Tuesday, 20 November 2012


I don’t know if any of you have ever watched the film Bridesmaids? It's brilliant. Kristen Wiig gets chosen by her best friend Lillian to be Maid of Honour at her upcoming nuptials, she is of course naturally thrilled to be given such responsibility but then as the film progresses her organisational skills and general demeanour spiral out of control and the end result is a bunch of bridesmaids shitting in the road.
Bum and Mouth to the extreme.

Now I’m not using this as a DIRECT reference for life imitating art; however, I have recently and excitingly been asked to be Maid of Honour for the wedding of my best friend Antonia and her fiancĂ© Noel. (I would just like to point out that in the film it all ends happily with a beautiful wedding and the Bride and Maid of Honour’s friendship still intact. And we all know that film correlates with life. It does. JUST SAYING.)
Antonia and Noel are one of those incredible couples who just fit. Like socks and shoes, hands and gloves, Bert and Ernie. They met playing Romeo and Juliet opposite each other and have now started their own theatre company: Box Tale Soup.

Box Tale Soup, does what it says on the tin:

Box: Everything they use to perform with is placed in one box, well a suitcase really. An old, well-loved suitcase filled with puppets! Home-made puppets, hand crafted by Antonia and Noel with recycled materials and bits and bobs from around the house. The puppets are INCREDIBLE and each has their own distinctive personality and voice. I definitely have a favourite…
Tale: They are currently bringing to life Northanger Abbey with a fresh and funny approach; think Austen mixed with Avenue Q! Noel comes from a street performing background and Tones from classical acting, so the blend of the two makes for a whirlwind of story-telling!
Soup: It is heart-warming. I’m not going to get gooey about it, but the truth and integrity of them both as performers and the fact that they have created this magical world from scratch makes me more proud than you can imagine.

Okay so I did get gooey, but that is the last of it! More fart jokes to balance out the slush please Darrall.

Their next performance is at Hatfield House on the 6th December. I URGE you to book and promise you a night of belly laughs, tears (good ones) and joy.

Shameless plug done. Now onto how I can embarrass her at the hen night… I can’t promise that we won’t end up shitting on the road but I will do my very best to prevent it. Maybe.

Being asked to be Maid of Honour is a definite sign of growing up. Now I have, for the past 26 years, resisted growing up with a vengeance; mainly by the listening of Sclub7 and the wearing of baggy jeans, hoodies and a general smirk of ‘This is not happening to me! You guys, yes. Me, no. I tell too many jokes about genitals to ever be considered for Growing Up. SO THERE.’
But apparently I am. So I have decided to embrace it. I will be the BEST Maid of Honour there has ever been. I will shower all the maids with honour and honour all the maids with showers. 
(After they’ve finished shitting in the road.)

This is a photograph of Antonia, me and the other two bridesmaids, Lou and Cee, on holiday in Portugal. This is the BEFORE photo. 
They don’t know what is coming to them…
As you can see they are all brown and glowing, whereas my face is beetroot red and my legs are ghostly white. My legs refuse to tan like anorexics refuse to eat.

Now Antonia won’t mind me saying this, but she can be a bit bossy from time to time, in a loving, efficient, organised way and always with the gentlest of touches, but yes, bossy. (PLEASE STILL BE MY FRIEND)

So the fact that she has given me, her slightly haphazard and inappropriate sidekick, the job of Maid of Honour, which entails QUITE A BIT of responsibility, makes it mean that much more. 


(Dazza throws her arms in the air and does the Maid of Honour dance. Oh yes, I have made up a dance. It is a cross between the Chandler dance and the montage of Simba coming of age to the tune of Hakuna Matata. You know the one.)

Funnily enough, my other bestie, Suze (you can never have too many besties), has also recently been made Maid of Honour for our wonderful friends Nikki and Joe, thus I am already planning Maid of Honour meetings. There will be a handshake, of course the dance and maybe a flip board where we can compare notes and plan plans (or play Pictionary, however the mood takes us).


(Camera zooms in on Dazza in a heap on the floor, quivering like a child and clutching her Care Bear.) 

And I am totally ready for it. Definitely. More than ready. If anybody’s ready, it’s me. Loads.

Now onto write my speech… 


ps. A Disclosure for Antonia: Laura Darrall hereby promises not to encourage or cause vomiting and or diarrhoea on any forthcoming Bridal Activities. She also promises to be the best Maid of Honour known to man. And to teach you the dance. The end. 

Sunday, 11 November 2012


I did it. I dated. It was blind. It was… okay… And by okay what I really mean is that it wasn’t what I had hoped it would be. Seth Cohen from the O.C (Naturally my ideal man) did not turn up with a witty quip and woo me out of my specially picked knickers and into his lovingly self-deprecating arms.
Instead, my knickers remained solidly on (just to clarify for my Mother, they will always remain solidly on for a first date… unless it is Seth Cohen) and my arms and legs rested in a casual, yet firmly crossed position for the most part of the evening.

For the sake of dignity and respect we will name my date Nigel, (I used to have a much loved cat called Nigel, he liked spending time in the washing machine, he’s dead now*) and our venue was a Camden bar and then onto the cinema to watch SkyFall. Good, standard, solid, first date. But boy did I wish it wasn’t a date.
Nigel was lovely, charming and funny (by NO means Seth Cohen funny, but then who is?!) the only problem was, I didn’t fancy him. Sort of a major problem really, like if Romney had won. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for letting a love naturally blossom and grow with time but you have to have that first sparkle in your gine (yes I said gine) otherwise it’s just forcing something that is most definitely not there. Like trying to make a Tellytubby recite Shakespeare or the Queen rap; although, I've heard Q-Lizzle can really spit.
We did have nice chats… nice… worst word ever… and then luckily I could sit and ogle Daniel Craig for the remainder of the date. WHY WASN’T DANIEL CRAIG MY BLIND DATE?!? 
I was happily settled into the film, (with my arms and legs crossed- BIG SIGNALS OF JUST FRIENDSHIP PLEASE THANK YOU) when a Bond girl appeared on screen, naked in the shower. Cut to Daniel Craig entering the room, spotting the naked lady, automatically stripping off (as one does) and joining her in the shower.

At this point Nigel leans across and whispers in my ear, “Bold Move”… I smile and nod. I have a feeling in my bones that Nigel is thinking of making a bold move of his own so I instantly and furiously search the floor for my coat to put on as a distraction. How a duffle coat equates a distraction I do not know but it did the trick. Like Saville's shellsuits. 
The problem with blind dates is that they are set up with the expectation and premise of a “date”- hence the name I know...The bummer comes when the match-up is not dateable, for you or the datee. Nigel could have found me repellent for all I know! (I did remember to wear deodorant… didn’t I? DIDN’T I?!)
 Maybe they should be re-labelled as blind friendship dates, Blind Buddies or Guess Who?! A sort of playful adventure with no awkward anticipation; there would be no pressure for hanky-panky and one can just see where it naturally progresses. Start low and no one is disappointed!

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for dating and having a wee snog from time to time, but I am definitely taking the blind element out of it from now on. Fully visual, fully knowledgeable, fully snoggable dates. Thank you. Nigel was lovely and attractive but just not for me. 
Cue awkward goodbye scene:

Nigel: So shall we go and get another drink somewhere?
Me: Phhh it’s 11 o’clock and I’ve got to be up at six so… I should probably hit the hay. (Lies)
Nigel: Ahhh yeah me too. (Also maybe lies)
Me: Cool… So, it was nice meeting you.
(Nigel suddenly holds onto my waist and looks me deep in the eyes)
Me: Mate, really nice meeting you.
(I go in for a hug and slap him on the back)
Nigel: So… can I see you again?
(My tube is currently arriving on the platform…)
Me: (Awkward pause) Yep. Big time. (Another back slap) Bye!
(Make a dash for it, hop on the tube and with a massive FRIENDLY wave I’m gone, off into the night and back to bed. By myself. WHERE IS SETH COHEN WHEN YOU NEED HIM?!?)
I then later sent him a nice- THAT BLOODY WORD AGAIN – text saying it was nice – I’M BORING MYSELF – to meet up and that I’d love to be mates if he fancied it. He responded in the affirmative.

Whether we will be or not is another matter entirely, but the future's bright, the future’s Orange. (Orange County, The O.C… How many inadvertent references can I make about Seth Cohen until he notices me… HOW MANY?! Loads. Seth. Loads.**)
*Just to ease the readers mind, Nigel the Cat only spent time in the washing machine when it was turned off and he died as a result of a car. The two are mutually exclusive facts.
** I am fully aware Seth Cohen is a character in a television sitcom. I am similarly aware that if we ever did meet he would instantly fall head over heels in love with me. He just doesn’t know it yet.

Tuesday, 6 November 2012


Afternoon FerryEggers! Now, normally I steer clear of horses of exceedingly great heights but this week I am making an exception. I am on an extremely high horse, jumping on the proverbial bandwagon and partaking in every other clichĂ© involved in putting one’s views across, however unoriginal or unpopular they may be.
Thus, I am putting it out there- Mitt Romney is MENTAL. Now I know I am not an American or have the right to an American Vote, but what I do have the right to is an opinion. “I am a woman, when I think I must speak” says a good mate of mine, Bill Shakespeare. The fact that he wrote that as a comic line is neither here nor there because it still rings true, I can hear the bells ringing right now, or is that just my over-active hysterical female imagination… I don’t know Mitt, you tell me.
It appears that Mitt Romney has inadvertently travelled back in time and not in a cool Marty McFly ‘Back to the Future’ kind of way, but more in a strap you into a corset, bind your feet and feed you to the lions, kind of way.
His views on women’s rights are downright laughable. For example his Republican pal Todd Aikin believes: If you become pregnant through rape then it obviously wasn’t a proper rape because a woman’s body has ways of shutting down in order to prevent pregnancy during an actual rape. I'M SORRY. WHERE ON EARTH IS THE SCIENTIFIC EVIDENCE FOR THIS OPINION PRESENTED AS A FACT.

Yes of course my fallopian tubes will instantly knot themselves when in the presence of an unwanted penis, in the same way that Superman will shrivel when presented with Kryptonite. BOLLOCKS. That is I'm afraid, like Superman, a fantasy. The latter created by a genius, the former by an ignorant man with tiny balls. You Mitt Romney. You.
It gets worse. The latest invention from the Red corner, a project of the faith based group Operation Rescue – ‘Truth Trucks’ are a troop of horrific lorries, smattered with pictures of aborted foetus’ all over the sides, to be driven around the country warning the women of America against the physical and moral dangers of abortion.

Forgive me for being obtuse, but if Republican Americans are seriously worried about the welfare of women in 21st Century America, then there really should be a collage of stretched stomach linings rather than foetus’ plastered on these so called ‘Truth Trucks’.  Truthfully, obesity is far more serious a threat to the American population than ever abortion could be.
Yes I may be currently reading Caitlin Moran’s ‘How to be a Woman’ (INCREDIBLE) and yes I may have my strident feminist’s hat on (at a slightly jaunty angle obvs) but these things need to be said. Women have come too far and fought too hard for these reproductive rights TO OUR OWN BODIES to be simply dragged back into the dark ages by a Mormon without a clue.

The election results will be announced tomorrow and I hope for the sake of sanity and progress that the good people of America bring Obama back. Like the Backstreet Boys.
Otherwise things will get drastic and I will personally be forced to march over the pond and unleash the Spice Girls on America… Again… And nobody wants that.

(I secretly really want it.)