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Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

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Celebs

What are words worth? My take on the Gervais special

May 30, 2022 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Trans flag

Someone asked me the other day if I was offended by the latest Ricky Gervais Netflix special. When I asked why I should be, their answer came down to him having a go at trans people. And Trans is the T from LGBT, so it’s part of my community.

I am a fan of Ricky Gervais and so I watched it. Was I offended? I suppose I was. Gervais is a much better comic than this special suggests – his body of work has shown him able to shine a light on what lies behind the spoken word. And when he broke off from a hideous belittling of trans women to announce that ‘in real life’ he doesn’t think this way and that he’ll say whatever it takes to make a joke funny, I groaned.

Was this where I was supposed to unclench my buttocks? His ‘catch all’ get-out came over as a context-driven version of ‘some of my best friends are black‘. Like a concentration camp worker insisting he doesn’t want to shovel bodies into gas ovens, but hey, the wife likes nice things, whatcha gonna do? Twitter is top-heavy with folk who include ‘live laugh love’ in their bio then spout some of the most offensive views possible.

Mockery

I’ve enjoyed his power play pops at high-vis targets – the Hollywood glitterati, animal abusers, men and women on the take, but how is a trans person in any way asking for mockery?

Suella BravermanAt the tail end of last week, Attorney general Suella Braverman called trans detractor JK Rowling her heroine, and insisted schools do not need to accommodate trans pupils, calling on them to ignore and marginalise trans children … because under-18s cannot legally change their gender. She wants to take away their voice. It’s another form of power play, this time shooting bullets from a different gun. I lived through and marched against the Tory Section 28 rule banning schools from telling me it was OK for me to be gay. And now I see the same happening to those who identify as trans.

Researchers found using trans kids’ pronouns, their correct name and wearing the clothing they want significantly cuts the risk of attempting suicide and experiencing depression or anxiety.

I don’t claim to be any kind of expert on what it means to be trans. I do know what it feels like to be told you’re not as good as everyone else because of who you are.

When asked to defend his comedy, Gervais told BBC One’s The One Show: “These are just jokes. They don’t mean anything.” Try telling that to the Twitch Mob out in force to defend him when others voiced objections. He told The Spectator, his jokes were aimed not at trans people but at trans activist ideology. His love-the-sinner defence makes me wonder if he watched how Graham Linehan set his life on fire and decided he wouldn’t mind some of that.

‘Supernature’ opened with an announcement that Ricky Gervais is a ‘man who doesn’t need to do this’. And I wish he hadn’t.

Filed Under: Modern life is heck, Stand-up, Writing Tagged With: Celebs, Comedy, Stand-up, Writing

Writing tips: Timeless time

January 8, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Trends come and go. What’s in today is gone tomorrow. These are not so much writing tips as lessons I learned … the hard way.

In the traditional publishing world, life moves slowly. Two years often pass between when you type ‘The End’ and when you get to see your book for sale. Even if you self-publish, six months often fly by as you self-edit, pay a professional to tell you what’s wrong and make everything right.

I first published The Armchair Bride in 2008. When revising the story for recent republication (available now from all good booksellers), I found my world littered with period detail. The main character often checked her email in an internet café. She used a fax machine and a Blackberry. She had to find a place to plug in her laptop  (tablets and smart phones were the expensive stuff of dreams). My characters wore bleached denim, drank alcopops and smoked in bars. In one surreal scene, a train left Manchester on time.

Timeless writing tips

It’s easy enough to avoid pitfalls. Here are five writing tips to consider as you tackle any work in progress.

 

Technology – Stay generic. This very morning, Alexa woke me. I read headlines on my iPad. I told Nest to turn up the heat. Someday, we’ll get the rubber self-parking cars promised back in the 70s by BBC’s Tomorrow’s World.

Websites – Apart from corporate lawyers who get twitchy about brand abuse, there’s a good chance of any website vanishing overnight. In the first draft of The Armchair Bride, Lisa used Ask Jeeves. Don’t rely on Google, Tinder or Uber to be around tomorrow. Have your characters ‘search online’, ‘scan a dating app’ or ‘fish out their phone and hail a cab’.

Politics – It’s an effective way to frame a world or the mood of a nation in which to set stories. If your tale needs to exist in a specific time, you’re on safe ground. Even so, avoid throwaway name-checks for Brexit, UKIP, Corbyn, Trump or May. By the time you publish, they’ll sound hacky.

Celebs – Much the same as politicians, they’ll be forgotten tomorrow. That’s showbusiness. Reality show winners enjoy a limited shelf life. A good writer creates a (thinly disguised) version of their target.

 

Television/Film/Theatre – With streaming TV, short attention spans and big studios remaking classics, it’s best to avoid specifics. Ready, Steady, Cook was huge. Today it’s Bake Off. In two years … who knows?

Cities and towns change. Shops shut down. Newspapers and magazines vanish from the stands. Trends become deeply untrendy. National treasures blot their copybooks.

Find ways to make your fiction timeless.


The Armchair Bride

Filed Under: Tips, Writing Tagged With: Celebs, Story, Submission, Tips, Writing

It’s grim up north

September 1, 2009 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Getting old by Mo FanningThis month, Manchester fails to charm, silly season gets too silly, I have an old fart moan about students and the book comes slowly together.

Decamping to Manchester

So, Mr. Fanning and I decamped to Manchester. The reasons are too tedious to go into, but we’d planned to use the visit as a chance to consider the city as a future home.

The flight out was the first sign the visit wasn’t going to be an unqualified success. The plane cabin was blisteringly hot. All around, people wilted while fanning themselves with dog-eared in-flight safety cards. After twenty minutes, the captain came on to say he knew we were expiring from heat exhaustion, but he couldn’t do anything about it. I have to say, I detected a hint of smugness and imagined him shirtless in the cockpit being fanned by dusky maidens. He promised that when he switched on (is that the right term?) the engines, the airco would kick in. Grim mutterings spread through the passenger ranks, but as the majority of us were British, nothing was said.

Next to me, clearly enjoying the sub-tropical hell, sat someone distinctly Mexican. By this I mean his hair colouring and skin tone suggested more than a passing familiarity with Tacos not made somewhere in the EU by old El Paso. He was smiling at the in-flight magazine and sniffing. Yes, you read that right. Sniffing. And what do we all know about anyone Mexican who sniffs? Swine flu.

Fashioning a makeshift mask from an eye mask and ignoring furious looks from Mr fanning, I settled back and waited for take-off. With a roar and barely a puff of cool air, we left Amsterdam and the sunshine and headed into grey, heavy cloud.

‘It always rains in Manchester, you’ll see,’ I joked with Mr F.

So now onto another beef. In-flight catering on very short flights. One question. Why bother? There’s barely time to throw something pre-packed at the passengers and offer a drink before the cabin crew have to wrestle it back and insist tray tables are put away for landing.

KLM and a general beef

KLM have developed an intriguing idea to pass the time. In the place of actual food, they’ve introduced a handy party game involving six cream crackers. The somewhat student-like challenge is to consume them with no drink. If you manage, you’ll earn a paper cup of clear hot water called ‘tea’ into which you can pour powdered creamer.

I’d rather have three or four euros knocked off the price to be honest.

As the plane approached Manchester, me laddo next to me put up his hand for a boarding card. I can’t help but notice his name is Jose and indeed he hails from Mexico.

That’s it, I think.

Swine flu is mine.

Our hotel was pleasant, if somewhat urban in design, but the staff were pleasant enough. What’s more it had the most fabulous bath – which when you live in a tiny Amsterdam flat with only a shower is a BIG THING.

I wasted little time leaping in.

And so, onto the city itself.

I lived there for four years, in the late 90s, and loved the place. It was vibrant, artsy and welcoming. But dire urban planning has ripped all of this away. The city centre felt dark with every street closed in by towering blocks hiding the grey sky. Chain pubs offered discounts and happy hours. Angry young men tumbled from their doors, ready to fight. You felt that looking anyone in the eyes might cause them to lash out. In short, I hated my time there. Hated it. It no longer felt safe and I wept at how its heart had been torn out. Perhaps I should have stayed away. Now I wish I had.

And it did rain. Every freaking day.

Stop this, it’s all too silly

This summer saw newspapers filled with mock outrage over the replacement of leather-faced embarrassing auntie at a birthday party Arlene Phillips with wall-of-teeth personality-free zone Alesha Dickson.

Strictly Come Dancing, they claim is being dumbed down (current fashionable media term) to appeal to ‘the kids’.

As if any self-respecting 18-26 year-old would spend Saturday night watching has-been zelebs (another fashionable media term, I’m all about being in touch with the buzz) hot foot it round a dance floor.

‘The kids’ will be glued to the mindless crud on the other side – namely the X Factor or Pop Idol or whatever they call it these days. The one that used to feature that annoying leather-faced embarrassing auntie at a birthday party Sharon Osborne before she was replaced by … Oh, wait. Now I see a pattern.

My point being, really, who truly cares about the shelving of Arlene? Sure a whole host of previous contestants (mostly out of work actors and past-their-sell-by presenters) queued up to rent quotes to the BBC-hating Daily Mail. But I suspect this was more to get their faces into the papers again and remind casting directors that were alive more than to express solidarity for a squawking harpy?

And while I’m on, what is the fascination with Jack Tweed? Why any newspaper or magazine can be bothered wasting words on someone famous for living off an ignorant racist is beyond me.

Then there’s Peter and Katie. They’ll be back together soon enough. Rumour has it, they’ve already recorded their Christmas single.

Mo is a moany old git

And now for students. I preface this rant by admitting I used to be one. I’m absolutely certain that when I was one, I was insufferable, boorish and an all-round twat. But I’m not one now – student that is. I may or may not be all of the other things.

In Amsterdam, they’re everywhere. The summer is almost over and as one group leaves, another arrives. Almost universally blonde, tall, thin, with knee-high boots over thick-knitted tights, short skirts and whacky t-shirts. Fatties, non-whites and the disabled need not apply.

It’s the soriety girls and they’re busy cramming their vacuous souls into ramshackle houses around town.

Then there are the boys: pale shirts with dark blazers, designer jeans and pointy brown shoes. They must all have collar-length mousy-colored hair and it absolutely must be greased back.

They all look alike, move as one and represent everything that’s wrong with Dutch society. The lack of accountability is something I’ve harped on about for many a year, but now it seems original thought and individuality have left the agenda. Gone the same way as tolerance.

All the things the rest of us thought the Dutch were good at.

I do wonder if my growing older causes my weary rolling-eyed reactions. Am I guilty of ‘in my day’ syndrome? I remember when a night out involved nursing two pints at the pub, then back to halls or someone’s house to share a bottle or two of Thunderbird or cheap cider. If you were flush, you might get a curry.

Amsterdam student houses have deliveries from breweries. Barrels of beer and professional bar taps are delivered and set up. Food comes in bulk from top stores. Some of these houses have staffed kitchens and cleaning staff. All the future Dutch high-flyers need to do is drag battered sofas and chairs onto the pavement, block everyone’s way and get drunk in comfort, while smoking spitty fags and treating the entire street to rubbish music.

Then there’s the hazing. Brown pacamacs and orange water wings don’t strike me as funny. And seeing groups of supposedly intelligent people making collective fools of themselves while travelling in packs and performing secret chants saps the very life out of me.

And these are the people who will secure the best jobs, understand the secret handshakes and fly through the layers of corporate Holland in years to come. White, middle class, over privileged under-achievers. It depresses me more than I have words to explain.

On the plus side, they’ll make wonderful characters for a novel and having spent hours observing the silver-spooned faces compete for attention, I think I’m ready to use them in something soon.

The Write Stuff

So to the writing. With a third draft finished and a few working titles rattling round my brain. I’m onto the next edit. This one is the vicious one. The first draft is the raw material. The second is to check logistics, timelines and make sure there’s no plot holes or people changing names, hair colour or personality. This draft is the polish. Now I’m printing it out and attacking it with a red pen.

This weekend Mr. Fanning and I drop out of the rat race for a week in Northern France. Miles from anyone, living in fields, surrounded by cows and horses. I can’t wait.

And a quick thank you to everyone who asked after the clumsy canine. He’s much better now. Three months on, he’s stopped limping and can manage stairs again. Now there’s just the hearing loss to worry over.

Filed Under: Amsterdam, Diary Tagged With: Amsterdam, Celebs, Dogs, France, Manchester, Strictly, Students, Television, The Dutch

January is a month for loss

January 5, 2007 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

British Writer Mo FanningJanuary is always the month to sit back and look shocked as your waistline joins forces with your wallet to reap revenge for the indignities you’ve made both suffer in the name of ‘having a good time’. Despite all my very good intentions and to the best of my knowledge, having had a pretty lousy Christmas, my bank balance is indeed shrinking in direct proportion to my increasing girth.

I refuse to become one of those people who start hitting the gym with a vengeance just because it is a new year. I remain convinced that this is little more than akin to taking a few steps along that proverbial well intentioned pathway to hell. I’ve peered through the windows and I’ve seen it. Gyms across the country are currently packed with people who remain convinced that paying through the nose for a crappy towel, water bottle and a shiny new gym pass is enough to make you the buff envy of your friends within a few weeks. They wobble around, staring in awe at the machines, occasionally trying a few of the more familiar ones – bikes and treadmills – before heading for a sauna, shower and the exit, never to return again. I know because I am often one of these people. This year I have vowed not to re-embark on working my booty until February at the earliest.

One good thing about January is that it means the return of ‘Celebrity Big Brother’. For those who don’t watch, it is a show which throws together a whole bunch of very minor stars with very major egos in one house and allows them to bitch, fight and whinge for Britain over a three week period while we eager viewers lap up their misery. This year it all got off to a steady start. The ‘celebs’ were as ropey as ever. We were offered Leo Sayer, H  from Steps and former Kenny Everett sidekick Cleo Rocos. It had all the pulling power of a provincial panto. Then the producers played what they hoped would be a trump card. They introduced a new ‘family’. The better known element being all round ‘famous for being famous’ personality Jade Goody. She was joined by her one-armed ex-Rastafarian lesbian mother and nineteen year old football agent boyfriend. Fireworks immediately erupted, the media focussed on what it decided was racist bullying of another contestant Bollywood Actress Shilpa Shetty. To be honest, it gave the show the shot in the arm it needed. Before they arrived, it was about as interesting as watching paint dry. Channel 4 was vilified by the Murdoch controlled British popular press. From the outside looking in, the show seemed to sum up everything bad about British society.

We’ve become a nation that no longer gives people the benefit of the doubt. We no longer think it is our place to take people to one side and show them the error of their ways. Nobody has the time. We’d rather just have our opinions pre-packed and force fed. When the right bandwagon comes past, we happily leap on board. If someone is being called a racist bully, we’ll join in with the chants. It makes us feel good about ourselves, as if we personally are fighting racism or bullying. We aren’t.

In the aftermath of recent events, three girls’ professional reputations lie in ruins. They did little worse than any of the rest of us might do when faced with hours of boredom, a bit too much to drink and finding ourselves in a room of strangers, deprived of all friends or outside stimulation. They had a good old bitch fest, a right bellyache. Now they are being repackaged as the new face of evil. The press has stood by pontificating and yet still putting the boot in. The way these people have been vilified is equally unacceptable. Why should someone be subject to death threats and have their effigy burned on the streets? If ignorance is to blame, why can’t someone just sit down and explain to Jade and her cronies that what they did was wrong? And when they do show any remorse, why can’t we accept this. How much more do we think we have the right to demand from people whose names we would have been hard pressed to recall pre-Christmas?

I’m already bored with seeing long lens pictures of these nobodies, why can’t the paps get to work on something far more interesting? I personally would pay good money for shots of humourless food Nazi Dr. Gillian McKeith PhD (qualification from a non-accredited US correspondence college) tucking into a bucket of KFC and a four pack of Special Brew on a park bench. Why does someone who claims to promote good health look so poorly?

Much as I want to say ‘enough with the moaning’, I can’t. I know now that it is a part of my heritage. The other day I was speaking to an Australian guy. The subject got around to ‘Whinging Poms‘. I wasn’t insulted when he told me that he was tiring of hearing the Brits he worked with indulging in a good old moan, because he is right. We love nothing more than a whinge. Personally I feel my day is wasted if I haven’t had a good old whine about some stupid Dutch law or the utter lack of customer focus in this country. I’d be as bad back home though, so no need for any one nation to take this personally.

I’ll close then by having a good old go about the weather. Why isn’t it getting cold? This is January for goodness sake. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but I really do think it is getting beyond a joke now. We need a decent cold snap. In my street, trees were starting to blossom on New Year’s Day! What is worse is I’ve already been bitten by my first mossie of the year.

Fact of the Month:

Lavender And Tea Tree Oils May Cause Breast Growth In Boys.

Filed Under: Amsterdam, Diary Tagged With: Big Brother, Bullying, Celebs, Diary, Diets, Gym, Weather

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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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