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Sausage Anyone?

Why is that as soon as the Xmas Markets appear in Manchester everyone goes batshit crazy over sausage? This is clearly not a new phenomena for me, but virtually every invitation received, when they appear, is, ‘Shall we meet at the markets and get a sausage?’. If only dating was that easy.

So far I’ve had four sausages. I’ve spent far too much money on Glühwein, and I don’t in the least bit feel Christmassy, whatsoever, nothing, nil, nada. I’ve tried. I’ve bought some deccies from John Lewis, I’ve bought my presents to send to Brazil, (to my sister i’m not that generous to send them to just anyone you know) and i’m gearing up for the parents arriving.

But Lou, it’s the 29th November are you mad? Yes. But then, every year, I feel the same. When did the magic of Christmas disappear? (It was when I got periods, when I went to secondary school and I discovered that a dog was for life not just for Christmas which is why we never got one). I decided this year I was going to make a conscious effort to feel …something… this Christmas, so if it means starting early then so be it.

As kids we never wrote lists of what we wanted for Christmas, I’ve always felt abit thingy about that ‘tradition’. I think, the point of Christmas is that it’s a time for family, and a time for those people to share their love with you, by exchanging gifts, and what am I saying, I don’t believe that, I hated people that got to write lists of gifts because we were never allowed to do that, we were taught, what ever present you get, you WILL like it. Unless it doesn’t fit, you’ve got one already, or it’s a health and safety hazard (dad was big on this, always the fireman).
We wrote a gift list once. I remember this because on my list I wrote that i’d like a hifi. On Christmas morning this big box was bought out to the living room, I was so excited, absolutely beside myself that I was getting an actual hifi like all the other people at my school. When I opened it, it was a vanity case. Utter utter disappointment engulfed my every being, but we’d been taught, you WILL like what ever you get, and so with every core of my being wanting to cry, I didn’t, I accepted it and said thank you and went up to my room to listen to my Wham record that my nan had bought me, wondering how the fuck I was going to play it. Nicola got a microscope. Yep.
Oh happy day. I got the hifi for my birthday the following year. I listened to that album about 152 times that day, cos it was the only record I owned, there was a downside to being a music fan, you actually had to buy the records. The first record I ever bought was Joe Dolce Shuddupyaface, but strangely that disappeared… I can’t think why.

And so here I am. We’re about a month away from the big day, and i’m looking for ideas, thoughts, things to do to re capture the spirit of Christmas. I’ve got the spirit bit covered. But it’s the Christmas side I could do with some help with. So, if you have any bright ideas on how I can feel festive, join in the celebrations without grimacing, and not resent buying presents I can’t afford then please let me know, i’d be delighted.

Yours Scooge jr of Manchestford.

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Ooh ‘ello!

Boring life update.

 

I have rain pouring down my windows. Nowt wrong with this I hear you say, but it’s on the inside.  Condensation building up like a muvva in every room of the place, I wouldn’t mind but it’s just me living there and I know I can blow out a lot of air, but really? This much? I’m going through tea towels like a bugger. Always ultra should invent pads for windows. 

I also have the pleasure of listening to my neighbours both beside me and above me, in surprising clarity. Next doors bedroom is next to mine. I am one for a good trump, but when you’re pumping it out, with surprising musicality, it’s always a bit embarrassing when your arse has piped down, and you just hear a little ‘a-hemmm…cough’, coming from the wall behind you. Every morning I get an insight into their domestic arrangements next door. He uses her wet towels, which she doesn’t like or understand it, he doesn’t care. Her dads got a pet name for him, and he doesn’t care. She always plugs in and blow dries her hair at 7am, which he then shouts over, and the other day, I think they were getting frisky and she said ‘no, stop that, that hurts’.  He didn’t care. She said it three times.

It’s like being in a house share. I might as well live with four other people as I get to be in their lives every flipping day as upstairs bangs about, scraping something around the floor for hours on end, and next door pretending to like each other.

I’ve just noticed that steven mulhern has dyed his hair. Sorry. Watching this morning.  

What else, I’m doing a show, on Friday, at the Lowry in Salford. It’s called The House That Stank of Death, it’s a sketch show, about…death. Do pop along if you fancy.

 

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I am not in Edinburgh

Everyone’s gone to the festival. I am bereft.

I am gutted that I won’t be able to spend my time in a damp cave for a month, rotting my clothes, my lungs and my passion for comedy. I am gutted that my best friend Stephanie Bartlett* won’t be able to come to another show and comment on how far into a dark corner I should place myself this year, and I am mostly gutted that I won’t be able to piss away several thousands of pounds.

It’s weird not going. I mean, I know by the time all the reviews come out, and everyone starts getting the Edinburgh flu and malnutrition sets in, that I’ll still have a pang of jealousy, even though I am under absolutely no pressure, I won’t have to make that decision to know whether the press are in on that day, and whether we should rewrite that bit of the show because for the last three days, at least two people over the age of 60 have walked out whilst I mime slapping myself in the face with a cock.

The first time I went to the festival with a show, was in 1991. (The fact that some of you won’t have even been born then makes me sick). I went up with a show called Priceless. It really was. It was shit.
It was a movement/masked piece, yep, about the brain. I was a messenger that worked in the brain, and it was my job to deliver messages to the feet to make them work. I won a prize as being the best messenger and I was awarded a pair of golden running shoes that I then had to perform a solo dance with. Our venue was in the original Gilded Balloon, which was a church that had a high stage.
My ‘mask’ was made of papier-mâché sculpted from a massive balloon. I was doing my ‘ballet’ piece whilst kneeling on the floor, and as I graced the audient with my rendition of Swan Lake, using the shoes, I accidentally misjudged the edge of the stage, and one shoe feel off. There was at least a five foot drop, and I had to just improvise using the one shoe, whilst desperately looking to see where the hell the other one had gone. I couldn’t see jack shit as the eye holes were smaller than a gnat’s urethra. As I patted the floor like Velma from Scooby Doo, when she loses her glasses, this hand appeared in my eye line at the front of the stage, and the shoe was casually placed back on the stage by the stage manager who’d run round, crawled along the floor, and tried inconspicuously to place the shoe back on the stage, whilst I was fumbling around holding the one shoe like I was on the set of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s nest. At the same time the shoe reappeared, I looked down, and saw three golden shoes. The props woman, had taken off her trainer, sprayed it gold, and had chucked it on the stage, and now I was challenged with having to do a dance routine, blind, with three bloody shoes. It was a total shower of shite. 2 ** from the scotsman. But I had a ball.

Then of course there was the time I was up in 2000, performing in a show called Chaucer in the Sky with Diamonds, where I played a paedophile fisherman, but lets not dwell on that. (The Observer awarded it ‘Worst Show On the Fringe’, which I am particularly proud of).

Edinburgh 1991

Edinburgh 1991

This is a photo of the successful show Priceless. You will see me on the left hand side as the ‘feet’ character. Try and spot what we’re trying to act out in this shot.***

Anyway, what was my point? Oh yeah. Despite how hard it is. Despite how draining it is, both emotionally and financially, it is by far my most favourite thing I have ever done, and will ever do, hopefully. I am jealous of my mates who get to suffer this august. And I wish them all the best of luck, and hope that when that ‘day’ comes, the one where you wake up and think ‘I can’t do it today. I just can’t. Fuck this shit up the arse, I just want to get drunk.’ Then, know this. Everyone is feeling the same at one point or another, and it is ok to feel like that.

Please will you all have a Well Hung Burger for me please? My colonic therapist is still drilling away at my lower bowel to get out the remainder of that cow I ate last year.

Good luck chums and gods speed.

If you’re going up this year then make a special point of going to see my mates, amongst others:

Kiri Pritchard-Mclean & Pete Otway
Phil Ellis
Michael J Dolan
Chris Stokes
Milo McCabe
Katie Mulgrew
This lot are on all month and are bloody aces and you wont be disappointed.

*Evil reviewer. I haven’t forgotten you Stephanie. I will find you one day. Hopefully in a Wetherspoons. And I will haunt you when I die**

**Not that I’m bitter or hold a grudge.

*** We’re acting out a pair of eyes here, using the medium of physical mime. I know. I am an eyeball. Clever. No, no one in the audience got it either.

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Career high.

Folks, don’t get too excited but my acting career is in full swing.

For six weeks only, in the Granada region, yep, it’s gone that crazy, I will be appearing in an advert of huge proportions. Now, I didn’t get the part I originally went for, but as they liked me they wanted to use me, and I take that as a compliment thank you. So instead of playing the Head of HR, for Appliances Online, I can actually be seen playing the part of, wait for it, the Badger. Yes folks, I’m back in skin work, and I can’t tell you how well things are going, at this rate I’ll be making special appearances in Channel 4’s next series about dogging.

So yes, pin back your eye lids, cos blink and you’ll miss me, but you’ll see me giving my best angry badger impression. It certainly beats the previous week’s disappointment of being asked to go for a casting for a different advert and then being told half an hour later that my BMI was too high and as a fatty I would no longer be needed. That my friends, was for Weight Watchers. So if you see some skinny runt eating a Chicken Piri Piri meal in their next line of adverts, please note that they only want anorexics to advertise their products and not real women who these pitiful small flavourless meals are aimed at. I thank you.

In other news, Jan and Mick, (the parents) are moving to Norfolk. This is very distressing, mostly as they currently live just off the M40 and that is very convenient for wee’s and Lemon drizzle, on route to London. I will now have to pull my finger out of my arsehole and put in proper effort to see my friends in that area now instead of just combining the two things. I think this is a good thing. It’s very easy to forget who the important people are in your life and why you have the mates that you do, and with the parents moving it’s made me properly realise that my chums from where I grew up, are tres important and therefore, if you’re reading this, which you might be, you might not, you might be busy with your own lives, and kids, and stuff, but if you are reading this, then be prepared for a visit from me. Especially around the 27th June, which is when I’m going to Brazil, and need somewhere to park my car and someone to take me to Heathrow, but hey, friends… I love ya.

Yes, I’m off to see the sister. She lives in Campinas, in Brazil. It doesn’t matter how many times I say that word, it still makes me giggle like a child. Pinas…. I can not wait. To see an actual Pinas would be even better, but I’ll settle for a holiday with my Brazils, and with any luck come back in a meat induced coma, and cheekily tanned. Trust me to book a holiday in South America, when it’s their winter. Hey ho. I’ll get it sprayed on, no one will know.

Whilst at the parents last week, I had to go and start clearing out my seventy eight houses worth of stuff I’ve conveniently left at there’s. Whilst there I found two boxes of letters from friends, diarising our lives from young teens to mid twenties, yes kids, before the internet and email were born. It was fab. And actually reading a lot of the letters, nothing really changes does it. We still moan about the same things, still worry about the same things and after twenty odd years, still think we’re fat, ugly, a failure,going out with the wrong people etc etc. So in conclusion from this, I have come to realise that I have spent the last twenty odd years worrying about things that there’s no point in worrying about so therefore, I should stop worrying about them. Really. But then, I’d only worry if I had nothing to worry about, so I suppose something’s better than nothing.

Oh and Les the Status Quo fan from Match.com has messaged me for a third time. Les, What ever you want, what ever you need, you pay your money, just not for me. Thanks, but again. No.

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Stuff

Happy April people.
A relatively quiet March. I had a row with my laptop, and we had a flood in the dining room. This is about the total excitement one has had in the last four weeks. Tragic really.

This of course is not entirely true, although in their nature blogs are meant for diarising events and things of a nature that would be of interest to its readers, that said, my month has had many events happen, unfortunately none of which would either excite or would be of interest to any of you, so I find myself having to pick through the bits that I am willing to share. I should really have a separate diary that is a true reflection of my life but unfortunately if it were ever to be published into an actual book, then it would go under the ‘fantasy’ section and would never be taken seriously.

Who would believe that on a walk to a stone circle the other day, it was revealed that I was once murdered by my housemate in a past life (which is probably what she wants to do in this one), and that in a previous, previous life, I was a security guard for a burial ground? No. No one, although, the unbelievable cream tea I had after discovering this, was out of this world, so I guess it’s a take it or leave it situation. I definitely didn’t leave the scone and bake well pudding. I definitely took that. Shortly after this, my housemate then pushed me into a bench. ‘You didn’t have a big brother did you?’. No. No I didn’t. She definitely wants me dead.

My housemate and I tend to live in a Miranda esque world. We go around the area we live in pretending we’re at crufts. I do the whistling; she jumps over the hurdles, and zigzags her way round the lampposts. A recent visit to Quality Save, yep classy, saw me be responsible for the very premature death of twelve plastic rocking horses. I didn’t mean to break them all, but if you’re going to pile them up in a corner, and make them attractive to the eye, then yes, I’m going to want to play with them. Apparently they’re for kids. Who knew?
We have an affectionate nickname for each other which is basically the C word. That’s how we refer to each other. Now this is fine on a day to day basis. She is a teacher. And on half term such as now, the C word is prolific. She does however have to be careful when she goes back to school. I don’t think the parents would take too kindly to her calling their kids C***s but then again, they might behave a bit better if she did. C*** is said so often in our house that is has lost its abrupt harshness, and is as meaningful as the word milk. Unfortunately for our cleaner, I’m not sure she entirely appreciates this. (Yes we have a cleaner, what of it) The other day I left a note for my house mate on the mirror in the bathroom, to say thank you to her for being marvellous. I wrote it on the first thing I had handy. A sanitary towel. Dear C***, Thank you, you’re ace. Love C***. When I got home that day, the cleaner was coming out of the house; she came over to me, and hugged me. I’m not sure if it was out of affection, or simply that she thinks I’m mental. I don’t think the word C*** is easily translatable into Polish, but I’m just hoping to god, that she doesn’t think it is an English term of endearment, and start to use it in the other houses she cleans. The poor woman would justifiably think I’m insane. My jumper was on the floor the other day, inside out, and I’d put sanitary towels on the armpits to soak up my pit juice when I’d walked to Mediacity from Chorlton. They‘re very good at keeping you dry, and avoiding nasty pit stains in walking, or high stress situations. I’m a keen user of the sani towel in my pits when I’m on stage, and these days they’re so thin you barely know they’re there. I highly recommend it.

Gig wise, it’s always a little bit weird when you turn up to do a gig, and the promoter has bought a prostitute with him. It’s awful to sit and wonder if the woman is actually being paid to be with someone when you can’t actually imagine that person being with someone that young and that ‘attractive’. Anyway, apparently this little ‘situation’ has been a recent regular occurrence, and has really made me question whether or not I want to gig for this person in the future. At first I thought it was his daughter, and after some probing, not like that, she said she was in a ‘non-consensual relationship’ with him. Which was a worry. When I suggested that perhaps, if that was the case, I should really be ringing the police, she said no it’s ok, it’s non-consensual. I think she meant unconventional. I’m hoping she meant unconventional. I think I might start taking something with me to gigs, that I pay for, that satisfies me in ways I can only imagine, but I don’t think dragging a cheese, salad cream and radish sandwich about with me from gig to gig would have the same affect. It’d start smelling after a while, and I’m a fan old cheese, but not when it’s sweaty, wilting and on the turn. Old sweaty wilting cheese. That poor girl. I hope she’s being paid well.

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Bristol Cities

Hello.
I’ve just got back from feeding my mates cat, with no bra on. Liberating. I wonder if it knew? Wonder if it felt the release of my otherwise incarcerated pets. This is the sort of thing that will keep me awake for hours sometimes. Wondering whether a cat would know that I wasn’t wearing a bra, and wondering if it did know, whether it would judge me. This is me living life on the edge, oh yes.
Driving down the motorway with no undergarments on gives me a burgeoning desire to flash other drivers and go ‘look, they’re free’. Other people worry about war, and their grandparents, and the state of the economy, not me, I just worry that I could get used to the sense of liberation and find myself in twenty years with my nipples caught in between my big toes and the flesh of my breasts vaguely resembling the skin of a blue whales mouth, all lined and stretched, and covered in molluscs.

Anyway, I managed to get through the whole of January without a boozy drink touching my otherwise thirsty gob. Managed to raise £365 which is pretty good I suppose, given that I’d have probably spent that on Sherry.

So during my dry days, it gave me time to think. To come to terms with the fact that next year I’m going to be 40. Yep. I know I’m only 38 at the moment, but it does my head in that I’m 38 this year but next year I’ll be 40, with the 39 in between, but I don’t like uneven numbers, so 2013 doesn’t count.
So bring together the fact that I’m getting on, subconsciously my brain is getting me ready for it, by taking me to Tesco and making me buy a slow cooker. Which was also in the same week I bought my first pair of comfortable Clarks shoes, since I was about six. Really wanted to put my feet in the foot measuring machine but I don’t think old people are allowed to do that. I’ve always had feet like trotters so I doubt they’ll be much change in the measurements, maybe my hooves have got wider.

Clappy clapperson next door has been going off like a gooden all week. It took me a while to realise the man has a form of Tourette’s, and isn’t just applauding himself every time he cooks a good meal, watches a brilliant programme, or has a good shit, although I’d applaud that if I could.
I’m not sure but I think he’s taking to head butting the wall. I used to live next door to a woman, who had a severe mental illness, and I would quite frequently be woken up by her pained screaming, that she was going to shoot me, whilst banging her head violently on the wall. The shrillness of her voice would travel so angrily through the walls that you would actually think she was standing at the end of your bed threatening to kill you, whilst calling you all the names under the sun, and accusing you of doing things that you had no idea that you’d done. So, having a man clapping his way through the day, is a welcome change to the straining threats of murder. Sometimes we like to join in the clapping and sometimes we inadvertently set him off if we’re having a dance in the dining room, as we do in this house. The Macarena is one of his favourites, but the chorus from Car Wash upsets him.

I had one of my favourite comic road trips this week. Went on a visit to Bristol and back in one night. Sometimes the thought of travelling in a car load of comics is one that I don’t usually relish, with people trying to out funny each other, people with bad manners, and sometimes just travelling with twats. But this was ace. I don’t think I’ve had such a good time since I was trapped in a bathroom for three hours, at a party on my own, with all the booze and the only toilet.
This was just an absolute delight. Aren’t people fab sometimes? People with no agenda, no pretention and no inhibitions. I love that. And the gig itself was fab, and the trip home equally as fun. We stopped at a service station for a cuppa and I actually didn’t want to come home. Think that says a lot more about me perhaps! Anyway, if I can have more journeys like that please, that would be ace. (I once got stuck in a car with a burlesque dancer and a lesbian, but that night we never speak of). So thank you to the Pearl Diver, thank you to Ibuprofen (yes you Mulg’s) and thank you to Dolan for being wonderfully grumpy. Here’s to Trumpet Punching, and Willy Dicks Cox.

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Crackers

french poodle 2

Woof in your face.

Right, I have not had an alcoholic drink for 18 days. My donations on my just giving page, do not reflect the pain I have been through. If you don’t believe I have not had a drink I can get you references. I’m walking round my house dressed as a poodle for godsake….. This is what sobriety has done to me. Surely this deserves some dosh? http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-louise-conran

In the 18 days I have not had a drink, this is what I have replaced it with:

I’ve started sniffing peoples drinks. This is not normal. These are the actions of a pregnant woman, a recovering alcoholic, a dog. Of which I am none. Although some people I’m sure would disagree on at least one of these points.

I have replaced booze with hot chocolate. I hate hot chocolate. At least I thought I hated hot chocolate until this week. I’ve always been of the opinion that chocolate in general smells of bumholes. Mind you, if my bumhole smelt of chocolate i’m sure i’d get a lot more interest from the opposite sex. Or dogs. Sniff your chocolate and tell me it doesn’t smell like bumholes, go on. It does, see. I’m not suggesting you stick your finger up your area now, you might be in Asda, or teaching, or at the doctors (which might be necessary) but in private, get yourself a twirl, have a good snort on that, and then, compare and contrast. And while we’re on sniffing things, marmite smells of ginger people, and or, belly buttons.

So apparently it’s snowing outside. Whoop de doo. Thank god my all in one french poodle outfit arrived today. Why have you got an all in one french poodle outfit, i hear you cry, when you are 38, and have enough to contend with in your life, like singledom, a bumhole that smells of chocolate, and ginger people on your toast? Well, people who clearly have no sense of adventure, it is simply because I am desperately clinging on to my youth, and to prove that I am in no way your conventional nearly 40 year old woman. Some may buy a posh car, some may start shagging 20 year olds, some may get plastic surgey, me? I haven’t got any money to buy a posh car, I can’t get a 38 year old, let alone a 20 year old, and the thought of plastic surgery is ridiculous. I have no need to mutilate myself. Why would I need to when I have a french poodle outfit that can cover everything up that i hate? See, logic.

Dropped in on Jan and Mick the other day. That was nice of me i thought. Jan opened the door and had no idea who i was. Even my own mother, for a split second, wasn’t prepared to acknowledge me. She let me in eventually, and promptly went straight to the freezer to feed me. Jan is a baker. She makes cakes. Good cakes. Only thing is, no one is allowed to eat them, so as soon as they’re made, they go straight in the freezer. You know, for special occasions. Obviously my visit warranted the defrosting of a slice of carrot cake. I rejected the offer, due to me being a health guru and I could see she was disappointed but at least it’s there if anyone else drops by unannounced and isn’t recognised.

I also found a ‘garment’ stashed down the side of the sofa. My instant thought was that even my parents are having more sex than me, but it was instantly whipped from my hands. I’d only gone and discovered Jan’s Wi fit leotard behind the cushion. At least that’s her story anyway.

Oh and my hands smell of onions.

Give me your money http://www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-louise-conran thank you x

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