Hi. My name is Lou. And I haven’t had a drink for seven days.

I haven’t even thought about the Harvey’s Bristol Crème that I left in my mate’s kitchen on New Year’s Day. Haven’t thought about that at all. Nope. Not about the fact it’s sitting near the sink, by the fairy liquid, and to the side of the correspondence, and is half full. (I said half full. Therefore I’m ok; I’m still up beat alright?)

I have even managed to go to the pub, with friends, and not mind that they’re four bottles of red deep, whilst I just enjoy a coffee, an orange juice, a tea, a water, another water, and some pickled chilli’s.

There’s something quite eye opening about watching other people drink. Other people that you would normally be getting shit faced with. As the volume goes up with every glass of wine, and the lips get bluer, you suddenly realise that those crazy years of going straight to the pub after work for happy hour, and the hours lost along with the memory, must have been hell for everyone else around us. We had a great time. I think. Even if we did get thrown out of several places, barred from one, for singing show tunes loudly over a civilised Sunday lunch sitting, and once wondered around Chorlton on a New Year’s Eve, walking into other peoples parties. We got into three different houses that year, and ended up at a teenager’s party by telling them that my drinking companion worked in telly and could make them famous. Error. That resulted in him being smothered by eager young adults, plying him with their vodka, him then vomiting on their patio, and I woke up with a website on my face. (The kids were in a band. I think we vaguely promised them a spot on Top Of The Pops. They wrote their website on my hand in permanent marker, which I slept on, and had to walk around for three days with moc.dnabeganeetlufwayllaer.www written on my face. Jolly good.)

Anyway, the swimming has been going well. I appear to be a speed demon in the water. Who knew this chubster could move? Only on my back though. Which is where I’m most comfortable strangely enough. Me and my swimming chum are aiming, eventually, to do ‘the lift’ from Dirty Dancing. I’m not sure which one of us will be Patrick. Depends who has the closest shave on the day I suppose. Although I’m short so naturally that means I’m Baby, doesn’t it? We’ve both got to build up our upper arm strength. I appear to have muscles that would make Jeff Capes envious, in size, not in ability unfortunately. I have a lovely picture of me jumping out of a swimming pool in Lanzarote when I was 15, flexing my arms. I look like Hulk Hogan. (One of my more attractive shots from when I was a teenager, clearly) I think we’re both tussling to be Baby, the only part of the audition we’ve both been successful in so far is holding our water melons. It’s going to be a tough call.
In other news I went to a mate’s house for a cuppa yesterday and she has cosmically ordered herself a husband.
If you’re not aware of the delights of cosmic ordering, it’s basically what Noel Edmonds started doing in the early 90’s when his career went tits up after people started dying on his shows. He had a word with the universe to provide him with a new career, and thus, Deal or No Deal was born. Jan, mother, is into cosmic ordering. She does it for parking spaces at supermarkets, so she can park right in the door, and strangely enough there’s always one by the entrance waiting for her. I have said that those spaces have a big orange picture of a wheelchair on them, and that they are always there, but this doesn’t seem to count somehow.
Anyway, my friend, wrote a shopping list of everything she wanted in a man, and has read it out to the universe, and well, he’s only been delivered hasn’t he? Typical City Link, they apparently have tried to deliver on several occasions but she was never available, but now, finally, he’s arrived. Apparently he is everything she wanted and more. Well lucky you.
So last night I wrote my list. 1. Massive cock. And that was it. Apparently you’re supposed to be a bit more accurate with your thoughts. (I thought I was, but mine came across as more he must be a, as opposed to he must have a. Good lesson though in knowing what you want. I now have 62 things on my list. Is that too much? …..pah…..and people say I’m picky. Sometimes.)

I’m writing this whilst looking after my mate’s cat. Anyone that knows me, knows how I feel about cats. This one though is growing on me, although I have surrounded myself with orange peel, and he’s not come near me all morning. Apparently they don’t like citrusy things. Either that, or he simply hates me. Anyway, he’s not bitten me, so I’m happy. He is in fact splayed across the table. He nodded off during Emily Sande on the radio and hasn’t woken up since. Perhaps hospitals could use that instead of anaesthetic? Just a thought. He is officially the biggest cat I have ever seen in my life. He’s due to be allowed to go outside soon. I fear for all small animals in his wake. My mate said she’s going to put butter on his feet to ensure he knows where to come back to, which I think is a marvellous idea. I’m thinking of doing the same when City Link bring me my husband.



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I’m Dry. Happy 2013


2012 Was supposed to be the year that changed my life. After all, it was written in the stars that big things would be bestowed upon me, (according to a Dutch woman who speaks to the dead anyway). She told me that 2012 would be the year that I would make my mark.

In a way she was right. I wrote for Hacker the dog on CBBC and got viewer complaints for the high level of fart noises that were used in one of my sketches (v proud), I went to the Edinburgh Festival and got reviewed by a 12* year old who said I was past my peak, and belonged in Whetherspoons, on a Saturday night, in a dark corner, and, I was on Deal or No Deal. Box 12, 10p. I thank you.

I’m not the sort of person that makes New Year resolutions, primarily because at my very core I’m exceptionally undisciplined, and for the most part, lazy. But whilst hauled up in a haunted cottage in Somerset this Christmas, with my beloved Mater and Pater, I decided that I would give up booze for Cancer Research, take up swimming lessons, and lose twenty stone. Jan (Mater) would like to add to my list:

get husband – ‘go online, get yourself a business man, you can forgive the face if they’ve got money’.

get knocked up – ‘Barbara’s daughter got her sperm from Manchester, she’s a lesbian, Manchester’s the best place apparently, cos they clean it’.

And buy a house with a granny annex. (Insert thought here.)

I say the cottage was haunted. For my dad’s b’day in December I bought him a home wine making kit, with the view that he can provide the vino for Christmas. I bought one that I thought made six bottles of wine. Just a little something to get him going with a mini hobbie. Two weeks later and I get these texts from Jan. (Please bear in mind that mother, god bless her, likes to start a conversation in her head, before letting the rest of us know what she’s on about. For example, whilst dad and I were watching Dr Who on Christmas day, out of nowhere, Jan pipes up, “Yes….see I told you cinnamon was a diuretic”. Blank face. No, we have no idea either.) So yes, I get these texts from mother on the run up to Christmas:

M: We have 18l we are having to ask the neighbours ha ha.

(No, hello, how are you, here’s what the hell I’m talking about)

Me: What?

M: Yes 18 god know how we will drink that amount. You will have to bring some bottles (empty) one with you.

Me: 18 what?

M: Litres

(Bit later)

M: Bequeathed.

Me: You what dear?

M: No just testing my spelling and I sent it instead of sending.

(Blank face)

So the wine was unleashed over Christmas. My dad, bless him, on each sip saying, ‘its better than it was last week, just needs maturing’. It was pear droppy, and strong, and would have knocked the back out of a very randy donkey. Still, it was better than it was last week, and considering they had over 30 bottles of the stuff, one has to do ones bit for the family, strap in, and just drink. After several glasses of the stuff on Christmas Eve, Jan had gone to bed, and dad and I were still up drinking and watching telly, and outside, some carol singers piped up. How lovely. I went to the window to look, and, there was no one there. Then the radio came on in the kitchen. And that sent me over the edge. I can’t watch Miss Marple without getting scared, so I spent the whole night in bed with the light on, trying to get to sleep with my eyes open. Good shit that wine I can tell thee. I entered Christmas morning with a rude awakening by staggering to greet my parents on the landing, getting my toe stuck in my pyjama bottoms, and going head first down the stairs. Jan was in hysterics. Not hysteria. Hysterics.

Christmas was quite educational, we went for a walk on the beach, where the carpark was of no mystery to the parents, who unwittingly through their chatter about dogging, informed me of the process and who gets in whose car and why. Jolly good. Dad revealed he had to have special pants because ‘your mother can’t get in the normal ones.’ and whilst watching 8 out of 10 cats, a very disgruntled Jan, was planning a letter of complaint because at no point had the programme mentioned anything to do them. Cats, that is.

And so here I am, in 2013. Back in Manchester. Going back to normality. If someone was to stick a video camera in my living room, they’d get hours of two 30 something women, laid on the sofa in slankets, farting and speaking Elven, (thanks to the Lord of the Rings trilogy). Laying in our own stench in our pj’s drinking copious amounts of tea, farting, occasionally snoozing, and eating what is left in the fridge from Christmas, because we’re too lazy to go out into the real world to buy proper food. Meals made up of lasagne, chorizo and beans, or sausage and battered balls, contents unknown, and left over cheese. Both wondering why we’ve got no boyfriend.

Last night I had my first swimming lesson. It’s all very well flapping your arms about and sticking your face in the water, but I forgot to breathe. Out. Whilst trying to get more in. Very complex. Still I managed not to die which was the objective. Although half the pool was missing when I got out, and reappeared on the journey home. (I’ve a tendency to hang on to things, down stairs, if you get me. Just a small fear of ever having a prolapsed womb like nanny. She once had to stand over her doctor and jump up and down so he could see if it was crowning. Sort of like a womb yoyo. Least I think he was a doctor, no one need ever go through that.)

And I’ve been off the booze for three days. So far so good, so sponsor me please, it’s for a good cause, go on. Those that know me know that this is unheard of, not that I’ve got a problem you understand, but well, dads got 30 bottles of pear drops to drink, and I won’t survive if I have that. Even if it is better than last week. Who knows how much better it will taste in a month?


*Stephanie Bartlett watch out. This old mare is coming to get you this year.


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