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Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

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Amsterdam

Alcohol and me: An uneasy mix

January 4, 2021 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

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.

Filed Under: Amsterdam, Anxiety, Diary, Modern life is heck, Rebuilding Alexandra Small, Stress Tagged With: Amsterdam, Depression, Diary, Drunk, Health, Rebuilding Alexandra Small

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.

Filed Under: Diary, Stand-up, Writing Tagged With: Amsterdam, Editing, Stand-up, Story, Toast of Brighton, Writing

Back in the old town

September 13, 2014 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Amsterdam with Mo FanningJust over three years ago, we left Amsterdam. It was a time of upset and dark black anger and as I drove away, I was sure I’d never be back.

When I started writing Having it all, I knew I wanted to set my story in Amsterdam. As I put together ideas and tried out characters and scenes, I wasn’t sure how it was going to spin out. It could so easily have become a rage against the city. As the days went by and the words came together, I realised it was more affectionate. I began very slowly to recall why I loved the city and allowed myself to cut it some slack.

I realised that people are people, no matter where they happen to cross your path. It wasn’t the city that I needed to understand, it was those who left me in that horrible place.

Time heals, of course and just recently, I felt able to return to Amsterdam for my 50th birthday. Three years, they say, is how long you should always leave between visits to places that mean so much.Amsterdam refelction

The first night was difficult. We walked familiar streets and went to places we once took for granted. It felt like being inside photos, things captured in my head and locked away. We remembered our dear friend Bertie and his joy and I won’t pretend I didn’t cry a little.

Coming home after was a real thumper. I’ve never felt a crash so complete and sudden.

Having it all now means so much more to me. It’s a love story between a city and the writer, whose voice sits on top of the crooked canal houses and the murky canals. I hope I’ve done it justice.

Above all, I hope some day soon I can return again.

Filed Under: Amsterdam, Writing Tagged With: Amsterdam, Diary, Travel

Brighton Baby – British writer Mo Fanning on moving city

March 8, 2012 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Writing in Brighton with Mo FanningSo what’s going on with the weather then? Don’t judge the writer for this weak opening gambit. I’ve spent almost eight years on the wrong side of the channel and now I’m back in Britain, my aim is to fit back in. To that end, I gather weather talk is essential. For those who don’t know, the Fannings upped their Dutch sticks and returned to life above sea level last year.

It was no easy job. The removal truck was easy to book, boxes quick to pack, but then came the question of canine cargo. Although Bert has flown (solo twice) before, he’s knocking on and very much set in his ways. We knew this would need to be a road trip. No longer owning a car was a bit of a bind so we called upon Hertz and Avis for help. One-way hires are extortionate – you basically have to buy the car off them, so I agreed to fly back to the UK, hire a car, schlep to Amsterdam, pick up my precious charges and drive them back through the tunnel. All was well until the Icelandic volcano decided to have one last cough and I was forced into making emergency ferry bookings as a back-up plan. I’ll say one thing about the North Sea ferry operators. They may not offer luxury or anything vaguely approaching an experience you’d ever want to repeat except under enemy fire, but they do know how to screw extra money out of a crisis. The fare was almost three times what it had been the day before when I booked.

Long story cut thankfully short

Long story short, I spent twelve hours in a sardine can surrounded by unruly French school kids and stag/hen parties travelling to Newcastle to pick up a car and drive straight back to the port and ensure a further twelve hour crossing back to Holland. Then a drive through Belgium (hell) and France, a tunnel under the channel (wonderful) and after a night in Folkestone’s Holiday Inn Express (I preferred the ferry) we made it back home.

And after a summer of living in a renovation project that made Sarah Beeny’s Restoration Hell look like child’s play, we moved to Brighton. To be beside the sea.

After there months living in the shadow of Merry Hill – where everyone looks to have showered in Cuprinol and thrown themselves into skips full of body glitter before venturing out, Brighton is a breath of fresh air. Far fewer dodgy neck tattoos and much less of the dyed black hair that drains a face of every flicker of life.

Brighton in winter

It’s our first winter in a town that I’m assured bustles in summer. At first, I loved the quiet. I’ve always been a fan of seaside towns in winter. I love the chipped paint and run-down faded glamour that sets in when the sun stops shining. Seems I love this in small doses, and by February, the whole charm thing wore thin.

Writing projects have come and gone. A revision of The Armchair Bride is due out to take account of the numerous typos I spotted shortly after it hit the shops. It’s earned itself a new cover too. I get to look at designs and pick fault until my designer cries and tells me to do it myself if I think I’m such a design genius.

I’m hoping to have a second book out later this year after a hiatus that has gone on three years longer than planned.

I’m starting to work on something new, but I don’t want to say too much about it yet. The last three projects came to nothing, abandoned at the 20k word mark and this latest attempt hasn’t yet come close to that.

Television addict

In other news, I’m totally hooked on Homeland. It’s not just wonderfully filmed and acted, but the plot is seamless. Whole episodes pass with seemingly little happening and then at the end all these tiny threads are tied up in one huge ‘what the fuck’ moment and you realise everything has moved on and the whole landscape has changed. That’s great plotting. And if I’m honest, you can’t help but have the slightest crush on Damian Lewis, despite the whole slightly mad due to being trapped-in-a-hole-for-years-and-beating-his-best-mate-to-death thing he has going on.

Mr. Fanning has become something of a genius with sour dough bread. He’s always had baking ambitions and I can’t help thinking his breadly ambitions were sparked by finding out that Saint Alex of Polizzi was hitched to a baker. For two months, I’ve been trying to coax life into a mix of flour and water in a jam jar. Finally it worked with organic rye flour and water. I nicknamed it Sarah the Sourdough Starter (Mr. F indulges me in this) and so far she’s four loaves to the good. The first one was mine and while tasty and chewy, felt a bit underwhelming. Mr. F took over and produced bread of infinite beauty – mainly due to his secret weapon – the misting attachment on our steam iron which is used to periodically spray the baking loaf. Top tip there. They’ll be doing it in top bakeries soon.

So, with the sincere hope that my next update will come much sooner than this one, I’ll sign off.

Filed Under: Diary, Writing Tagged With: Amsterdam, Brighton, Diary

The snow in Amsterdam

December 11, 2009 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

As I flap my flippers at my new tiny keyboard (see picture with keys – to give you some kind of context, in case you think I’m exaggerating), it’s snowing and for some reason it isn’t having the usual effect. Normally, I’d be decking the halls with boughs of holly but this year, my main worry is slipping and doing myself an injury.

I’m either getting old or it’s the after-effects of one of the most spectacular runs of bad luck going.Photo of tiny Mac keyboard

I’m fairly used to the odd mishap now and then. It wouldn’t be life if everything ran smoothly. I expect to lose umbrellas, scuff favourite shoes and spill cups of tea over white sofas (Top Tip alert, – Don’t bother with stain removers; if it’s white and stained use Mr Muscle oven cleaner – works a treat). But the last six weeks have been exceptional even by my standards.

It all started when the cold weather set in at the start of November. Mr Fanning and I cranked up the heating. But nothing happened. Our boiler had lost the will.

A sharp intake of breath

Repair man after repair man did sharp intakes of breath and offered to take money to ‘do what they could’, warning that any repair would be temporary. I took temporary to mean it would last through the winter. In each case by the time they were in a cosy café spending my money, the Fanning household was plunged back to sub-Arctic conditions.

After a week of shivering around a one-bar electric fire and washing with a bucket of water, we gave in and shelled out for a replacement.

Then the fridge went wild and decided that keeping things cold wasn’t enough. All food should be frozen at all times. Lettuce, milk, it didn’t discriminate. Cue another patronising Mr Fixit (“oh dear, it’s two weeks out of guarantee”) and another bill.

Things do go in threes, of course; so when Mr Fanning called to say the computer had exploded in a sort of post-Guy Fawkes cloud of sparks, my response was muted acceptance. Of course, it had.

I arrived home to the set of a late 70s horror film. Lights flickered and shorted.  Electrical items randomly emitted pops and smoke. By the time everything was switched off, we were down one washing machine, one satellite box, one (expensive) iMAC, a kettle and an electric garage door. Cue more repairs and, to sweeten the pot, insurance forms.

Throughout the whole period, Mr Fanning developed a series of colds and infections. He never said so much, but I knew he wanted it to be swine flu. Just so he could tell everyone he’d had it.

Internet health checks

I consulted the Internet. He had the cough, the sore throat, the runny nose and aching joints. But what of his temperature? It had to be above 38 degrees to qualify. I rushed to our local chemist – one of the most miserable places on God’s earth; which is a shame, since I’ve always quite liked chemists, but our local is staffed by the most miserable bunch going.

Mr Fanning sat and waited the requisite two minutes. Together, we peered at the result. 37.4. Officially, nothing more than a bad cold.

I could tell he was disappointed by the way he kept checking every hour or so to see if things had changed.
The next day, satisfied he wouldn’t die if left alone, I set out to work. Hours later my mobile rang. It was Mr Fanning, beside himself with excitement.

‘I’ve done it, I’m 38.2,’ he bragged.

I was so proud. Then I caught it and my competitive streak took over. I only ever managed 37.4 – which although I felt ghastly, is apparently normal.

Back pains winPhoto of snowman

I did however trump Mr F by putting my back out not once, but twice, necessitating the sort of painkillers that could fell a grizzly bear – and several days off work watching daytime TV and losing the will to live.

Who has that much crap in their attic, and why can’t the owners of said crap blow their profits on a decent night at the pub? Why does there always have to be a crippled relative or an only child demanding an exchange visit to Japan?

The producers seem to need a worthy angle for avarice, thereby missing the point. TV – daytime TV in particular – is a modern-day opium for the people. Without the X-Factor, Strictly Come Dancing or similar mindless fluff, we’d all be out waging wars.

The long and short of all this is that I’m starting to feel old. Maybe I’ve finally reached the sort of age where I’ll always have something wrong with me. When people stop me in the street and ask how I’m keeping, I’ll be able to regale them with tales of my latest ailment. Part of me likes this.

Anyway, that aside, several thousand euros later, I’m in a warm house, with a working fridge and a big shiny new iMAC.
OK, so maybe the 27’ screen was a mistake – it’s so HUGE.

Oddly though, it’s strangely satisfying to pound away at the tiny keyboard, churning out my trademark light and fluffy meisterwerks.

Finally – some writing stuff

Talking of writing, I’ve hit a strange crossroads. Part of me wants to write something new, but the stuff I’m churning out feels like a series of detached scenes. The narrative drive isn’t there. I have a notion where I want to take it, but I’m still getting to know the characters.

I often hear new writers claim their characters get in the way of well-laid plot plans. ‘I thought I knew what was going to happen, but Suzie surprised me,’ they say. My response is simple. You shouldn’t let her. This is your fault. You don’t know Suzie well enough.

Having said that, I’m as guilty as the next writer.

I plot, I stick post-its to the wall and scribble copious notes.

30,000 words in, half the little yellow notes are crumpled and tossed aside. A family wedding becomes a funeral. A passionate affair meant to end with a dream wedding fades into a suicide bid, and the mousy office secretary develops a penchant for global terrorism.

When characters interfere, it’s the fault of the writer. He or she started writing too soon.

So my new way is to riff. I write scenes. I get to know my people. I put them in situations to see what they might say or do if offered a Digestive biscuit or a chance to kill their worst enemy – and get away with it.

Forget the family trees and relationship webs. This is the stuff that matters. This is where the guts of a novel lie.

Tossing stories aside

So while I riff with the upcoming fictional Dougan family, I’ve been digging back into old manuscripts. Trying to find pearls amongst the dirt.Photo of the Fanning family Christmas tree

Stories I write and tossed aside. Stories with which I was never really happy.  But – importantly – stories I finished, populated by characters I knew and understood.

I’ve found myself dealing with two aging soap queens who’ve spent their entire careers at war. They find themselves thrust into a very public situation where they have to get on or perish.

I wrote the first draft two years ago. 80,000 words came together in a single month when I was laid up with a bad back. It has more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese (some of the dialogue smells worse) but the characters are sound.

Already 10,000 rewritten words in, what has emerged feels tighter, funnier and believable.

It’s refreshing to let two older characters take the lead; I can hand them all the camp bitchy lines a regular chick-lit 30-year-old main character can’t carry. But Fanning followers need not worry; the sub-plot offers a romantic twist. There’s also a fair bit of swearing and few breathy sexual encounters, something for the whole modern family.

Christmas greetings

So, to sign off, I wish you a great end of the year – Deity rest ye merry gentlefolk (see how politically correct I can be). Don’t get so drunk you end up telling your boss you love them/hate them and want them to die in pain. It only makes January awkward.

Filed Under: Amsterdam, Diary Tagged With: Amsterdam, Bad luck, Christmas, Health, Repairmen, The Dutch, Weather, Writing

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About Mo Fanning

Mo Fanning (@mofanning) tells jokes on a stage and writes commercial fiction. He’s the bestselling author of The Armchair Bride and Rebuilding Alexandra Small. Mo makes fabulous tea – milk in last – and is a Society of Authors member and cancer bore.

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Rebuilding Alexandra Small by Mo Fanning
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this is (not) america
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