ground upon his departure.

I’m telling you this because in the (hopefully) near future, I’ll look back on this time and tell myself lockdown wasn’t so bad. I just want to be sure I remember it was.

Mad.

In other news, I just finished edits on ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small‘ – not long now until I start offering free copies in a special mailing list contest. Join if you want in.

Alcohol and me: An uneasy mix

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Alcohol and me by Mo Fanning

Ten years ago, I woke in a fog, knowing that what happened the evening before was bad. I’d stumbled and cracked a rib. Broken glass littered the kitchen floor. At some point, the police came. None of this stopped me drinking again that night.

It took another year of making a total arse of myself before I grew tired of drink. I’ve enjoyed a few pints since, but the urge to lose myself at the bottom of a bottle has gone.

Do I miss being able to drink? Yes. To some extent. I miss having an easy way to turn off my brain. Some nights, I lie awake for hours, going over the tiniest detail of some conversation that (to others) likely meant little. I replay each exchange and try to understand why I failed to be a better version of me.

Hangovers

Do I miss the hangovers? Yes. I loved to eat junk food and guzzle Orange Fanta without remorse.

Do I miss opening my eyes and trying to remember what happened before I tuned out? No. I really don’t.

I became one of those drunks who lost track after one too many. I’d still talk and walk, but wake the next day with no memory of what I’d said or done. Writing about such madness now, it sounds a million years ago.

It’s tough not drinking in a society where alcohol rules. Especially during lockdown. Every Friday Zoom meeting ends with someone saying how much they can’t wait to pour a gin and switch off. I no longer allow myself that luxury. I can’t pour myself one of anything, and so make do with none.

As I wrote Rebuilding Alexandra Small, I looked back over my career as a problem drinker and tried to work out what I wanted to say about why. The answer seemed easy. A perfect life. And thanks to the fog of alcohol, I felt sure I had one. It’s only now I’m sober that I find otherwise.

Help with alcohol

If you think you have a serious drinking problem and are experiencing any of the associated symptoms of alcohol dependence, you should consult your doctor or another medical professional about it as soon as possible.

There are also a number of national alcohol support services that you can go to for advice.

Lockdown: The year of doing nothing

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Lockdown masks please

What did I do during lockdown? Did I learn another language, take up meditation, reorganise my life? No, actually I sat on my arse and stared at a computer screen, scrolling news site after news site hoping for something better. I took my ability to put things off to a whole new level. With a chapter to write or a short story to edit, I set aside tomorrow, and couldn’t settle to a blank page without first making sure I’d dusted shelves, peeled carrots, reorganised my spice collection or washed the bedroom windows.

My lockdown creation‘See how brilliantly this has come out,’ I said, brandishing what used to be a pickle jar at Mr Fanning. Sprayed Winter Gray and filled with dried flowers snaffled from Etsy. My creation would surely spark joy. Those were the days.

Ten months into lockdown and we’ve run out of things to say. We no longer rant and read headlines. All fight is drained. Quaint expressions like Covid Tsars, Track and Trace and I only drove to Yorkshire to test my eyes are consigned to the bin fire of recent history. Boris Johnson has copied Theresa May’s homework and passed it off as his own and dragged the country out of Europe when unity and group purchase power matters more than ever. A year ago, I’d be on a march, or demanding to talk to my local MP. Now I tut and turn the page.

I’ve lived through panic buying loo roll, tinned tomatoes and dried pasta, cut my own hair badly and refused to rattle saucepans as the NHS re-appropriated my rainbow.

Lockdown mania

Having always had an anal side (no sniggering in the cheap seats), Covid lockdown has brought out in me a new mania for cleaning products. I’ve every type of spray and pump-action refillable pouch known to man. The Fanning homestead smells of lemon, pine and honeysuckle rose. I discovered Apartment Therapy and bought into each tip and trick they sent my way. I’ve trolled Amazon for tools to clean windows, sprays to remove rust and (much to Mr Fanning’s chagrin) declared war on any item left out on a surface after use.

I’ve read many books. I tried Audible for a while, but never lasted longer than two minutes of someone’s soothing voice before losing consciousness and waking three hours later with the same voice now sixteen chapters further on. All these other stories did was make me more determined to write and finish Rebuilding Alexandra Small. And yet I still took eight months to progress from third to fourth draft.

I’ve filled many bin bags with the contents of my late Mother’s house. ‘Out with the old,’ I cried. ‘This is grief therapy.’ And then cowered out, stashing everything in a garage. I’ve made sourdough twice, a pizza once, and used hardly any of the stockpiled pasta.

2021

With 2021 barely on solids, it’s time to pretend I’ll make changes. Eat better, get fitter, spend less, write more, buy a sous-vide and never look back. Lockdown takes away any excuse about there not being enough hours in the day. With no morning or evening commute, a kitchen on hand, and zero social life, I should be laughing.

The issue here isn’t society or corona or the Tory party. It’s me. I’m lazy at heart. The only things done half well involved giving stuff up (smoking and drinking) rather than taking on new hobbies.

But come on. A sous-vide has to be worth a shot.

Coming soon ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ and if you’re up for reading advance chapters and special offers, please join my mailing list.

The first TEN people to sign up will be sent a Kindle version of ‘The Armchair Bride’ absolutely FREE.

Rebuilding Alexandra Small will be published in 2021. The Armchair Bride is now available now from all good websites and bookstores. If you’d like to support my work, consider using Patreon.

How’s your lockdown going?

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Lockdown

How’s your lockdown going?

I’m borderline depressed. So I don’t plan on ending my lockdown life … or doing anything with it.

I haven’t learned another language or finished work on my next book.

Each day, the government issues press briefings; shit sandwiches where the bread is also made of shit.

If you go on Twitter and post something innocent like “Baking banana bread is brilliant”, within one minute a total stranger hits back with “My sister is a coeliac and this is a harmful view”, while someone else adds, “Your silence about croissants is telling”

Facebook needs a “we all know you’re not really this happy, Karen” button. Most newspaper websites feature user comments that read like Mein Kampf on shuffle.

I keep reading how the hardest part of lockdown is missing someone you saw every day. As far as I’m concerned, not having to sit opposite Pam with halitosis is more a blessing than a curse.

To keep things normal while working from home, I leave passive-aggressive notes when mugs don’t make it into the dishwasher. I’ve put all our food into sweaty plastic tubs and written my name on the outside.

I’ve never been one for sunbathing. While everyone else cultivates new moles to worry over, I’m happier indoors. My latest hobbies involve watching porn and making up dialogue, and reading reviews for places I can never go eat.

But, all of this should be over in time for Brexit, when we get to spend the next 20 years eating fox meat in an abandoned Debenhams on the outskirts of Inverness.