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Mo Fanning - British writer and comic

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France

A short break in France

September 30, 2009 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

What a close-to-perfect week the Fanning clan had in a remote French farmhouse, miles from the nearest shops with no Internet, no phones and no English language TV – we watched the French version of Wheel of Fortune twice and didn’t quite get why a small white dog was part of the proceedings.

The only down point involved driving. I’m not a natural behind the wheel and so, negotiating the streets of Amsterdam in the first torrential downpour for months took my stress to whole new levels. Had someone the foresight to attach crocodile clips to my ears, I could have saved the city of Amsterdam money and powered the street lights.Photo of cottage

Mr Fanning did his best to navigate from the hire car shop to our street, making calming noises and trying not to flinch each time I came within a hair’s breadth of a parked car or oncoming cyclist. We parked up – five minutes walk from our front door – I absolutely refused to ‘go round again, just to see if there was anywhere better’.

En route to remote France, I managed to do the usual getting lost around Antwerp thing. Never ever trust Belgian road signs that suggest time-saving diversions. We were routed through grim industrial estates and miserable satellite towns before arriving at the entrance to an expensive toll tunnel.

Road trip

Photo of cowsAnd why are the roads in Belgium so terrible? We’d no sooner left Holland than the surface broke up and turned bumpy. Single lanes and crawling jams blighted our passage through this God-forsaken chunk of Europe.

After a holiday two years back in an Ardennes village of the damned and subsequent train journey through hell-hole stations en route to Paris, I’m convinced it’s not a country I’d ever care to visit again.

So road trip aside, Mr Fanning and I enjoyed a perfect seven days. The cottage we first rented three years ago hadn’t changed much and felt like home almost immediately. The sun had its hat on and we walked for miles; taking the dog up narrow paths past cows, fields and not much else.

Mr Fanning had his new camera and got terribly artistic, prompting a strange competitive edge. Every now and then, I’d demand control of his all-new all-singing and dancing Cannon something-or-other and try to better his shots. Barbed wire became a feature – as did cows. After every walk, we’d rush back to the cottage to download the images and decide who’d done best.Photo of telegraph pole

And we ate. Loads. Twice at my absolute favourite place in the whole world – Le Ferme des Chartroux. Everyone there is so lovely and they pile the plates high. Mr Fanning and I are still not entirely sure you’re actually meant to empty the entire tureen of soup they put on your table before the starters arrive. Nobody said anything, but I swear looks were exchanged when the waitress took away the bread basket to refill it a second time.

Suffice to say we left groaning to totter down a 1km unlit road insisting we’d never eat that much again – until the next time. Seriously, if you are ever in the area, do try it out. I’m not on commission.

Back to Dam Life

Then it was back to Amsterdam. And after seven days of peace, it all seemed so loud, so dirty and so stressful. I’d turned from road rage driver to laid back motorist. This changed very quickly. Within ten minutes, I’d sworn at some hapless soul in a cheesecloth shirt riding his bike up a narrow pavement with a piano on the parcel shelf and his brains on vacation. (I might have made up the bit about the piano bit, but he looked the sort.)

As I write this, the skies are back to grey and ‘Strictly’ clogs up Saturday evening TV. And I already miss the sunshine. I knew when I signed on for Dutch life that 60% of the year, the skies would be heavy and white – it’s not so very different from the UK – but the flat landscape and lack of any space is making me hanker for pastures new.

Write On

And so what about the writing?

One good thing about living in a country where indoor life rules is I have time to plot.

With a sigh of relief, I finally finished revamping an old story; bringing it up to date, with new twists and chopping a good 20,000 words in the process of simplifying the plot. Already one of the recipients has made happy sounds, although right now, it’s tough to break into the market. Few publishing houses seem able to take a punt on an unknown.

Still, it was fun to write and I finally think I’ve lain to rest the story of Faith and Pearl after six endings and I dread to think how many drafts. The 78,000+ surviving words are hewn from at least 300,000. Along the way, characters have been culled and new ones written in. One went from potential romantic lead to outrageously camp flirt. In the end, the story picked up a supernatural edge and put to rest loads of things that have floated through my head for some time.

And already I’m plotting anew. There are two ideas bubbling on the back of my story stove. One revolves around a gay wedding and the quest for talent show fame. The other is a cautionary tale of online dating.

Best Rant

Time for my rant. I know language is a living thing, but when did ‘best’ become a verb – as in ‘the sales of his new album bested those of …’?

Is this just an American thing or is it how da kids is speaking, innit?

I probably need to know because the story I’m leaning towards includes a particularly sassy wedding planner hailing from Chicago. She’ll be feisty, fierce, fearless, frank and all sorts of other words beginning with f.

And she’ll best everyone to land the job of rescuing a calamitous gay wedding.

Now I get it. It’s all about context.

Filed Under: Amsterdam, Diary, Travel Tagged With: Americans, Amsterdam, Belgium, Bicycles, Food, France, Gay weddings, Strictly, Television, The Dutch, Weather, 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

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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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