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Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

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Christmas

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

Gloom: hope died, but it’s Christmas …

December 15, 2019 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Five gold rings

First up, forgive the gloom and somewhat downbeat nature of my news this month. I’ve not been well. If you need better news, skip to the end. I’m going to do the misery first. The idea being my three ghosts of Christmas are all Christmas present and at the end I’ll skip through the front door with cries of ‘God bless us everyone one’.

The first winter chill descended on the Fanning household last weekend. After days of complaining of backache and a bit of a cold, I found myself wrapped in a blanket with chattering teeth and a bucket. I want to call it flu, but these days people say this about the slightest sniffle. Over the course of a week, I threw up daily and had to be helped to a chair in Lidl. Lidl, I tell you, not even Waitrose. It didn’t help that Mr Fanning ran in my shadow, falling sick just 24 hours behind me. We sat in a grumpy bed, resenting each other and snapping at the slightest provocation. Having a dog to walk didn’t help. I woke near a bus stop with him licking my chin as concerned faces loomed to ask if they should call an ambulance. Dignity be gone.

I’m better now, thanks for asking.

And this came after a week of feeling like the world was playing a cruel trick. For almost a year, Mother Fanning has suffered with AMD and needs injections in one eye. Being a typical Fanning, she hates the idea and needs a general anaesthetic to cope. At her advanced age, this knocks her around so the doctors ration what should be a monthly treatment. Guess what. She’s gone blind, and not just in the eye that they now tell us is ulcerated beyond repair. The hurt of seeing someone you once thought of as a fighter struggle to even find her way from one room to another is enormous. Worse yet is the bond of hope she makes with me it will get better. Finding the right time to break away and head back to Brighton after putting in place care was close on impossible and I’m still not sure we did the right thing.

And finally, the triple gloom whammy. In 2016, the UK voted to leave the European Union. A decision I was sure we would overturn. Last week, all hope died. The election result forced me to accept that the vote wasn’t a one-off choice made on the back of misinformation. Britain wants to Brexit. For three and a half years, there’s been a small sign in the window of my neighbour, an elderly French woman who long since scored a British passport. A laminated sheet of A4 paper on which she printed ‘I demand a second vote on the terms of Brexit’. Nothing more. It never moved from the window through all the turmoil and government paralysis. She added no other poster, badge or proclamation, just this simple demand. On Friday morning, it vanished, and that caught in my throat more than any other image from that dreadful dark morning.

Right, I’m done with the gloom

Christmas lurks around the corner, and much as I’ve sulked in bed, insisting I’m cancelling the turkey, not getting a tree and looking into the return policy for a range of online stores, I’ve loosened the Scrooge switch today and we’re heading for a garden centre to buy a tree. Gloom be gone!

Look out for my many postings where I moan about needle drop, and remember, this is a sign of healing. If that’s all I can find to moan about, the Fanning life is getting better.

My short story collection, ‘Five Gold Rings‘ is the perfect companion for this time of the year – and it’s remarkably cheerful and upbeat in parts (there are dead bodies, but only what you might expect). It’s FREE for Kindle for the next week (starting late on the 15th and running for five days).

If you’re alone this Christmas

Sarah Millican does something wonderful at this time of year. The #joinin campaign is for anyone who needs to chat. Sarah encourages people to use the hashtag and link with one another so as not to feel lonely. People from around the world have already tweeted with their experiences.

“The main rule is to be kind. We’re all here for each other.”

 

Filed Under: Anxiety, Diary, Modern life is heck, Stress, Writing Tagged With: Christmas, joinin

Merry Christmas

December 28, 2013 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Christmas with Mo FanningWith my revamped website finally cranked out and Christmas behind us, it’s time I put fingers to keyboard and wished all my readers a fabulous new year.

After a few years starting and then stopping work on a new novel, I’m in the editing stage of ‘Having it all’ – a book that I hope you’ll like. It’s a romcom of sorts, but with a theme running through of what everyday people are prepared to sacrifice in the name of friendship. The rom might not be quite what it seems at first glance.

It’s been a chance to finally use the wonderful backdrop of Amsterdam. The Fannings occupied their own 65 square meters of real estate in the city for almost eight years and it seems such a shame to have never really got it down on the printed page. I’m hoping the beautiful old buildings and canals serve as a backdrop to a dysfunctional group who meet and fall in love with each other at the Forma Hotel.

How has your Christmas been? Brighton has been battered by storms. Much wind, much rain and Mr Fanning has gradually given up all hope of ever weatherproofing the foyer of the flat we now (un)affectionately refer to as the money pit.

I should be able to keep all promises of regular diary pieces this year as we’ll be lining up a troop of lying bastards (plumbers, builders, electricians and the like) to tell us how to make good our miserable dark underground lair.

Right now, I’m surviving on Rennies and Andrews after a diet of rich food, and we’re both desperate to clear the nice stuff to make way for the hair shirts and firm resolution to shift those extra pounds in the new year.

Back soon.

Filed Under: Diary, Writing Tagged With: Christmas

Was Christmas awful?

January 30, 2010 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Christmas with Mo FanningI’ll open by wishing my reader(s) a Happy 2010 and adding that I hope Christmas wasn’t too awful.

I say that because enforced family gatherings, gift exchange and a general spirit of goodwill can get to even the most sane. It’s not that you don’t like or even love these people, it’s just that you’ve made a conscious choice not to live with them. An hour or two here and there is fine, but anything above becomes a chore. Six centrally-heated hours of confinement can turn the question of who ate all the purple ones from a tin of Roses into an issue on a par with the Northern Ireland peace process.

Photo of a tin of RosesThe other thing about the ‘Season of Goodwill’ is that you have to stop being the grumpy sod you’re allowed to be at any other time of the year. You’re obliged to buy a copy of the Big Issue and smile warmly at groups of kids singing carols outside supermarkets.

For many years, I thought I was alone in not feeling the warm glow while darting from crowded store to crowded store trying to find unique gifts for friends and family. But this year seemed to act as some kind of watershed for many around me.

Coming out of the Christmas closet

One by one, colleagues and acquaintances came out of the Christmas closet and admitted that – given any kind of choice – they’d like to have a few days off work to sit in their pyjamas alone. They’d happily eschew eating rubbish food. They’d love to avoid watching extended versions of TV shows that at any other time of the year manage to be entertaining.

On the subject of telly, this year, one of my comic heroes crashed and burned. Victoria Wood churned out the most pitiful excuse for comedy. To be fair, all the signs were there in advance. No sooner had the show been announced than Ms Wood was doing the rounds, telling anyone who’d listen that the BBC had edited the show beyond recognition. Whether this was compliance gone mad (likely) or piss-poor raw material remains to be seen. To my eyes, it looked like someone took the scissors to every original thought and joke.

Christmas in hospital

I spent much of the season in Russell’s Hall hospital. Ever been there? I advise against.

Imagine if you will a motorway service station – not one of the good ones – think of the hellish places like Keel or Sandbach. Add to that walls painted in various shades of bodily emission – sputum, blood clot, vomit and pus.

Then there are the lifts. They talk to you like you’re missing a chromosome.

“Doors opening … Please select a floor by pressing a button … You have selected floor two … Doors closing … Lift going up … Lift stopping … Doors opening … Please check around your immediate area and ensure you take all of your personal possessions along with you on exiting this lift, as the management cannot be responsible for any loss or injury incurred.”

What’s happened to my homeland?

100 Stories for HaitiAnd it isn’t just hospital lifts that have lost it. During my visit back to the homeland, I discovered Britain has become a nation where industry quakes in fear of legal repercussions. Bottles of cloudy lemonade confirm they contain no nuts, were produced in factories that contain no nuts, but insist they cannot be considered 100% nut free. Drive down a road and cameras follow you, signs light up if you so much as dare approach the speed limit. If you exceed it, I imagine your vehicle is vaporised on the spot. Ready meals advise that upon removing from an oven or microwave, the contents will be hot.

Finally, I’m back and to anyone who knows the Fanning family, thanks for your thoughts, good wishes and prayers. I hope that soon enough I’ll have good things to report.

In closing, please support the upcoming ‘100 Stories for Haiti’ project. I’m privileged to have had a short story selected for the book. Please buy it as soon as it comes out either as an eBook or a week later in the shops. Every penny, cent, dollar or squido goes to the Red Cross,

Filed Under: Diary Tagged With: Christmas, Television, Writing

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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