Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

COVID-19

How was your lockdown?

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Lockdown 2021

How was lockdown for you? Boris Johnson has released us into our own care. We’re free. And the government is free to stop having to pay their way out of a crisis and gets to blame us for any further deaths under the guise of personal responsibility. I suppose more than anything, I’d like a PM who doesn’t act like he might fail the ReCAPTCHA on an Internet contact form.

Rebuilding Alexandra SmallI’ll miss lockdown. It was like a series of duvet days. Combined with the fear of death. As an introvert, Corona was my Christmas. No more needing to make up surgery to get out of drinks after work. I was waiting for the perfect time to change my Netflix password so my ex couldn’t use it any more, and it doesn’t really get much better than a national lockdown. All those guys on Tinder who say they’re “5’10, if it matters” must be feeling pretty satisfied with everyone stuck at home so it…didn’t matter.

I always told myself I’d prepare for the inevitable apocalypse, but then got to thinking what if I succeeded and then had to spend eternity eating fox meat in an abandoned Toys R Us with the type of people who prepare for an apocalypse.

Coronavirus finally got men washing their hands after a piss. We’re literally two epidemics away from them learning how to wash their dicks.

There’s something about knowing that none of your friends are doing anything fun that feels good. Quitting drinking really prepared me for quarantine: it’s all about taking it one day at a time and never seeing your friends again.

Lockdown downsides

There were downsides. It’s hard to know if someone you care about is self-isolating or having a three day wankathon/Pornhub box set binge. I could no longer pretend to be out when people called, or end calls fast because I had to be somewhere. My life really wasn’t good enough for it to get drastically worse. I could no longer say for sure I was having a mid life crisis, given I could easily die within days. One time, I coughed in the queue at Sainsbury’s and four people turned round. It felt like I was on The Voice. I’ve started watching porn and making up dialogue. I stopped shaving and downgraded my skincare regime. The facial recognition on my phone insists on a password as proof.

I miss the office. It’s weird not having people around I leave passive aggressive notes when I don’t put mugs in the dishwasher. I’ve written my name on food in the fridge. Again it has an upside. No avoiding twats who want to get a team together to go on The Crystal Maze.

I’m going to come out of this a better person.

Seven lockdown habits to break before FREEDOM DAY

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Diet
“Freedom day” is coming to Britain. Soon I’ll be let lose to share deadly germs and hasten the passing of my husband’s homophobic great aunt who insists on referring to me as his effeminate companion. Join me in throwing off the Tory shackles of lockdown and along with that the blitz spirit that caused everyone to take up ill-advised hobbies.

Here are seven habits to break – one for each day of the next week – so you’re fully ready to be free.

Monday: Joe Wicks

WicksWhat better day to ditch perky Joe Wicks and his enormous fucking living room? When the world re-opens again, let’s agree to take taxis to air-conditioned office buildings. Ignore those obese fuckheads who claim to be government health experts with their warnings of how not walking up stairs will kill you. Take the lift. Spend eight full hours sitting and two full minutes ramming a three-pound Tesco meal deal into your mouth. At 5pm, summon an Uber and demand the driver take you to the nearest all-you-can-eat buffet. 90 minutes later, stricken with meat sweats, stumble to the nearest pub for more sitting. That’s how to do Monday.

Tuesday: Smiling at strangers

For over a year, when not wearing a mask you’ve grinned inanely at neighbours, at people walking their dogs on desolate waste ground, at the postman, at anyone you see in the hope they’ll join your ‘we’re all in this together’ campaign. Even if you secretly suspect the serial killer next door of inviting relatives round to breathe COVID all over your clean washing. It’s freedom day. Who cares if the old man at number six dies alone because there’s nobody to do his shopping? He’s no longer your problem. You’re free. You’re mask-less and you get to spend time with people you actually like.

Wednesday: Green tea

The Diamond System DVDYou bought a box in 1983 after waking up in A&E and vowing to give up drink, drugs and crisps. After ten minutes of Anne Diamond’s ‘How I lost 4 stone‘ DVD, you lost the will to live and ate an entire trifle. In lockdown, with everyone raving about how they’ve rediscovered green tea, you gave it another go and remembered at once why you never bought it again – it tastes like dishwasher slurry. It’s time to re-embrace light brown tea and leave the folksy herbal shite to people who have sex in public toilets. Stop lying to yourself and have a custard cream.

Thursday: Calamitous haircuts

It was only ever meant to be a trim at the back and a tidy at the sides, but your hair looked like a hat worn at a jaunty angle. You’ve sat through Zoom calls wearing a beanie, and looking like something the dog slept on. Now your Turkish barber is once again open and ready to set fire to your ears and crack your finger joints (in a way you’re almost sure will increase the chance of arthritis). Hurry to their shops and sit through an hour of Kiss FM. Over tip, then worry they’ll expect the same next time. Life is shit and then you die.

Friday: Eating what the hell you like, because … why not?

From freedom day onwards, it’s no longer allowed to walk the dog looking like you’ve escaped from a nursing home. The golden days are over. Jump up and down in front of the mirror. See what jiggles. If it’s the floor, you need to make changes. The main issue with healthy eating is it requires effort. You’ll find yourself getting up two hours earlier than any sane human being to turn a head of cauliflower into couscous for an imaginative weekday supper. You need to do this. You have a year of abuse to put right. Stick with the plan until you’re two dry heaves and a dizzy turn away from your target weight.

Saturday: Baking inedible bread

Banana breadNobody bought banana bread before lockdown for a reason. It’s like the world’s most disappointing cake crossed with the world’s worst bread. And don’t get me started on sourdough. You’ve watched a Kilner jar of flour and water bubble and turn rancid green over the course of a month, and now you’re expected to eat something that contains the sludge? Why not go the whole hog and make raw chicken sandwiches?

Sunday: Zoom comedy clubs

The voice in your head said, “It’s my best mate having a go at stand-up. I have to watch. It’ll look bad if I don’t.” Zoom shows always start way too early, and everyone runs out of booze within half an hour. The comics deliver the same tired five minute set they used to do on a sticky carpet in Brighton but without supportive laughter. They’re clearly reading from the screen and spend two of their five minutes on mute. It’s even worse if everyone is encouraged to keep their cameras on. You and six other people try to look like you’re having the best of times, when all you really want to do is watch porn, have a wank, order pizza and sob at old photos taken when you had a life.

Finding your pandemic flow

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Flow
Flow – or being in the Zone

I keep hearing how life is looking up. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. Freedom is on the way. So why do I feel more burdened than ever. Why can I complete no project? Why would I rather lie in bed scrolling through the news and social media than settle to something constructive.

Mr Fanning has used lockdown to learn how to plaster walls, move electrical sockets, and plumb in a sink. I’ve organised my spice cupboard.

Even when furlough landed in my lap, giving me twelve unadulterated weeks to write, I spent the days chatting online about how I should be writing. It was only when furlough ended that ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ saw progress.

Pandemic procrastination

At first, I blamed my Olympian level procrastination, but everyone I talk to says much the same. We’re in a collective state of bleurgh. We’re not burnt out or depressed. The notion that sits on my shoulder each day is one of “what’s the point in doing this today? Tomorrow won’t be any different.” And it’s not that I lack hope. I know this will also pass. It’s just much as the government tells us we’re ‘winning the fight’ I lack direction.

The cautious habits of last year – masks at dawn, rinsing innocent groceries, washing my hands to the tune of Deutschland über alles after opening the post – have fallen by the way. I hardly get to leave my house and mix with people these days, unless they’re also walking a dog. I try to strike up conversations with delivery men. I’m even toying with being nice to my hateful new neighbours whose sole contribution to the street seems to be six billion solar bulbs trailed through viciously pruned trees and across the once green lawns now home to grey slate.

I figure I’m sitting somewhere in between being positive about the future – my book comes out in just over a month and I’m halfway through writing another. Comedy clubs will open again and I’ve written so much new material, I could easily fill an hour (don’t worry, I won’t). I’m signing off on chapters of my fabulous new audiobook and translations of ‘Rebuilding Alexandra Small’ ready for a summer of banging on about the book to anyone who will listen.

Moving on

I have no reason to feel down. Soon we should sell our Brighton flat and the inherited house in the Midlands and move to somewhere with no neighbours and a large abandoned garden. I might even get to slide into reduced work hours when free of a crippling mortgage, property management fees, and two stinging council tax bills.

And yet, I know my mental health isn’t great today. I’m not about to risk a drink, don’t worry. I’ve agreed that door is firmly shut. But the lack of motivation worries me. I’m no longer able to find delight when things go well or be bothered when they don’t.

I can’t be alone. This sense of being unable to produce anything of value or move on with things within my reach. Others must have this too.

Flow

I recently learned about ‘flow’. Also known as ‘being in the zone’ – a state of being where we become so absorbed that time flies by, and we forget we’re not at our best. It’s been around since the mid-seventies.

The only way to achieve ‘flow’ is to grant yourself the time and space and find that something to occupy your every available thought.

It doesn’t need to be building an extension or hanging more solar lights around a garden that can be seen from outer space. It can be as simple as an hour listening to an album you haven’t plays in five years or watching a show on YouTube, or catching up on the 2021 Eurovision Song Contest (my parties are legendary).

Taking time from our days (and guarding it) lets flow train your mind to let go of the fog. When someone interrupts (be they husband or dog), bat them away. Turn off email, turn off your phone, lock a door, turn off lights if need be. Drive to Barnard Castle for an eye test. Alone.

How are you coping with the ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ days?

What’s your favourite flow?

Rebuilding Alexandra Small by Mo Fanning

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 wide each 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 coast 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.

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.