FERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

This one is going to be short and sweet; I wish I could say like me but I would be lying. I am of an average height and would hate to be considered sweet. Or sour come to think of it. Maybe fizzy? Yes I can deal with fizzy... like a packet of Nerds or a Sherbet Fountain.

I digress. As per usual. So, I have spent the last two weeks of my life partaking in work experience at ELLE magazine. I like to think in the manner of The Devil Wears Prada but my brother quickly assured me that that was not the case and that Ugly Betty was a much more apt title to be comparing myself to. The twat.

As you may have guessed from the sheer volume of blogs/articles/general nonsense that I have been bookfacing and tweeting recently, I have decided to pursue the written word as a career branch. Not that I have given up on acting (I still have my Tena Lady commercial to make for crying out loud!!) but it seems that vowels and consonants and the arrangement of the two is apparently what's tickling my tackle at the moment. So why not see where it takes me?

There is an unspoken feeling in the acting world that if you have a change in career or direction or simply decide to stop acting then you have failed. A look of pity crosses people's faces when you say such things as 'Oh I'm doing a bit of writing at the moment' or 'Actually, I've decided to go into teaching'. And to those faces and that pity I say, 'BOLLOCKS'.

To be in the acting world you have to be so driven and so focused that life often becomes linear, you are solely thinking about where your next job is coming from and how to deflect the question, 'So... what are you up to at the moment?' To be quite frank- it is exhausting. 

Amazing, exhilarating but exhausting.

My friends and I have frequently missed weddings, baptisms and funerals for acting work and something in me is telling me that actually those weddings, those baptisms and those funerals are really what is important in life. I think it is that "growing up" malarkey again, biting me on the arse as per usual.

So I have decided to throw caution to the wind and see what else the world has in store for me. I am hunting down work experience in magazines and newspapers like there is no tomorrow; I'm even in talks with a company about writing a comedy tampon advert. I know. It has got my name written all over it - spelt out in tampons. Applicator ones obviously- for length and dexterity.

(Just to clarify, I sourced this image off the internet. I did not take the time and effort to lay out a blue background and spell out GO GIRL in my own applicator tampons. For once.)

I have been an actress all my life so it feels like cheating on a dearly loved spouse to even consider another career option. But I don't see writing as another career, merely another string to my bow that can only enhance and improve my acting... and let's face it, it needs a lot of improvement. Winking, gurning, corpsing and crying- that's what makes good acting right??! RIGHT?!?!?!

I have no idea what 2013 has in store for me but I intend to go in guns blazing and go wherever my gut (and it will be bigger and stronger because of the Christmas feeding) takes me. Life is there for the trying, so I have decided to try everything: I’m jumping out of a plane, I’m going to Glastonbury and fuck it, I might even try drugs.

(JOKING MUM)

(I’ve done loads already)

(SERIOUSLY JOKING MUM!)

I may have lied when I said this blog was going to be short and sweet. Ah well, the government lies and apparently that’s okay, so I think I should be alright.

I have one last thing to say before I tuck myself up in bed with a camomile tea and Game of Thrones (I’ve always been a sucker for books with maps in the front- I’m a teenage boy stuck in a 26 year old woman’s body) and that is, very simply: 

Ferry Christmas and a Happy New Year. 

Be brave, be bold and be yourself because those who mind won’t matter and those who matter won’t mind.

But more importantly, eat more turkey than is humanly possible and then enjoy a really good Christmas poo.

I know I will.

UHOH..

This is not good. This is not good at all. So here’s the story morning glory…

Last week, I went to a casting for The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde’s witty and wonderful comedy about mistaken identity. I have performed in this play before as Cecily Cardew (Cesspit, as I lovingly nicknamed her) but am always more than willing to return to a part as one’s choices and decisions on character alter with age. Age being the operative word.

I pulled out all of my best moves (they mainly include a wry smile and a wink) and acted my socks off. Literally. I walked home bare foot.

I spent the next few days twiddling my thumbs and trying (as always) to forget the fact that I’d had an audition and trying (as always) to ignore the fact that I would quite like the job.

I finally buckled on the third day, (other famous third days include God creating light and the giving of three French hens) and rang ye olde agent to ask them to ring the theatre company for feedback.

By now, I had figured that I hadn’t gotten the job; however, I just wanted to check that it wasn’t because my acting was as bad as Keanu Reeves’ in The Day The Earth Stood Still (WORST FILM EVER) or because I had tucked my skirt into my knickers. It has happened before.

Apparently, there is an actor out there in the mists of time or the ether or any other spectrum of time/place/being, who actually, deliberately goes into auditions with his flies down to ensure that he’s remembered.

I don’t know whether to shake his hand or simply buy him a pair of jogging bottoms sans flies to put an end to this mental act of exhibitionist desperation which is on par with Princess Beatrice’s hat at the Royal Wedding.

ANYWAY back to the story (I wish it was a story. And not the cold hard truth. Which it is.) My agent phoned the company and (THANK GOD) they gave lovely feedback, cracking speech, good choices, great clarity and purpose but (THERE’S ALWAYS A BUT) she looks too old.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?!?! Ever since I came out of my mother’s womb I have been told that I look too young. I have the round moonish face that some would want to call cherubic but I like to call circular. Circle Head. Baby face. Call it what you will. I got ID’d the other day buying a lottery ticket for which you have to be sixteen. SIXTEEN. And now I look too old to play an eighteen year old ingénue… WHAT IN MAGGIE SMITH’S NAME HAS HAPPENED TO THE WORLD?!

Something has gone very wrong. I instantly looked down to check the sagometer on my boobs- not doing too badly; I then pulled at the bags under my eyes- also not doing too badly, a mere Louis Vuitton handbag rather than a Primark wheely suitcase. But something has changed and apparently I am in massive denial (a thing that surprisingly does not surprise me) and I am getting older.

But that's okay. The best people get older: Judi Dench, my Gran, Edd the Duck. (Actually Edd the Duck never got old. He just disappeared. What in Daffy's name happened to EDD THE DUCK?!?! Nobody knows.)

I digress. My solution to this aging malarkey: to cast all my girlish vanity and pride aside and accept it. Because the sooner I can hit some kids with sticks the better.

I obviously mean in a crazy Gran type way. Not in a mentalist way. Maybe.

So until next time... BRING ON THE SAG, BRING ON THE GREY and dare I say it... BRING ON CHRISTMAS!!!!!

MAID OF DISHONOUR

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 fiancé 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 6^th December. I URGE you to book and promise you a night of belly laughs, tears (good ones) and joy.

http://www.hatfield-house.co.uk/events_detail.asp?event=7&id=11

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. 

SHE HAS GIVEN ME THE REIGNS!

(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).

So it is official. EVERYONE IN THE WORLD IS GETTING MARRIED. AND WE ARE GROWING UP. 

(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… 

MWAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

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. 

HERE'S OUR GRAHAM WITH A QUICK RECAP...

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.

HIGH HORSE

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 cliché 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 21^st 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.)

CILLA BLACK ATTACK

Tonight Ladies and Gentlemen, I am going on my first EVER blind date. All previous dates have involved all of the five senses in varying degrees of intensity, smell being one of them... (but the less said about stinky Joe the better). Yet I am going into this one blind. With not a Cilla in sight.  

My friend Yorkshire Ben -the Paddy McGuinness of this story- text me a week ago saying, ‘Alright Laur, are you single? How would you like to go on a date with a charming, handsome friend of mine?’ It probably took less than 2 seconds for me to reply with a ‘Yes! Why not?!’

The speed of my reply was not an act of desperation, for I am a happily single independent young woman. THROW YOUR HANDS UP BLACK MEN! (A Beyonce quote… Obviously not just me requesting the entire Black male population of London to raise their upper limbs in aid of my single status and independent nature… Although, if they wish to, I won’t stop them.)

The speed of my reply was simply because in a city like London, in opposition to the fact that it has a population of 8,174,100 and is still growing (thank you Wikipedia) it is actually pretty hard to meet new people.

I’m not ready or willing to delve into the unexplored world of internet dating just yet, that’s a treat I'm saving for my thirties; therefore, this seemed the perfect opportunity to meet someone new and have a chinwag and a giggle. Worst comes to the worst, we hate each other and you guys get to read aaaaall about it the next day!

Now, onto the next problem… Me. I am not exactly the most alluring or subtlest person on the planet... In fact, the words ‘inappropriate’ and ‘pottymouth’ are never too far away from my name/aura/general vicinity. All in all, I am possibly the least enigmatic human being known to man.

What you see is what you get. But not in a straight talking Tulisa kind of way, more in a flatulent/TMI/crap joke kind of way. 

But that’s alright isn’t it? ISN’T IT?!?!?!?

When I asked a dear friend of mine how I should create a little mystery for myself on this date she said, ‘The only hope for you Laur, is if you wear a veil. That’s the only way you’ll ever be mysterious.’

Right. So it looks like I’ll be wearing a Burkini tonight then! London, you are welcome.

And on that note… WISH ME LUCK!