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WHY AREN’T YOU LAUGHING?
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
Skip introduction: 2:20
“Maybe you should wait a month before you start cracking jokes.” Sausage was giving me dating advice as we walked along the Hudson River.
“What do you mean?” I said, offended. “They love the jokes!”
She then lifted my left hand, showed me my own bare wedding finger, and said coldly, “Clearly.”
I pulled my hand free and hid it in my jacket pocket, then changed the subject of what we should do on a Friday night in New York. I suggested a comedy show.
“Ok…” Sausage said, reluctantly. “As long as you don’t use the jokes on your next date.”
I’ve loved stand-up ever since watching Peter Kay on my parent’s telly. Garlic Bread!? Live at Apollo introduced me to Stephen K. Amos, and he was the first comedian I saw live. Since then, I’ve seen Mike Birbiglia, Trevor Noah, Sara Barron, Suzy Eddie Izzard, Lee Evans, Iliza Shlesinger…and more.
As well as solo shows, I have gone to comedy nights in London and Oxford to watch a variety of comedians perform. I was intrigued to see what New York had to offer.
At the local stand-up shows in Oxford, I usually grab a Lucky Saint and find my own seat, like a real-life grown-up. New York, you are not trusted to do this. A man takes you from the door to the stage area and tells you exactly where he wants you to sit. Our man took Sausage and me straight to the front row. He may as well have been trying to get us to sit in seats covered in jelly.
“No.No.No.No.No,” Sausage and I said in unison. Everybody knows you don’t sit in the front row of a comedy show.
When I went to see Josh Berry’s stand-up, I had no choice but to sit at the front. I was with a male friend, and we got hounded by the warm-up act, asking why we weren’t dating. “Why are you two not dating?” “Who rejected who?” And it went on and on and on …. Torture.
So, it was a firm no to the seats at the front. The man took Sausage and me safely to the back, next to an Australian woman. We didn’t know it then, but this Australian woman was going to be one of the main characters of the night, and therefore, the main character of this Quack.
When the first comedian started their set, I noticed something was strange. Usually, an audience laughs during a comedy show, but this audience was silent or tittering at best. It was as if they had their shows muddled up and they should be sitting in a Shakespearean tragedy.
The comedians would call us out for being hard work. “It’s not me! It’s them!” I wanted to yell. I was doing my part, after all. I laughed at everything. Some of it was truly funny too. Like the joke about Task Rabbit. The comedian said how turned-off she was when her boyfriend hired another man to put up a shelf. Sausage and I were in stitches. The audience was not.
But sometimes, I laughed only because I was a people-pleaser. It’s the same personality trait that makes me intensely watch air stewards when they are pointing out exits on an aircraft.
Cheers AI
Funny or not, the crowd was hard work, and this was made clear when the comedians dared to ask the audience a question.
“Is anyone here on a dating app?”
Silence.
“Has anyone here been to China?”
Silence.
“Anyone here gay?”
Silence.
I wished more than anything I could have said yes to one of the questions, but I can’t lie. So, I pressed my nails into my palms, wishing someone in the audience to be gay.
“Anyone here an only child?” one comedian asked and was met with the usual silence. “Really? Nobody here is an only child?”
“Move ooon!” The woman next to me heckled. And this was not the only time we were going to hear from the heckler that night…
One comedian made the mistake of asking a man in the front row where he was from. “Australia,” said the man.
Well, my neighbour got very excited.
“Where bouts in ‘Stralia?” She called out.
Oh no no no no no.
The comedian squinted in our direction, as I leaned dramatically to the right……. far away from my neighbour. It was critical for everyone to know that I was nothing to do with this.
“What did you say?” said the comedian with a smile.
“Where bouts in ‘Stralia are you from?”
“This is not a speed dating event,” The comedian said. He got a small chuckle from the audience and was about to move on, when…
“Just wanna know where bouts in ‘Stralia he is from!”
“Do you know how this show works?” The comedian asked, impatiently.
“I just want to know where in ‘Stralia he is from!?”
The comedian was no longer laughing. He clearly didn’t want his set to be hijacked.
You would think that would be the end of the Aussie Heckler, but no, she appeared again. One comedian, coming to the end of his set, said, “Ah, one minute left. How should I end this?” And the Aussie Heckler just started clapping…. hard.
CLAP….CLAP….CLAP….CLAP
“Oh.” The comedian laughed nervously. “Is that my cue to go? Ha?”
CLAP….CLAP….CLAP….CLAP
And that was that. The comedian was off the stage.
As Sausage and I left the club, I couldn’t help but to feel something went wrong in there. I’m used to being in pain from laughing so much after a comedy night, not pain from being so tense. It wasn’t the vibe I was used to. Sausage wondered if the New York comedy crowd were harder to crack.
Was it that? Or was our audience particularly difficult? Or were the jokes not funny enough?
I guess I’ll have to find out, when I use the material on my next date….
“Do you ever use Task Rabbit?”
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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BEEN THERE. DONE THAT. GOT THE PHOTO.
🎧AUDIO QUACK🎧
Skip introduction: 2:51
“Gen Z are turning their phones the other way to selfie,” Sausage said. “It’s so much better that way.” She took a selfie. “See,” she said, showing me the results. It was a good selfie.
We were on the Brooklyn Bridge during magic hour. The bridge was heaving with photoshoots of selfies and skylines. As the sun fell behind the financial district, I attempted to do the Gen-Z-selfie-way, only to produce a smudged photo of my face. Huh. I suppose you can’t teach old dogs new tricks.
With camera phones and social media, photos are no longer an afterthought but a vital part of our experiences. Photos of ourselves in places are proof that we have been there. That we have a life. Been there. Done that. Got the photo.
That week in New York, Sausage and I went to The Summit, a newish tourist spot with some of the city’s most outstanding views. It’s the 30th tallest building in the world, towering 1,401 feet tall. (If you’re not into measurements like me, that is approximately 83 giraffes). We went at 10:30 am to avoid the queue but had forgotten that this was Manhattan, so there was, of course, an anaconda of a queue.
We had our photos taken twice before getting into the elevator. In the first one, we were instructed to “Look up to the ceiling.” So, we did. The second photo was taken using a face scanner.
“Why?” I asked one of the Summit crew members.
“Oh. So, we can turn your face into a cloud…”
This made me more suspicious and confused.
We finally rode the elevator up the 93 floors to the top. We were directed into a vast, mirrored room with panoramic city views. Tourists were lying on the floor, taking photos of their reflection in the ceiling. Others had their boyfriends taking pictures of them gazing at the city below.
“Ok, Steven, can you do it one more time? This time can you not have the wide angle on?”
“But how will you see the city?”
“GOD STEVEN!”
Meanwhile, Sausage and I attempted to be pinpricked by the Empire State Building’s ariel. It’s harder than it looks.
The next room was full of floating silver balloons resembling metal bubbles. It appeared dreamy on The Gram, but the place was chaos in real life.
People were scrambling over prime photo spots, children were throwing and popping balloons, and the security was shouting, “Do NOT pop the balloons!” After taking a shedload of photos and being smacked in the face with a balloon by Dennis the Menace kid, Sausage and I moved on to the next room.
It was a screen that spread across the wall, with a video of rolling clouds and zen music playing in the background. Now and again, a face will appear in the clouds. Oh god.
“That’s not me!” I yelped as Sausage pointed at a smiley, chubby-cheeked woman appearing. Sausage was next, her face poking out like a worm coming out of a hole. We were not attractive clouds.
At the end of the experience, in the gift shop, we were shown the first photo they took of us. We looked like we had just been told to “Look up at the ceiling.”
They had superimposed us onto different backdrops of New York and even made us into a timelapse.
They wanted to sell us a photo album including photos of us as clouds.
Sausage said no.
I said yes
The next day, we went to a vintage photo booth called Old Friend in the East Village. I learned about it when someone on my Instagram posted a classic photo strip of him and his girlfriend.
The faded yellow box with a brown scratchy curtain was hidden next to a humble store selling cheap suitcases. We only spotted it because of the queue of 18–35-year-old women and the odd supportive boyfriend.
A woman took a photo of the strip with her phone as it came out of the machine. The idea impressed the queue, and we all decided to copy her. A man standing close by, wearing a Knicks top, didn’t understand.
“Is that what you do now? Take photos of your photos?” He scoffed. The queue dismissed this man as an idiot. Play with a ball or something. This was our fun.
When each pair stepped out of the booth, they came with a tip on how to use it: You can only see yourself in the reflection. Change your pose as soon as it flashes. There are four photos. You only get one strip.
“Why is it wet?” A young girl asked, panicked as she picked her strip up from the machine. We have come a long way.
By the time Sausage and I entered the booth, we were prepared. We crammed in on the rickety stool, paid the $8, and pressed go. Flash. Change pose. Flash. Change pose. We stood outside and waited for a few minutes, and then the film dropped out of the machine with a small “tit”. Sausage took a photo of the photo in the machine. I took a photo of Sausage taking the photo of the photo in the machine. This is getting out of hand.
Today, we can take hundreds of photos of ourselves anywhere we choose. We can flip our phones the Gen-Z way. Or the normal way. We can add a filter to make us look ten years younger. We can even turn our faces…. into clouds. Yet, despite the evolution of photos, there is still a queue outside an old photo booth in East Village. Maybe because four faded black and white photos of you and your best friend, taken in an old tatty booth with no way to edit them, are some of the best pictures you will ever have.
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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WHAT’S A SACK? AND OTHER QUESTIONS ABOUT THE NFL.
🏈 AUDIO QUACK 🏈
Can’t be bothered to read? Let me read for you.
[Skip Introduction 2:31]
Last Sunday, I went to an NFL game with my friend Sian. Sian was worried that she didn’t understand American football, but neither did I. It was Minnesota Vikings vs. NY Jets. I was supporting the Jets because I had been to New York and not Minnesota. I also wanted to wear green knitwear.
The first American football game I watched was in the film A Cinderella Story. Chad Micheal Murray’s character, Austin, was on the pitch when he spotted Hilary Duff walking away. He then does something no man would do. He leaves his team and runs after her.
His Dad yelled out, “You’re throwing away your dream!”
Chad Michael Murray replies, “No, Dad, I’m throwing away yours.”
Chad then catches up with Hilary. He kisses her as the rain comes down. Jimmy Eat World is playing. There’s sweat. There’s rain. There are Chad’s shoulder pads…
And that was my first impression of American football.
Back to the real match! The game had begun, and Sian and I were confused.
Sian’s cousin had sent a voice note explaining the rules as simply as he could, but we still had many questions. Like…
What is a sack? It sounds painful. Why are there three teams on one team? Do they take that white bench with them everywhere they go? What is the career span of a cheerleader? Why do some players have tea towels hanging off their trousers? And WHO is that beautiful bald man with the gigantic headset?
Jets’ coach, Robert Saleh. That’s who.
OK FOCUS.
We are used to “British” football – a game involving one ball and one brain cell. American Football, though, excuse the pun, is a different ball game.
As someone who could create a one-woman-play out of a text a man has sent, I can understand how one can overcomplicate a sport. See, if it were my responsibility to make up a game, I, too, would end up painting a gigantic ruler on the grass. I, too, would have monstrous headsets and clipboards. And I, too, would have 53 players.
“We will need a team for scoring, a team for defending, a team for kicking…”
“Can’t the scoring team do the kicking?”
“No, these have to be special kicking people.”
It’s so confusing who everyone is and why they’re there, that I asked AI to explain it…. using Toy Story characters as references.
Here is what AI told me….
Quarterback (QB) is Woody. Woody is the leader of the toys and takes charge during their adventures, just like the quarterback, who directs the offence and makes crucial decisions on the field.
Running Back (RB) is Buzz Lightyear. Always ready to launch into action, Buzz represents agility and speed, making him similar to a running back who needs to navigate through defenders and break away for big plays.
Wide Receiver (WR) is Jessie. Jessie is adventurous and always ready to catch whatever comes her way, embodying the wide receiver’s role of making strong catches and running intricate routes to help score touchdowns.
Tight End (TE) is Mr Potato Head. With his versatile nature—able to change his form in many ways—Mr. Potato Head mirrors the tight end, who needs to be both a strong blocker and a reliable receiver.
Offensive Lineman (OL) is Hamm. Hamm is solid and stands strong, providing support and defence for his team. The offensive linemen protect the quarterback and create openings for running backs.
Defensive Lineman (DL) is Rex. Though shy, Rex embodies strength and is determined to protect his territory. Similarly, defensive linemen are fierce players, aiming to disrupt the offensive and prevent them from advancing.
Linebacker (LB) is Slinky Dog. Slinky is flexible and quick, just like linebackers who need to cover ground, defend against both the run and pass, and react quickly to plays.
Cornerback (CB) is Bullseye. Quick and agile, Bullseye can dart in and out to guard against the opposition, making him comparable to a cornerback, who’s tasked with covering wide receivers and making intercepts.
Safety (S) is Andy. As the protector of his toys, Andy represents the safety position, which is all about reading the play and being in the right place to defend against big plays or provide support to other players.
Thanks AI. Now, it all makes sense. (I think).
‘Slinky Dog’ for the Vikings, aka Andrew Can Ginkel, ran up the pitch and did a touchdown thing. The whole stadium erupted in the Viking chant.
*Clap* “SKOL!!” *Clap* “SKOL!!” *Clap* “SKOL!!”
I was clapping away, having a lot of fun, when Sian reminded me I was a Jet supporter. Oh Yeah.
There was more charging and tackling, and “Hut! Hut! Hut!” But most of all, there was more talking. Every second or so, a yellow hanky was flung onto the pitch by one of the referees, prompting another discussion about what went wrong.
And again, I get it. If it were my sport, I, too, would have many rules so that we could talk more and play less.
It began to rain, and all the players were tumbling into each other like hedgehogs on ice. The rain, mixed with the shoulder pads, reminded me of the scene with Chad Michael Murray. I thought of Robert Saleh, the NY Jets coach, watching in despair as the Vikings scored another touchdown. He looked up at the screen and saw me, (I don’t know why I’m on the screen), but suddenly everything made sense to Robert Saleh. He threw off his gigantic headset.
“Robert, what are you doing? You’re throwing away your dream.”
“No, referee 5482, I’m throwing away yours.”
He climbed the walls of the Tottenham Stadium and found me.
“Mary, I’ve been waiting for….”
*CLAP!* “SKOL!” The crowd screamed, breaking me out of my fantasy.
Stephen Gilmore (aka Bullseye) had intercepted a throw, which meant the Minnesota Vikings had won, apparently. 17-23.
Sian and I leave the stadium a little wiser. We now know there is a beautiful man called Robert Saleh, who, whilst writing this Quack was fired from the NY Jets. Sad times. Skol means cheers. The midwestern U.S state, Minnesota, called their team Vikings because of the large number of residents with Scandinavian heritage in the state. New York Jets, well, the stadium was near the airport….Ok. And, with help from AI and Toy Story, we now know what everyone is doing on that pitch…kind of.
Flying Duck
The Quack is off and will return on the 23rd October. BUT, I will be releasing an old Quack for the podcast next Wednesday. Find me on all popular podcast apps. 🦆
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MY DREAM PUB – THE KING’S KNEES.
🎧 Audio Quack! Skip Introduction 2:12 🎧
When I meet my Dad, it will often be in an old British pub. He’s comfortable there, as if it’s an extension to his home. He sits at the bar like it’s his dining table. And he is not alone, many people are comfortable in pubs because they know what to expect…
It would usually be a dark room designed to hide decades of spilt drinks and HP splodges. There is the smell of beer and urine. The surfaces will stick to your hands like fly paper. And there is always a wonky table being saved by the humble folded beer mat.
Even though I appreciate the charm of it, I’m not as keen to spend my time in a pub, but maybe I would if it was tailored to my liking.
See, if I had a pub… it would be called The King’s Knees.
(Illustrated with some interesting AI images)
Unlike the traditional pub, where it’s so dark it can feel like you’ve stepped into Captain Hook’s office; The King’s Knees will be bright and welcoming in the day, moody at night. There will be big windows, lamps, candles, and a gigantic farmhouse chandelier.
The bar will be made out of polished stone. (No, I don’t have a budget).
You can sit at the bar on the bar stools. These bar stools will not make you feel like a victorian school child in the naughty seat. They will be black leather (like an Eames chair) with a back. The height of the stool can be adjusted. This saves me and my fellow short humans from hiking up the thing. It’s not a sophisticated sight.
“Sorry Bob, wait a second.” *Get out climbing rope and climb the bar stool* “Ok….”What did you say your job was?”
The drinks offered at the King’s Knees are called pleasant names, none of this Neck Oil or Camden Hells. No. They will be called Dizzy Rabbit or Putney Heavens. Your well deserved drink will be presented, not in a bulky scratched pint glass that looks like it has a disease, but a crystal glass that makes you feel like you’re a guest of Mr Gatsby.
The drinks will be served by Joanie, a woman in her 50s, who is there like a second Mum, willing to give you the hard truth about your tumbling life.
“What I suggest you do is stop thinking there are plenty of fish in the sea. There was ten years ago, but now, at your age, not so much.”
Sigh. “Thanks Joanie.”
“Anytime. Here have another Dizzy Rabbit.”
You’re feeling peckish. What are the bar snacks?
What they are NOT are deep-fried pig skin with the hair still on. And they are NOT tiny packets of bacon flavoured crisps that tastes like something you would feed your dog.
No. At the King’s Knees you will be offered posh nuts. You know they’re posh nuts because they live in jars and are flavoured exotically; Honey cashews, rosemary almonds, sea-salt peanuts. Salt from the sea?! If nuts are not your thing, then there are olives, mini sourdough loaves and hot fresh popcorn.
Dogs are, of course, allowed. And so are cats. There is a residential Bernes Mountain Dog called Mr Darcey, who likes cuddles and does an excellent impression of a rug in front of the fireplace. The fireplace is in the designated reader’s corner, which has lamps, sloppy sofas and armchairs. You can read or do your online shopping here. It is treated like a quiet carriage on the train. You can be sure you can read your book without anyone disturbing you.
“What you reading there fitty?”
“Erm…Pride and Prejudice.”
“Sick. What’s it about?”
“Erm……”
There is an area for when you do want attention. The area has communal tables and games like shuffleboard, a pink pastel-coloured pinball machine and Scrabble. If you’re single, this is a great place to stand. If you’re a married man, do not stand here.
This is my favourite. A pub’s toilet situation can be like battle of the sexes; who gets the ground floor toilet? The Mens toilets are commonly, easily accessible on the ground floor. Meanwhile, the Ladies are way up high in the heavens, and it can feel like you’re walking up a tourist attraction to get there.
In the King’s Knees, there will be no climbing. All toilets will be on the ground floor and clearly signposted, so you don’t end up on an impromptu treasure hunt. The toilets will be triple the size. They will have flattering lighting and floor length mirrors. One of these mirrors is designated for Hinge selfies only. (Stops people hogging the mirror. It’s a problem). The cubicles will be rooms, not some flimsy space hidden behind a saloon door, with a gap wide enough for a peep show. An infinate amount of toilet roll is crucial. And I want those dryers that makes your skin come off its bones. Oh, and Tom Hardy reading ‘I am a Tiger’ , will be playing on a loop.
The best thing about The King’s Knees, except for Mr Darcey, is the coming together of strangers to watch the ‘sport’.
Every Tuesday, people will leave their families to come to The King’s Knees. They will settle at the bar on their (adjustable) bar stools, stare at the screen, and erupt…. as The Great British Bake Off theme begins to play…
What? Do you really think I will allow actual sport in my dream pub?
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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SURVIVING FILM SCHOOL
AUDIO QUACK (skip intro 2:14)
Also available on all popular podcast apps
When I turned up at film school in 2010, I was nineteen and had come straight from my sweet, sheltered all-girls Catholic school. I wanted to learn how to write screenplays like Richard Curtis, and how to cut film montages like the one I had seen when Bella was dying in Twilight. You could say, I was a little green back then. Sometimes I wonder how I even survived…
Survival Tip One: Hide.
One teacher was a former TV director. He wore long leather jackets and drove into the school on a Harley Davidson. He would walk into class like a Resevoir Dog and began with a scary pep talk
“I tell you guys, this industry is not for the faint-hearted. If you can’t stomach me, than you won’t last a second out there….”
We then started the class, which was filming puppets.
One by one the students would take it in turns to be “in the director’s chair.”
“Why did you cut to camera 3? The shot of the puppet is clearly better in camera 1!?” The teacher would shout.
I didn’t fancy being in that director’s chair, so I volunteered to be the class editor instead. I hid far away in the editing suites, and got one of the highest marks in the class.
Survival Tip 2: Take notes.
The course was mostly practical; learning how to light a room to look like a sunset and how to focus a camera. But sometimes we had film studies. These classes would vary depending on the lecturer. Like once, a screenwriter came in. He had some work to do, so he put on Die Hard for us to watch. “Yeah, just…take notes on Bruce’s character arc.” Another lecturer came in and wanted to show us how much he knew. He spent the lesson naming obscure arthouse films and then got angry that we hadn’t watched them.
“What do you mean you haven’t watched 1988, Drowning by Numbers? Guys, come on!”
He then went on to say that Michael Bay (director of The Transformers franchise) had, “bent over and let Hollywood screw him.” I wrote it down in my lecture notes. Michael Bay….has bent…over…and let…Holly….wood …screw him…
Survival Tip 3: Damien wants to make films.
The first day of the experimental film module, had us meditating for twenty minutes, whilst the teacher walked around and said things like,
“What do you see in your mind’s eye?”
The idea of this module was to teach us how to be as creative as possible. We were given a project called ‘colour’, where we had to chose a colour and do a presentation on it to the class of why that colour makes us feel creative. I chose white and bought some white caps and fabric pens. My thought was that white allowed a blank canvas for us to create. I got the class to draw a design on their cap.
Everybody had fun drawing doodles and writing words on their cap, but fellow student, Damien hadn’t drawn anything on his cap.
“I haven’t drawn anything on my cap because…no offence Mary…but it’s this kind of s*** which is why I left drama school. I came here to make films, not to draw on caps. I’m going home.”
He walked out. I looked down at my cap which I had drawn sunshines all over, and whimpered.
Survival Tip 4: If you don’t smoke pot, make yourself useful.
I made some good friends at film school, even if it was done in a roundabout way. We would occasionally gather at a house where four of the guys lived and sit in a dark lounge, surrounded by DVDs and beer bottles. A joint would be passed around the living room. When it got to me, I would smile and wave my hand. “No, thank you.” (That’s another lesson Catholic school didn’t teach you—how to be cool). One night, I got bored of the drowsy film chat, so I went and cleaned the boys’ kitchen. I was supposed to only wash a few plates, but it got out of hand.
One of the boys came in, red eyed and confused. “Why is our kitchen so sparkly?”
“Oh, I just did a little wipe down,” I said, as I lit a scented candle and left it on the bench. They were super happy with me, and I was invited back.
(In hindsight, it would have been easier if I had just smoked pot).
Survival Tip 5: Catering
After three months into the course, we were let loose to create our first short film. Student films are notorious because of the limited budget and limited skills. Mine was no exception. I had my crew of students, four professional and patient actors, a borrowed living room, and a mousy voice.
“So…I was…thinking…perhaps…we could…go again…but…this time…could you….do it like…you …like your….wife…please?
What I didn’t have in on-set presence, I made up for in the catering. It may not have been an Oscar-winning film, but I put on the best spread: sandwiches, gummy worms, carrot cake… If only actors ate food.
Survival Tip 6: Back up.Back up.Back up.
Jess, Kat, and I took the five-hour train journey to Durham to film a documentary about the student drinking culture. We spent all night filming students as they drank in bars and danced in clubs. As soon as we got home, I accidentally wiped half of the footage. Back up. Back up. Back up….
BLOG SOUNDTRACK
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THE AWKWARD LIFE OF A PEOPLE- PLEASING-PLANT-BASED-PERSON.
AUDIO QUACK (SKIP INTRO 2:12)
Also available on all popular podcast apps.
I was on a flight heading back from Australia. It was dinner time, and my vegan meal arrived, hand-delivered by the flight attendant. I tore open the silver foil and began wolfing down my specially made chickpea stew. As I ate, I could sense the glares from the other passengers as they waited impatiently for the food trolley to deliver their dinner.
The woman next to me leaned over.
“Are you vegan?” she asked.
“Plant-based.” I corrected her with a mouthful.
“Oh.” She leaned back with her eyebrows raised. I could already tell she thought I was an arse. “Is that for the animals?”
I hated this question, so I shrugged it off. “Yeah, for the animals and the environment and stuff….”
“The environment, hey?” She said, raising her eyebrows once more. This time, at the window, where you could see the aeroplane’s engine blasting away above the ocean.
What am I supposed to row from Australia?!
Veganism is the belief that no animals should be exploited, harmed or killed for human use. I am not a vegan. My wardrobe is filled with cute leather boots and suede jackets. I dollop honey on my toast. And I slaughter the occasional bug. I do, though, follow a vegan diet, which means; no meat, no fish, no eggs, no dairy…. and no friends.
I’m exaggerating. I have friends. Promise. Even my parents still talk to me after coming out as “vegan” six years ago. However, I’m the first to admit that on paper, I’m awkward and annoying.
When I go to restaurants, I find my presence alone stresses out my fellow diners. As soon as we sit down, they will scan the menu.
“Is there anything you can eat?” They will ask in a panicked voice. It’s 2024. We’re in Soho at the height of the plant-based trend – there is always something to eat. Even the restaurant, Burger and Lobster, has a plant-based lobster. I mean burger. They have a plant-based burger.
Sometimes, my fellow diners will ask if I’ll be offended if they order something meaty, as if they think I’m going to throw red paint on them and scream out “MURDERER.”
Admittedly, being perceived as the Shark in Finding Nemo feels nice. Fish are friends, not food. But I’m not one for a protest. They could eat a whole hog roast for all I care. Besides, we all assume the pork was once a friendly pig like Babe, but it could have been an evil pig like Napoleon in Animal Farm. Turning him into sausages doesn’t seem such a bad thing.
Once my fellow diners are reassured that I will not ruin their meal. It’s time to apologise to the waiters, who will have to tell the chef that I will be adapting their signature dish to a bland bowl of nothing.
“Could I have the chicken Caesar salad without the chicken, cheese and oh, the Caesar sauce. No, I’m not allergic to animals. I’m just a wonderful person. Thanks.”
Dating is a whole other thing because being vegan automatically puts you in the high-maintenance bracket. I already know my future mother-in-law, wherever she may be, will roll her eyes before she even meets me.
“NO Mummy, you can’t cook your signature aromatic milk-braised wild boar, because Mary is a vegan.”
“Oh, Douglas, you do pick them, don’t you?”
(*Life goal to marry a man who still refers to his mother as mummy at the age of 42).
Because of the stigma, I tend to reveal my vegan diet subtly to a man, in the same way you would subtly tell them you get cold sores.
Once, I spoke to a man on Hinge who liked cooking, and he would send me picture after picture of huge plates of meat. He would talk about romantic days ahead when he would cook for me. After a week of this chat, I realised I had to come clean.
Me: I have a confession.
Me: It may be a deal-breaker.
Me: I didn’t mean to do it, but…
Hinge Man #3445: You’re vegan, right?
Me: Maybe.
Hinge Man #3445 sends a voice note. He is laughing. “I f**** knew it.”
I never did meet Hinge Man #3445….
The only time I strayed from the diet was when some bloke cooked me fresh egg ravioli pasta from a box. I wanted him to fall in love with me, so I ate it. Now, whenever I preach about being an independent woman who lets no man tell me what to do, my friends remind me.
“Yeah, but there was that time you ate fresh egg ravioli from a box to please a man.”
Occasionally, someone asks if I miss any foods.
Yes, is the answer.
I miss bacon sandwiches. I miss throwing and catching Maltesers in my mouth. Sucking the ears of Lindt chocolate rabbits. Dippy eggs. Mum’s roast chicken. Pineapple gummy bears. Crispy duck smothered in soy sauce and wrapped up in floury pancakes. Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Chew Chew. That cheese at Christmas with the cranberries in it…..
So why am I bumbling this awkward plant-based path?
I wish I had facts to convince you to join me. (WE CAN BE ANNOYING TOGETHER). But all I can remember from the top of my head is that pigs are more intelligent than a two-year-old human. When I said this to my Mum, she said, “Eurgh, two-year-olds are a nightmare.” It was not the response I was hoping for. Like I said, I’ve never been good at protesting.
At some point, I watched documentaries, read books, followed some Bali influencers, and became convinced that a vegan diet was good for the planet, my health, and the animals, so it felt like a win-win…win.
Now, six years on, I’m still alive and have gotten used to being annoying. I’m also now used to getting my meals before the other passengers on the plane. So, I can’t turn back now.
However, I have found out, quite depressingly, that the Bali influencers lied – You still age on a vegan diet.
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THIRTY-THREE
Audio Quack
(Skip introduction 2:00)
I woke up on my 33rd birthday to a ticking noise. It sounded like there was an antique clock somewhere in my flat. Curious, I got out of bed and began searching for the source: under the cushions, behind the books, beneath my half-dead plant…
“What is that strange ticking noise?”
“Oh, that’s your biological clock, Mary,” said a bitchy female voice.
“Who said that?”
“Your Barbie doll, Stupid.” My body froze, but my eyes moved to the Barbie doll on the bookshelf. “Hi, there.” She waved.
I screamed, ran into the bedroom and closed the door. Why in God’s name is Barbie alive? I was leaning against the wall, trying to catch my breath when I spotted someone staring at me in the mirror, a woman with the most wrinkled grey face I had ever seen. I screamed again. The old woman screamed too. I moved my arm up. She moved her arm up. It’s me! I’m the elderly woman!
“Nobody will swipe right now,” Barbie laughed from the other room.
The ticking got louder. Barbie was cackling. My face kept creasing up until it fell off completely and all there was left was a skull. The skull then dropped off and rolled across my John Lewis rug.
I shot up my pillow, panting and patting my face. I ran to the mirror and found I was back to my thirty-something self. The ticking sound was gone. And after vigorously shaking Barbie, I was satisfied that she was just a toy. I breathed out in relief. It was just another Barbie nightmare. I really need to get rid of that doll.
I then remembered that today was my actual 33rd birthday, and so I put on my bikini and went to the spa with my Gail’s buddy Sian.
We spent the morning in a hot tub with clay smeared on our faces as if we were disguising ourselves as rocks. As our skin soaked in salt, we had our usual girl’s locker room talk.
“Why do you think he said…see you later?”
“Because he has commitment issues due to his Dad leaving him, and doesn’t want to say a firm date in case you let him down, so he’s keeping it very casual and cool, even though you’re the woman of his dreams.”
“That’s what I thought….”
We then had oily back massages, followed by pizza. You’re right Belinda – heaven is a place on earth.
I went to Hermione and Sam’s for dinner. After reading a book about the climate crisis, Hermione converted to a vegertarian and now she’s a slave to the bean. The other week we planned to meet for coffee, but I got ditched at the last minute as Hermione claimed she needed to soak her chickpeas instead. It reminded me of the time a man said he couldn’t see me on the weekend because he had to do his laundry.
The bean dinner was a Romesco Butter Beans dish. Despite it looking like something you see on the pavement outside Weatherspoon’s on Sunday morning, it was delicious: a creamy autumnanal bowl with squishy bread. (A link to the recipe here. Hermione wants you all to know that she used walnuts, but you can use any nut)
After eating, I was ordered to stare out the window, whilst Hermione and Sam kerfuffled behind me.
“Christ, where are the matches?”
“Use this lighter!”
A second later, they began singing Happy Birthday. Hermione was holding a cake with two candles. She had woken up early that morning to make it. I tell you, nothing makes you feel more loved than when your friend makes you a homemade birthday cake.
And that was day one of the celebrations.
Some people don’t like to make a fuss. They would prefer their birthday to go by as subtly as a leaf falling off a tree. I’m not one of these people. Every year since we got let out of Lock Down, I have summoned my friends to celebrate my increasing age.
This year, I ordered them all to a room at The Duchess on Duke Street in London. To save money, I bought a single ‘3’ balloon, and put it by the mirror to make a 33. You’ve got to make the most of being a palindromic number whilst you can.
Due to its name, I made it mandatory for everyone to wear a crown. I didn’t think anyone would actually do it, but each one of my adult friends walked into the room with a crown on their heads. Hermione and Sam had ones made out of grass. Jenny wore a black tiara. Poetry Ed and Kate had flowers. Carrot had a crown made out of metal. Sex Ed Tom wore a gold leaves like a Greek god…Poor Amy ‘forgot’ her crown. Thankfully, I had set up a crown making station so she can create one and wear it for the rest of the night. That’s what friends are for.
There is the fear of the ticking clock, when you’re single and turning 33. But in the last year I have come to realise that you can’t force life, so you just have to roll with it.
The next time I’m a palindromic number, I will be 44. Hopefully, by then, I’ll stop having nightmares about my Barbie. Perhaps I’ll have kids, but more likely, I’ll be a dictator on a tiny island, summoning people to dress for theme days. Or maybe I’ll just be a skull on a John Lewis rug. Until then… roll on 33.
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WHEN YOUR GIRL LEAVES YOU ON THE SHELF.
🎧 aUDIO QUACK 🎧
(Skip me babbling on 3:28)
In the 1920s, a Listerine commercial targeted single women to sell their mouthwash by implying that the reason why women are on the shelf is because of their bad breath.
This is the transcript:
listverse.com/2010/08/15/10-sayings-and-their-strange-originS
“Poor Edna was getting on for thirty and most of her girlfriends were either already married, or about to tie the knot. How she wished that, instead of being their bridesmaid, she could be the bride! However, any romance of hers invariably ended quickly. There was a reason. Unbeknownst to her, she suffered from bad breath and no one would tell her, not ever her closest friends.”
Thankfully, life on the shelf is not seen to be so terrible anymore and is made easier when your friends are up there with you – friends like Helen. If it was only you up there, you’d constantly be breathing into your hand to check yourself, but because Helen is there too, you feel reassured that it’s not you that’s the problem; it’s everyone else. (Like the whole of the male population).
You’re having a great time with Helen. You send each other single women memes daily, eat all the brunches and go on girls’ holidays. You peer down from the shelf and see the moody boyfriends, screaming babies and the mandatory lunches with the mothers-in-law, and think, no, shelf life is where we want to be.
One evening, Helen gets taken to The Blues Kitchen in Brixton on a date with Greg from Hinge. You are confident that Helen will be coming back because she’s already laughed at Greg’s rollneck jumper. So you sit on the edge of the shelf waiting for Helen to return…but she never comes.
It turns out that Helen and Greg are compatible. GULP.
After two weeks, Helen has spoken so much about Greg that you know him like the the top of your cleavage. Greg is a vegetarian but sometimes eats bacon. Greg frowns in the mirror when he shaves. Greg did the 3 Peak Challenge in 2015. Greg’s mum is called Sue. Greg is so funny. Greg smells like the inside of a saxophone. Greg’s Karaoke song is Ice Ice Baby. Greg’s grandad was in the RAF. Greg’s second toe is bigger than his big toe. Greg goes into Greggs and tells them his name is Greg…haha. It took Greg three weeks and two days to ask Helen to be his girlfriend, officially taking Helen off the shelf.
So you’re left eating brunches on your own. You google how safe it is to travel to Rome as a single woman. (Yeah, it’s safe, just awkward). You see all these single women memes but have nobody to share them with anymore.
Helen manages to detach herself from Greg for a quick girl’s brunch. It had been a few weeks, so there was a lot on the agenda for the meeting, including bumping into Helen’s ex in Gail’s Bakery and a full-breakdown analysis of a text a guy sent you. But then Greg, unexpectedly, walks in with his rollneck. He sits down with a confident sigh and puts his arm around Helen.
“Sorry, you don’t mind if Greg joins us?” Helen says.
And just like that, the morning meeting agenda is thrown away. Greg starts chewing on Helen’s ear, and Helen is telling him to stop, but not in the assertive way you want her to, more in a giggly-girly way that only encourages him.
“Stop Greg!” gigggle giggle “Greeeeg!” gigggle giggle “Stooooop” gigggle giggle.
You go home seething. How dare Helen let a man fall in love with her.
The next time you see Helen, she’s in a rollneck jumper, saying she’s trying Meat-Free Mondays and claiming she is excited about the Oasis reunion. Are you Helen, or is Greg the excited one? You want to say. Considering that your most listened-to artist in 2023 was Kelly Clarkson.
You realise that the woman sitting in front of you right now, is no longer Helen, she’s Grelen.
You would call her out for changing for a man, but you did the same when you dated that beefcake from Putney. You started to wear Gym Shark leggings to brunches, and once, you even posted a gym selfie and hashtagged it #GirlsWhoLift. Helen remembers that time too.
She tells you that she and Greg are going on their first holiday together and believes Greg is The One. This news is followed up with a sympathetic head tilt. “How’s the shelf?” she asks. (Not in those words exactly, but that’s all you hear).
You smile back and tell her that you are completely off men after reading a worrying article in The Guardian that said, ‘being in a relationship makes women age significantly quicker’.
“Double the speed, the scientists are saying.”
When you get home, you redownload Hinge and bulk order Listerine.
A week later, a photo is posted on Instagram. Helen, who once cried when she had to walk the stairs in Covent Garden tube station, is standing with Greg in front of a mountain, wearing a backpack that can sink a baby hippo.
Caption: Let the hike begin! #CouplesWhoHike @GregGreg.
Oh, Helen…Helen. Helen. Helen.
A couple of days later, you are vigorously rinsing your mouth out with Listerine when you suddenly spot two hands gripping the side of the shelf. Who to appear? Helen. She pulls herself up, rolls onto her back, and catches her breath.
“Grelen! I mean Helen. What are you doing back on the shelf? Aren’t you supposed to be up a mountain with The One?”
She tears off her roll neck jumper, flings it to the side, and says, “I’m back.”
bLOG SOUNDTRACK
Listerine Image and quote credit:
listverse.com/2010/08/15/10-sayings-and-their-strange-originS
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THE NOT-SO-WHOLESOME CALIFORNIAN HOLIDAY.
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
(Skip intro/ me talking about the UFO sighting 2:40)
Mum was sick of how technology was ruining family life. The TV was always on. Her teenagers were obsessed with MSN. Her husband was always on his phone. So, in 2004, she booked a remote ranch in California for a “wholesome family holiday”.
The Cottontail Creek Ranch was 850 acres. It had avocado and orange trees, a fire pit, blankets drapped-over rocking chairs…It was like stepping into a Jack Johnson song.
From the moment we arrived, Mum started acting like we were in a 1950s washing powder commercial.
“Children, would you pick some oranges so I can make fresh juice for you all?”
She decided to bake chocolate chip cookies to kick start the family wholesome week. So, in the Californian heat, she slaved away with a wooden spoon, stirring the dough as a bead of sweat dripped down her face. She rolled, cut, baked, and let the cookies cool by the window.
She was arranging her cookies on a serving plate when the lady who owned the ranch appeared at the door.
The lady announced her arrival with a playful knock in the air, “Knock, knock,” and stepped into the kitchen with a plate in her hand. “Don’t mind me. I’m just dropping off a homemade welcome gift. Enjoy!” She left a plate of gooey, thick cookies on the table.
Mum looked at her crumbling, slightly burnt cookies….and threw the wooden spoon into the sink. “F*** SAKE!”
Photo credit cottontailcreek.com At home, we would never sit around a table for dinner during the week, because we were far too busy doing what we wanted to do. In fact, it really unnerved me when I went to a friend’s house for dinner, and the whole family, Dad included, would be eating with us. Does nobody have a life around here?
So, on this holiday, Mum cooked dinner every night, and we ate around the table without TV, MSN or phones. Instead, we played card games and got to know each other better.
“What did you say your middle name was, Dad?”
“Robert. What’s yours?”
After dinner, we would sit by the fire place under the stars, spotting the comets as they flew over us. All we needed was for one of us to know how to play acoustic guitar and for Dad to tell stories about, ‘what it means to be a man…’ One thing at a time.
As sweet as family time was, I was 13, so I was a hormonal monster. I would often retreat to an isolated hammock during the day. I had my Walkman, the new Avril Lavigne album, and a lot of hypothetical thinking to do.
Jack and Joe, 16 and 15, weren’t so keen to sit still and think. They would play ping pong for most of their time, but when they got bored of that, they would play a game of swinging their moody sister in a hammock until she stormed off. Such fun. Such SUCH fun.
Mum gave my brothers the idea to go find the pond with the rowing boat. It was a blissful moment, watching them disappear over the hill, knowing I wouldn’t be bothered for the afternoon.
Photo credit cottontailcreek.com They sheepish when they returned for dinner. And eventually, it came out that they may have maybe, somehow, accidentally…. sunk the rowing boat.
One day, it was announced that the children would put on a talent show as if we were the von Trapp family from the Sound of Music. We had a few hours to prepare and met in the games room.
I was up first. I stood before my family, squashed together on the sofa, they looked like The Simpsons. I missed TV.
I cleared my throat. “This poem is about September 11th…”
Ah, my parents thought, not quite the von Trapp puppet show we were hoping for
After reading a three-minute rhyming couplet poem about the terrorist attack, I bowed to my slow-clapping audience of four.
Jack’s turn was next. Joe got up with him, and they announced they would be ‘sharing their talent’. Their talent? A 15-minute ping-pong match…
After this display of “talent” from their children, my parents agreed that when we get home, we needed to be put into more classes.
We sat under the stars by the fire on the last night of the holiday. Despite being victimised in a hammock, it had been a pleasant week getting to know the team.
“So, what’s your favourite memory of this holiday?” Mum asked as she rubbed moisturiser on her hands – they were red raw from squeezing oranges all week.
The family were silent for a minute as we all thought about the week that had just been.
“OH, I know,” Joe said.
“Yes, Joe?” Mum said eagerly.
“Those cookies the American woman made…”
“Oh yeah, definitely”, Dad, Jack and I agreed simultaneously.
Mum glared into the fire, still rubbing her hands with moisturiser.
And so, we left California with a bill for a rowing boat, and mother who had given up on her wholesome family dream…..
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I CAN’T CALM DOWN – IT’S TAYLOR SWIFT!
🎧 AUDIO QUACK 🎧
CBA to read? Let me read for you….
Skip Introduction (4 minutes)
TS 4EVA🎶💫 admin group was created.
Mary: You all better wear sequins.
Amy: You can, Mary.
Imogen: The only thing that fits over my bump is my dungarees.
Hermione: I may have to bring a sleeping bag.
Mary: Don’t bring a sleeping bag to Taylor Swift.
Amy was the one who managed to get us tickets to Taylor Swift. She has a solid career in the sports industry, which I hadn’t taken much notice of until she told us she had access to seats at Wembley and, therefore, was able to get us tickets to the Eras tour.
Despite being the ticket provider, Amy was not a Swiftie, nor was Hermione. I was gobsmacked when I found this out. I assumed we were all Swifties and that we listened to her songs for at least an hour every day. We just didn’t mention it because it was routine, like eating dinner or showering.
“Well, we’re a bit old for all of that, aren’t we?” Amy said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I stood on my soapbox.
Taylor Swift has united women around the world with her songwriting. She has written the soundtrack to most of our lives. I don’t know about you, but I spent 20% of our lockdown, in the bubble bath, listening to Folklore. She’s endorsed our feelings for nearly twenty years with her lyrics, no matter how gooey or petty those feelings were. For instance, when I was seventeen and found out my ex-boyfriend had moved on in a matter of weeks, I was THIS CLOSE to texting him a lyric from her song, White Horse…. ‘I’m gonna find someone someday who might actually treat me well….’
Thankfully, I did not send it.
This did make me wonder though, how many of us have used Taylor Swift’s lyrics in an argument.
Woman: You always break your favourite toys.
*Man inspects his Xbox.*
Man: What are you talking about? It’s working fine.
Woman: I’m the toy, Stephen!
Woman: You are the smallest man that has ever lived.
Man: I’m 6ft 4!
Or, maybe, some of us have used her lyrics romantically.
Woman: And isn’t it just so pretty to think, Steven, that all along there was some invisible string tying you to me?”
Man: Erm, yeah. Sorry. Did you say you wanted to share the cheese, or…?”
The night of the concert finally arrived. We agreed to meet at The Pret-A-Manger outside the Stadium because we’re all in our thirties, and we love Pret-A-Manger.
Imogen and I were the first there. Yes, THE Imogen from the McCain potato commercial. “You’re supporting the move to regenerative farming.” She was the closest I had to a Swiftie. She swears that her and Taylor are the same person because they are the same age and both grew up in the countryside.
Next to arrive was Amy. I had mentally prepared for her to turn up in corporate wear, but even Amy managed a red sequin top. Hermione came next; she had come from a sailing race. We were relieved to see that she didn’t have a sleeping bag, but she did bring a backpack and a one-litre metal flask that looked like a weapon.
To make her backpack as small as possible, she had to wear all the clothes from inside of it. So, she walked into the Taylor Swift concert wearing an oversized striped shirt and a mustard-coloured beanie. On the way in, we past other girl friendship groups, all matching in pink with glitter designs on their faces. Some of them had gone the full whack with a leotard and knee-high boots.
“How are they not cold?” Amy said, as she put on her black cardigan over her sequin top.
Hermione’s bag got through security, but her big metal bottle was taken from her, and then we went to find our seats in the stadium.
“I’m going to get very emotional,” Imogen warned.
“So am I. Taylor is the GREATEST woman alive,” I said.
“No, because of…” She points to her twenty-week pregnancy bump.
“Oh, hormones. Fair.”
The other two non-Swifties were asking stupid questions.
“Does Taylor Swift have a band?”
“Yes.”
“Does Taylor Swift have dancers?”
“Yes.”
“Oh god, she’s not going to do that ten-minute song, is she?”
“YES, she will sing ALL TOO WELL (THE 10 MINUTE VERSION). It is one of the GREATEST songs ever written.”
The stadium was full of 91,998 screaming fans, plus Amy and Hermione. A girl handed us each a friendship bracelet with Taylor Swift song titles spelt out using beads—a symbol that you’re part of the Taylor Swift cult. She gave me ‘Calm Down’. (I’m still not sure how I should feel about that).
When Taylor emerged from the purple bug things, Imogen started crying. I started crying, too.
“I’VE NEVER LOVED A MAN LIKE I LOVE TAYLOR SWIFT!” I may have yelled once.
The next three hours were magical. Everyone was united, singing in a sequin, glittery army led by the queen, Tay Tay. I never wanted the night to end.
Amy and Hermione, though, didn’t mind the night ending. In fact, they left a few songs early to avoid the crowds.
“It’s like leaving the final of the Euro Cup!” I shouted to Amy, exasperated.
“It’s not though, is it?” Amy said and left with Hermione
Imogen was next. She went just before the last song. To be fair, she didn’t want to queue for too long with a baby growing inside of her. I let her off.
I couldn’t leave until the house lights were on, and I knew for certain that Taylor wasn’t coming back. The fans exited the stadium like sparkling ants leaving a nest. On the bright side, now that my friends were gone, I could buy a Taylor Swift fan T-shirt….and a jumper.
I joined the humongous queue at Wembley Park station. I sent a photo of the queue to the TS 4EVA🎶💫 group.
Mary
I think I’m going to be here for the rest of my life.
Amy
Aw. I’ve just had a nice cup of tea and am about to go to bed.
Hermione
That’s what you get for being a mega fan.
Imogen
I just ate four potatoes.
So much for Taylor uniting women.
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