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Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

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Armchair Bride

Christmas – Things can only get better … surely?

December 24, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Five Gold Rings by Mo Fanning - Christmas short stories

It’s Christmas! Remember 2019? The worst year ever. Putting politics to one side, it was one of those years that took away too many beloved famous faces. On 31 December 2019, many breathed a sigh of relief and looked forward to something better.

2020 can’t be any worse, we said.

And then it was.

Even if this has been a tough year, I’m trying to focus on the good stuff to come out of it, and about to spend my first Christmas with stairs. I grew up in a bungalow (yet another thing that made me different and subject to name calling at school – kids are so good at finding cracks in our foundation through which to drip poison). I scarpered to my own life aged 19 and ever since, have lived in flats (although I often call them apartments, the word sounds fancier). After losing my mother earlier this year, we’re trapped by lockdown in the house we occupied for the summer. After six months, the place looks less like it belongs to an old lady with a hefty QVC habit, but there are still enough loose covers and silk flowers to sink any kind of post-Brexit fishing trawler.

Christmas is getting out of hand

Mr Fanning commented on how I appeared to be ‘more into Christmas than usual’ this time around. I gave it some thought. I suppose I want to grab any aspect of normal going. If that means turning back the clock to a time when the cold, damp closing weeks of the year featured a decorated tree and a tin of Cadbury’s Roses, so be it. I fear I’ve gone overboard on the presents. Somehow it got out of hand. I started with small things, then bought more small things, one big thing and then another, then a load of medium-sized bits of fabulosity. Stashed at the back of cupboards in a three-bedroom house, it didn’t look much. Entombed in wrapping paper and gathered under said tree, there’s an Imelda Marcos shoe fetish vibe.

Actual writing happened this year. Admittedly, on and off, as I found new ways to distract myself from the job in hand. I’m ending the year with a fifteenth draft of ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ – the first where the story feels true to what I wanted to say. It needs a final check before sending it to the outside world for another mauling and publication. I’ve also revamped ‘Five Gold Rings’ (adding a lockdown story) and seen the collection appear in paperback for the first time. My back catalogue almost all got new covers and new editions. ‘The Armchair Bride’ snuck back into the few bookstores open and back onto websites. I’m ready to resume my stint of story telling.

Stand back

Comedy took a natural backseat, though thanks to a couple of wonderful online workshops – notably one run by the ever brilliant Logan Murray – I connected with some brilliant comics and writers. I’m hoping 2021 sees me forge stronger ties with these new faces. The experience made me think long and hard about standup. Comedy takes so much time to write – even a short ten-minute set. With clubs and pubs shuttered, there’s little chance to work on material. Without audience feedback, standup dies, the words become a bunch of ideas waiting to be tested. Better comics are already waiting to retake their spots on stage. If I take this back up, my stage return won’t be next year.

So… on to 2021.

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.

Filed Under: Diary, Rebuilding Alexandra Small, Stand-up, Writing Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Christmas, Diary, Rebuilding Alexandra Small, Stand-up, Writing

This is the bit where I start to feel better, right?

June 2, 2018 by Mo Fanning 1 Comment

So, the big day arrived. Delayed by six weeks thanks to a scan that showed ‘something‘ on my lungs. Dr Savage explained it thus: ‘it’s like taking a photo of a moving car. We know it’s there, we know it’s moving. But how fast?’ He needed a second photo to be sure. I’d have rather not had any car in any picture, but it was one of those no choice moments that cancer likes to spring on you. For me, it was the first real moment of frustration. Up until this point, I’d coped. Mostly on account of being a total control freak – tell me what happens next, when and why, I’m yours. Throw me a curve ball and it’s like you’ve tried to snatch biscuits from a baby. This curve ball left me in the foetal position. I do know I should ring and say sorry to the courier service who felt the full force when they failed to deliver some poncy face cream that was going to change my complexion and life two days running.

But, I digress.

This six-week delay should have had me climbing every kind of wall, and yet my brain did what it always does. Once I reorganised my schedule to add in this new step. I put it out of my mind. I forgot I had cancer. It was only when others asked after my health that I had to remember. And if you’re reading this and thinking you did bad by asking, you didn’t. I love you all the more for caring. But when I spoke or typed my answers, it felt like I was talking to someone else. Cancer went on hold.

Second scan

And so, six weeks after that first CT scan, I lay down, endured the nauseating contrast dye injection and rolled in and out of an oversize loo seat obeying prerecorded instruction to breathe in/breathe. If you’re old enough to remember those government-sponsored impending nuclear attack warnings, it was the same bloke, I swear. (If not, listen to Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Two Tribes* and you’ll get it). It wasn’t exactly comforting. I’d like to suggest they get Joanna Lumley to redo these orders.

A few days later, I was back with Dr Savage. I listened as he went into numbers mode. Cancer, is all about the percentages. The risk of this, the chances of that. It works for me. I need to understand how likely it is that something might happen. If you’re a detail hound, I have a 4% chance of the lung thing developing into a cancer within the next four years. That seems fair. And I dare say everyone has about the same. Certainly anyone who virtually ate two daily packs of Camel Lights for twenty years. As for the now surgically-removed testicular thing, that was clear. Nothing lymphatic (which is a good sign) but with my age and the size of the tumour, I had a 30-40% chance of it recurring – and losing the other ball and possibly growing breasts and a chintz fetish. One course of magical carboplatin chemotherapy and I’d cut this ten-fold. So lung and balls would become equal.

As no brainers go, it was a simple choice.

What’s chemotherapy like?

Cancer chemo handA nurse talked me through the side effects. After each horrific potential scenario, she made eye contact, and waited for a nod of consent. I drifted away and stopped listening, hoping Mr Fanning was taking it all in. That’s the thing with cancer, there’s so MUCH information, it’s hard to pick and choose what matters most. Nearly all of these side effects would be very unlikely, she said. They tend to come with cumulative chemotherapy and not with the single dose. But still there was likely to be much gippy tummy – and so anti-sickness meds feature large. A big scientific-looking tablet, some more to take home and a 30-minute infusion.

I wasn’t sure what the Plan B might be if I flat out refused to counter any given side-effect. What if I was finewith the hair loss, constipation/diarrhea and extreme fatigue, but drew every kind of line at tinnitus? But then she sweetened the pot with steroids – ‘they’ll make you alert’. A three-day supply. Sponsored speed. Enough to do all those niggling household chores, and maybe get a sprint on with the editorial draft of ‘Toast of Brighton‘.

There was much fuss around getting a line in for the infusion of (what amounts to) poison. Two wrists stabs down, a second nurse appeared. I’m bruised.

On the plus side, I was treated to one of the best bacon, chicken and spinach sandwiches going. Mr Fanning feasted on egg and cress. It’s detail like this that so many medical blogs leave out. They shouldn’t.

Afterwards with cancer?

Flowers from Bloomen
Fabulous flowers – click to buy something very similar and get a free vase

I initially felt no different. Mr Fanning and I minced around a  supermarket. Him constantly asking if I felt OK. Me saying yes, even though I wasn’t sure what OK would feel like right then. Because I didn’t feel sick. There was no tinnitus and (sadly) no speedy elation. What there was inside my head was the start of a deep, dark anger. One I didn’t dare show. Why didn’t I find this sooner? What was that something on my lungs? Why did it take three goes to get the canola in? How come those percentages can’t be zero? Why am I going to feel speedy for three days then crash hard?

And nobody mentioned the chemo hiccups that have temporarily drained all joy from coffee.

But I’m still going and the anger has faded. Mostly helped by the fabulous flowers Mr Fanning ordered from the ever marvelous Bloomen. Plug time, click that link and you’ll get a free fancy vase with your first order and they last for two or three weeks.

Thanks for all the love and support here, on Facebook and Twitter and in real life. I promise you I’ll finish that bloody book soon and get it to the editor by the middle of June. One day it might even be available to buy. Talking of which, watch out for a freebie on the Armchair Bride coming in June, for those who (ridiculously) have yet to discover my obvious genius.

* Or Breathing by Kate Bush if you’re a bit more arty

Filed Under: Cancer, Diary, Modern life is heck Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Cancer, Health, Toast of Brighton, Writing

The Director’s Cut

December 28, 2017 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

In 2006, I stumbled upon a website called YouWriteOn. It encouraged new writers to submit opening chapters for review. The highest-ranking stories went in front of editors from a major publishing house. My first attempts were (rightly) savaged. Some reviews were so awful that I thought of giving up. And then, one idea took flight. It won the professional nod, and the editor asked for more. It won me a literary agent and was in the running for Book of the Year.

In 2008, The Armchair Bride reached the top ten in the Amazon UK best-selling list. I made enough money to enjoy a very nice holiday and redecorate my flat.

YouWriteOn went the way of so many other peer review websites. The good writers left, and it became a den of talentless infighting. The literary agent lost interest when I failed to offer a second book in anything like the timescale imagined. My confidence crumbled, and I spent four years trying and failing to write something new.

In 2012, I pulled together a short story compilation. It helped sew the seeds for a return to writing. I began to let myself tell stories again, and stopped trying to play by rules that dictated what I could and couldn’t do. Free of writing for others, I did what I should have done all along – I returned to writing for myself.

I decided to write the kind of books I wanted to read.

Just last year, I decided to revisit my first book. I wanted to understand what worked for me then and why people liked what I wrote. The basics were there, but I cringed at the ‘period detail’. The Internet cafes, the fax machines, the admiring talk of a rare mobile phone. To be fair, the cross-dressing subplot needed work too.

And so, a rewrite of The Armchair Bride took hold. At first, just the odd line here and there, but before long, whole chapters went, new ones arrived and the main character evolved. Looking back, I wondered if she might be a little too needy, so I stiffened her spine and handed out sass.

It’s my ‘Director’s Cut’. A revamped Armchair Bride. The 2017 mix.

And if you read it before, please do me the honour of a second chance. If you loved it back then, I hope you’ll like it again. If you saw room for improvement, maybe you’ll agree I’ve done just that. Or perhaps you’ll consider it a load of pish. Either way, it’s free for the next few days.

If you stumble on this after it goes back up to full price, it’s hardly going to burn holes in your pocket, so if you’ve a day or two spare, give it a go, eh?


The Armchair Bride

Online Lisa‘ runs a theatre box office in Manchester. She lives in Scandi-chic minimalistic bliss with her gay best friend. She’s sorted and she knows it.

‘Offline Lisa‘ stumbles from drunken-dating mishap to career-threatening dinner party.

Somewhat the worse for wear at a New Year staff party, Andy and Lisa resolve to change their lives. In the coming year, she’ll find love, and he’ll find fame. 

Is her goal closer than she thinks?

Available online and in really good bookstores

Filed Under: Diary, Writing Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Novel, Writing

An unexpected gift

December 24, 2016 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

The tree is up, the cupboards groan with food, but Josie can’t bring herself to feel it. The thought of Christmas fills her with dread.

Everyone at work was full of cheer. And she joined in. She wore a reindeer jumper and helped out at the bake sale. But behind the fixed smile lay sadness. It’s three weeks to the day that she took her best friend for his final walk. Tomorrow will be the first Christmas in sixteen years without Bertie.

She’s downloaded A Wonderful Life. Of course it will make her cry, but Josie hopes it might kick-start the Christmas gene. She’ll watch it with the lights off and a box of mince pies. If she keeps the room dark, she could pretend Bertie is still here. Fast asleep in his basket that she’s not yet managed to move from in front of the fire.

The weather has been typically Christmas. Rainy and dull, but as the afternoon wore on, the sun broke through. It bathed the garden in a beautiful light. Josie glanced at Bertie’s lead, still hanging on the back of the door. Around about now, she’d rattle her keys and he’d leap from his basket to dance a jig at her feet.

She missed the walks. Almost as much as she missed Bertie. Even though Josie lived alone and didn’t hang out much with the people from work, she had dog walking friends. They’ll have noticed her absence. Did they guess that Bertie had gone?

Why shouldn’t she still go out?

Josie heads through the woods, and smiles as she pictures Bertie snuffling his way along the path. She nods hello to Schnauzer Elaine and Labrador Bill. She can’t bring herself to stop and chat, because they’ll want to know about Bertie. Up ahead, there’s someone sitting on a bench. No dog at their side. As she gets closer she realises that it’s Poodle Pete.

‘Hello lovely lady,’ he says, and shuffles over for her to sit.
Josie isn’t sure. Any minute Stinker will come rushing through the bushes, haa-haa-ing his way across the grass, chasing a squirrel. She’s not sure she can cope with pretending there’s nothing wrong.
‘Are you all sorted for Christmas Day?’ she says and he nods.
‘My Maureen has bankrupted us, and for what? It’s only a big dinner.’
They sit in silence for a while, and when there’s no sign of Stinker, she’s forced to ask.
‘Are you alone?’
He nods and Josie’s heart bursts. How could two of the loveliest boys leave this world at the same time?
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and overwhelmed by sadness gets to her feet. ‘I best head home, it’ll be dark soon.’
‘Three girls and a boy,’ Pete says. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy seeing them?’

Photo of the Fanning family Christmas treeStinker is the most attentive father. He fusses around Molly like he knows she’s unsure where the four little hungry balls of fluff came from.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Josie says.
‘That little black one,’ Pete says. ‘I bet he reminds you of someone.’
Of course he does, and Josie has been doing her best not to say anything. She’s only got the one picture of Bertie as a pup. He grew up so fast after he left the dog’s home.
‘We can’t keep them,’ Pete says. ‘So I suppose come the new year, it’s adoption time.’
All at once, Josie knows that she’s feeling Christmas. She looks around Pete’s front room, taking in the tree, the twinkling lights, the crackling logs on the open fire. The smell of something lovely wafting from the kitchen.
‘I could take him,’ she says, and then quickly adds. ‘That’s if you don’t mind.’

Josie smiles and sips her sherry in the flickering light of the television screen. She smiles over at Bertie’s empty basket.
‘You don’t mind, lad?’ she says.
And somewhere, far away she hears him barking.
Or maybe it was the wind.
She just can’t be sure.
‘Merry Christmas, old boy.’

Filed Under: Short story Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Short story

Exchanging gifts

December 12, 2014 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

xmasI’ve sometimes been asked what became of Lisa Doyle, the main character from The Armchair Bride. So for a change, here’s a short story for Christmas to bring you up to date on her life these days. Two years on from the end of that book, Lisa’s home with Brian for a family Christmas and about to encounter a ghost from the past!

Mam looks up from the pile of Christmas cards gathered on the kitchen table.
‘Do you have an address for Ginny Baker?’ she says. ‘Last thing I heard she was living in one of those new flats near the precinct.’
‘You’re not seriously sending her a card?’ I say and try to keep my voice even. ‘After everything she did.’
‘It’s a time to forgive.’
‘She almost got me killed.’
Mam shakes her head. ‘It was a toy gun.’
‘Nobody knew that.’
‘Guru Westwood says you have to forgive to be able to move on.’ Mam scribbles a greeting in the card. ‘Life’s too short to hold grudges.’
Two months ago, Mam saw a flyer in the library for The Golden Buddha Trust – a group for retired people in search of answers to life’s many questions. These days she loves everyone – with the possible exception of Muriel opposite who never puts the lid on her recycling bin.

Brian dumps the oversize bag I insisted he pack in the hall.
‘Do you need anything else from the car?’ he says. ‘I’ve left Amy and Sue’s presents in the boot like you said.’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with putting gifts under the tree?’
‘They’ll keep prodding at them. Let’s have some surprises this year.’
Both Mam and Brian stare at my belly. My huge, eight-month pregnant belly.
‘I think I’ve already had my share of surprises,’ she says. ‘Haven’t there been enough secrets in this family?’

I found out I was expecting Lucinda on my forty-second birthday. Brian held my hand as a nurse smeared gel over my distended stomach, and we stared at the monitor to make sense of random light patterns.
‘Do you want to know the sex?’ the nurse asked and before Brian could answer I said yes.
The name came two days later.
‘I read somewhere that the first name you think of is the right one and that you should write it down,’ I said and produced a scrap of paper from my pocket. On it I’d written Lucinda.
Brian peered at it. ‘When did you do that?’
My plan had been to act all mystical and insist the name materialised in a dream, spoken by angelic voices. In fact Lucinda was my Nan’s name and Dad once made me promise to consider it if grandchildren came along.
‘It’s been in my head a while,’ I said.
‘Lucinda?’ Brian made the name sound like one he’d never heard before. ‘It’s cute. Lucy for short.’
I enjoyed the smug feeling of someone who knew best. Lucinda was a noble name; one not open for teasing.

The doorbell rings and Brian is sent to answer. I hear voices and then a scratching at the door. Bertie pushes his nose round and dives into the bags gathered round my feet.
‘Does this dog ever stop?’ I cry as Mam laughs.
‘Give him a biscuit,’ she says. ‘He likes Digestives.’
The mere mention of the word biscuit has Bertie on his haunches, brown eyes burning into mine.
My sister drags two reluctant offspring into the kitchen.
‘Isn’t Amy here yet?’ she says and everyone exchanges awkward looks.
‘Glen has business to tend to,’ Mam mutters darkly. ‘Special business.’
Sue gets it at once and even though her face flushes she manages a smile.

Most families would applaud charity work. The idea of one of their kin giving up time to hand out gifts to orphans and the homeless should be a good thing. And maybe Mam would be totally on board with this had Glen agreed to disguise himself as Santa Claus or even as an elf. It’s his insistence on dressing as Susan Boyle that has her on edge.
‘What time is it over?’ Mam says.
‘Amy reckoned they’ll be here by five,’ I say and look anxiously around. All I want to do is change the subject before she launches into another distinctly unforgiving, un-Buddhist rant. I’m too late.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried to understand,’ she says. ‘But it has me stumped. I sometimes wonder if I’d have been happier if he had been having an affair. Having a father who gets his jollies by wearing women’s knickers. Well, it’s not the right sort of environment for a child.’
‘How can you say that?’ Sue jumps in to defend Glen and Amy. ‘Tishiba is the luckiest little girl living.’
‘There’s that name again,’ Mam says. ‘She sounds like she should be stood in Dixon’s window.’
The door goes again and Bertie runs barking into the hall.
Brian goes to answer.
‘Probably carol singers,’ Mam says. ‘I had a group round last night. They couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket.’
When he comes back, Brian looks worried.
‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘It’s Ginny.’

When I last saw Ginny Baker she wore a tight red dress and expensive heels. She’d been picking her way through the debris of an almost ruined wedding and I told myself that would be the last time we ever spoke. But even back then, a tiny voice inside warned that things remained unfinished.
The woman perched on of Mam’s sofa in the Good Room is almost unrecognisable. The long blonde hair has been cut short and left to grow out dark. The expensive make-up is a thing of the past. This Ginny regards me with empty eyes.
‘I’m dying,’ she says without any preamble. ‘Someone told me you were down for Christmas, so I thought I’d come along and tell you first hand. Save you hearing it from someone else.’
‘My God,’ I say. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m dying.’
‘What of?’
‘Cancer. Is there anything else these days.’ She shuffles uneasily. ‘Breast, metastatic into my bones. It’s incurable. They’ve said weeks not months.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
She nods. ‘People usually are.’
An awkward silence is broken when Mam pops her head round the door to offer cups of tea.
‘I really did cause trouble for you, didn’t I?’ Ginny says when we’re alone again.
‘It’s all sorted out now. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘And you even tried to make friends with me … that day when …’
‘Yes, well, never mind. It was a strange old day I suppose. We all said things we regret.’
‘Actually, Lisa. I didn’t.’ Ginny gets up and walks to the window. ‘I’m glad I didn’t give you what you wanted.’
‘OK,’ I say, unsure where any of this might be going.
‘I needed to get away from here. It was what I always dreamed of doing and really, you gave me the chance to escape. Right after that wedding, I got into my car and started to drive. I ended up in London.’
‘Someone told me that’s where you were living.’
‘I had a good few years there, all things considered.’ Ginny stops talking, turns around and stares at me. ‘I’ve come here to thank you. I suppose that was your gift to me.’
‘Thank me?’
‘I was the one holding me back. I blamed everyone else, but it was me in charge all along. You made me see that.’

Ginny sips from a glass of red wine and watches everyone open presents, try on slippers and gloves, spray each other with perfume and hand around expensive chocolates.
‘You did a nice thing,’ Brian says as he puts an arm around me. ‘Inviting her to dinner like this.’
‘She’s not quite the monster I used to think,’ I say. ‘Actually, inside she’s just the same as me.’
Bertie barks and the kids play tag. Mam sits in her chair, enjoying the love of her family; even Glen is permitted a smile despite the fluffy pink mules he insists on wearing – a gift from Amy.

The ambulance arrives at six thirty, just after Mam loads the dishwasher.
‘You’re calling her Lucinda?’ Ginny says as I help her into the wheelchair. ‘Loo, rhymes with Poo. That poor kid. Bullies will make her life hell. If I give you nothing else, take it from someone who knows.’
She laughs, a raspy wheezy rattle.
As they pull away, Brian slips an arm around me.
‘You OK?’ he says and I nod. There’s the smallest of kicks inside and I know what I have to do.
‘Sophie’ a lovely name isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Maybe we should rethink the whole Lucinda thing after all.’

 

 

The Armchair BrideThe Armchair Bride

We all say things we’ll regret on New Year’s Eve. Lisa Doyle is no exception. At the annual office bash, along with best friend, colleague and flat mate Andy, she contemplates another year as a singleton. Tired, emotional and a little worse for wear Andy challenges Lisa to find love before hitting 40. Lisa bets Andy he cannot land a decent acting job within the next year.

Will either rise to the challenge? Is Lisa destined to spend her evenings online, checking out old classmates? Could Andy’s audition morph into something excitingly concrete? And could love for Lisa be closer at hand than she’d ever imagined?

Add a cross-dressing relative and a wedding that turns into an homage to Tarantino and the scene is set for a year in the life of The Armchair Bride.

  • ISBN-10: 0955988535 | ISBN-13: 978-0955988530
  • Price: £8.99

Buy The Armchair Bride from Amazon | Buy The Armchair Bride from The Book Depository | Buy The Armchair Bride from Waterstones

Filed Under: Short story, Writing Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Short story

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About Mo Fanning

Mo Fanning

Mo Fanning (@mofanning) tells jokes on a stage and writes contemporary 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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