Friday, 17 October 2014

I'm Thinking of Leaving Facebook!

Critics bummed it, audiences bummed it and now, YOU can bum the bum out of it too! 

My show 'I'm Thinking of Leaving Facebook' has been running since July.  But, like Old Labour before us, all good things must come to an end. 

Playing at the King's Head Theatre, Islington only FIVE times more.  The run MUST END on October 25th.  I have pumpkin soup to make, yeah?

Watch the trailer:

Read the blurb.  Book the tickets.  Get excited.

See you in the bar after.

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Lolly Does Berlin

This week, Lolly took a short break to Berlin.  
Watch the Vlog below, for her Top 5 Tips!

Monday, 2 June 2014

Use Your Best China

Last week, my incredible niece turned 21.  Here are the Guidelines to Life that I wrote for her:

Don’t go on dates because you feel that you should.  Holding off on buying the nacho share plate because you’re poor and not sure if you work with his jowels, or his accent, or his chunky knit cardy, plus he’s mardy and hardly a man you’d want to bring home.

Don’t trust in those in which you share darkness.  To each other you are currents in late night shanties.  It’s too close to godless, a noxious surge. 

As your aunty, I insist that you always have taxi money tucked inside your tight leather hot pants.

Don’t be a nob.

Deal with piles at the first set of symptoms.

Be the other woman once only so that you know worthlessness to be a badge of dishonour, accepted nowhere, that will not so much as get you a seat on the tube.  Don’t get comfy with that feeling of being special only in the afternoons, not wearing perfume or glitter, in case you infect his clothes, his life, litter.  Watching him leave through the gap in the blinds.  Try not to be bitter.  Clutching gin that collides with the part of him that rusts inside, your downfall/demise.

Don’t buy the triple X Sony amplifier headphones; the first headphones on the internet.  They are shit.

Do dance in the rain, at bus stops, on your way to pay council tax.  It’s as close to the end of the rainbow as you’ll ever feel.  Not as depressing as it sounds.

Be you.  In all your complexity.

Use your best china.  I have an Andrew and Fergie mug up for grabs.  

Flee to mountaintops, tread water by barrel reefs and dive.  Clock kaleidoscopic spheres as they thrive, before they drain white.

Fight for our air.  Make your carbon footprint as slight as you can.

You will find things, If not God: symbols, totems.  Let them not be lighthouses or numerology, Guinness or BBC 3 comedy.

Don’t buy a Stevie Nicks phone cover from I Phones 4U dot com.  Like much in life, it will never arrive.

Instagram at all times.  But not food.  No one cares what you’re eating babe.

Always do April Fools.   People who cannot laugh at themselves need to learn softness.  Give it to them in cling filmed toilet seats.

Don’t tweet when unhappy or floating in gin.

Don’t like anything cat related on Facebook.

Empty the bin as much as you can.

Don’t kick out house mates if they are messy, light fingered or loud.  Just leave in a shroud, in the night (you’re allowed) slip free like a bored infection.  Your own private whirlpool.

Don’t be a nob.

Do wear a helmet.

Live in Berlin before it is colonised.  Swim in Badeschiff, a pool on a river.  Break into Spree Park and run through deserted, broken dinosaurs.

Force yourself to see blackness.  Close your eyes by the creaking, squeaking turbulent skies.

Look up Manuel Schmutte and say ‘Lolly says hi’.

Finish cheese boards before your compadre.

Have midnight picnics with people you can only love periodically and who it’s best you never see again.

It’s OK to carry a hip flask as a secret sling beneath weathered skin.

Live somewhere safe with good central heating and a view of trees.  Make sure it has good night buses, at least two door keys and is north of the river.  No one wants chicken bones between their toes in summer.

Don’t microwave mackerel or your popcorn will taste fishy.

It’s OK to carry a hip flask as a secret sling.

Always know the way home.  You never know when you may find yourself without power, hope or a good pair of ruby shoes.

Know that you can call me day or night.  Know that there is always a solution.  When faced with stagnated Sahara sand, blown inner land, disband bad thoughts… hailstones will appear and wash away hardness, an inability to love, GDR bricks blocking kindness.  The smog clears with snowflakes.  In a white, reflective snow globe, we are paused and we are perfect.

Cry when it hurts.

Tinder is not an option.

Never expect a boomerang to return.

Never expect a ginger man to return.

Always expect piles to return.

Do not lie about your intelligence or social cigarettes.  They are not social.  They are £8.80 a packet.  They are both damaging and glorious.

Lie about your age, your bra size and about how much you actually enjoyed India.

It is OK to carry a hip flask.

Always help your mother/my sister with Christmas dinner.

Always make sure your aunty’s glass is topped up with fizz.

You are brilliant.

You are beautiful.

Use your best China.  It’s OK to be a broken tea cup.  A pasted together saucer.  

I wanted to buy you a compass for your 18th but Topshop Accessories were all out so I bought you a Cheryl Cole album. 

I took an oath before a God I no longer believe in to protect you. 

Throw me as hard as you want.  I will always return.

Quieten as much as you need.  I will hear your black box, twenty miles below the sea.

And if you want the Andrew and fergie mug, just fucking ask me.

I have gin with which to fill you up.  And a flimsy map home.

Saturday, 12 April 2014

(Not) Love in Westminster

I haven’t written a blog in a long time.  I sold my soul to a temporary data entry job (with no internet access-arghhhh)!  For an extra pound an hour, I have been working in a former prison, with a quarter inch view of sky, a temperamental scanning machine and a coven of sugarless, menopausal women.  Great, if you enjoy working in an air conditioned office all frickin’ winter:

“Oh Janice, I’m having another flush, crack the whirry thing up to 10".  

Morose if you’re still alert to life, believing it to be a thing of beauty rather than something you squander 9 til 5, en route to a retirement in an SW14 postage stamp garden.

But mainly I stopped posting because I’d become a victim of my own caricature.  My rich sex starved narrative, whilst a collective source of amusement was slowing strangling my lady garden and informing my love life.  So I embarked on a social experiment:

Quit the blog.  See if the men flock…

And they kind of did!  Believe me, no one was more surprised than the Lollster.  The mini skirts were back and the crimper on permanent standby.

Perhaps, working in the ancient institute of parliament has assisted me on my quest.  I'm not sure they've seen women who wear mascara or own a fully supportive bra since the pre suffragette movement. HOWEVER, I waded through the mire and talked (sometimes seductively) on levels with contractors, police, committee analysts, MPS…and whilst I cannot talk about a lot of my findings, here are a few of my learnings over the past three months:
  • Never boost the ego of a divorced man over 45.  They are ravenous, deluded, blood suckers.  Whilst they may kiss elegantly and be knowledgeable on the finer intricacies of a woman, they will inevitably be social vampires, on the prowl for energy kidnap and have a cavalier flair for the improper and flamboyant use of emoticons.

No, you can not even get the tube 'there'.  Ever.  All buses on permanent diversion, fruit loop.

  • Never snog a random on a night dedicated to the theatre.  When normal people watch a play, it may involve a G and T and a convo about the ethics of Jacobean staging.  But no, the Lollster watches a play, sinks three bottles of Prosecco with Pip Swallow, accidentally gets her feet tickled by a dirty contractor and snogs said (dodgy, weathered but VERY handsome) contractor enthusiastically in the Notting Hill drizzle.
  • Never be the other woman.  Special only in the afternoons, keeping the perfume and glitter on the downlow so as not to infect his life.  Becoming a poison.  A secret carrier amongst an unpolluted and morally courageous public.
  • Do snog men with pierced tongues.  Don’t make jokes about them being stuck in the nineties.
  • Try to stop moaning about the lack of investable characters on You Porn.  It is not their fault they can’t act.  Not everyone trained at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama.
  • Rum is not the answer to heart ache.
  • Rum is not the answer to a soulless job.
  • Rum is the answer to most other things.
  • Don’t get a fringe if you have a small forehead.   It is time consuming at 6am and ultimately unneccesary.


  • If someone won’t let you love them, do not love them.  Even if they are brilliant, capable of supreme brilliance, reek of brilliance to the point of intoxication and are caked in aceness.  When there is an invisible flight path connecting the two of you in a starless sky, between Bermuda currents and exploding, flinty meteorites…take the beautiful, perfect dick heads advice. 
  • Do poke old friends on Facebook.  It’s unexpectedly funny like a triumphant trump in the workplace.
  • Don’t talk to security guards outside of work hours.  They will start planning a collective future on the assumption that you’re into them when you’re just killing time between jobs and can’t yet be arsed to walk to Trafalgar for a Pret, avocado sandwich.
  • Always offer to do the coffee run.  Your loyalty card; a personal totem of success in an unrewarding universe.
But above all else:
  • When life gives you unripe limes, put them in your rum anyway.

I suppose if I’ve learnt anything since I last spoke to y’all, it is to avoid being someone who is dead inside.  I constantly meet people whose eyes have clouded over, who cannot freefall, who cannot put themselves freely and fleetingly in someone else’s possession, who have forgotten how to smile and who think it is acceptable to make an already cooling, *frosty office, colder.   

*Not a metaphor.  But also totally a metaphor.

I am nearly at the end of this temp post.  I am ready to pack up my bags once more like Supernanny and move on to my next destination, my flight path, as yet unprogrammed.  I am ready for the warmth of summer outside of my prison cell, to feel the sun on my face. 

I am thinking it is time to stop kissing people in the street, after dark, with abandon.  After all, it was but an experiment.  I have learned that love is cold, uncompromising and always governed by someone else.  We are all but lowly temps in an office, knowing that we are capable of something greater but unable to move for the giant, menopausal thumb on our head and flattening down our (possibly misjudged) fringe. 

I may still be at the bottom of every rung but I am free and I have (if only fleetingly) allowed myself to feel.  A wide awake fuck up, edging through a sleeping, prickly hedgehog nest.  And if I find myself in a black suit once more, on a reception desk, hungover, no love in my life, at least I will have space between phone calls to once again note down my musings. 

The blog is about to be back people!!  The blog is about to be back.

You very lucky, very sexy bastards.

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

Pale Imitations

I tend not to like other people that much.  The only time I break the code and talk to strangers is:

  • when traveling North of Newark

  • at the bar.  (Might get a free drink and or/phone number.  Aiiiii)

  • in the event of a cardiac arrest.  (Someone has to call the ambulance, it might as well be muggins)

And of course:

  • in a mosh pit

Sometimes I don’t trust others (or myself) but I have been known to blindly smoke anything put into my mouth in a mosh pit.  It’s something about the intimacy, the sweat, the united love of the band.  Nostalgia, as per.  *Isn’t most of our lives afforded to yearning something?

*Wait, hang on, put the crack pipe down Loll.  And step away…

I met a hottie at The Smyths gig.  The Smyths being the no.1 Smiths tribute band.  (Nothing like a fake Morrissey to get your loins pumping).  


After pulling his eager tongue out of my mouth, the mosher introduced himself.  (Better late than never).  Unfortunately, he had the same name as my ex-boyfriend.  Not a flying start.  My ex is lovely and all but he did fragment my heart in such a way that I could never again love anyone with goolies.

ANYWAY, my mind was working overtime, I was suddenly faced with the imminent danger that I may be called upon to ‘put out’.  I haven’t shaved my legs since 1992 but this guy was tasty and I owed my foo foo some fun.  I’d kept her lonesome for long enough.  I sometimes think of her as Moira Stewart in the tax return advert: grim faced and caged under the stairs. 

Mental thoughts started invading my brain:

  • ‘What if he wants to follow this up with a food date’?  (I have an exposed gum on my fangy canines so stray herbs can blight my smile.  No one wants to be rendered unshaggable between the starter and the Main).
  • ‘What will he make of my tofu encrusted bedsit?  Will he judge the ironic cat cushions’? 
  • ‘Will he overstay his welcome and not fuck off the next morning’?  I’m a writer dude, I want to lay in pools of my own thought juice, eat sweetcorn out of the tin and catch up on Big Brother…

I tried to push away such psychotic meanderings as we danced to Shoplifters of the World Unite…and then it hit me.  He wasn’t even a proper Smiths fan.  Was he shouting along to the vast intricacies of Sheila Take a Bow?  WAS HE BALLS?!  A hummer, we had ourselves a hummer.

“What’s your favourite song”?  I whispered in his ear, all sexy like Pfeiffer’s cat woman.

If it’s Charming Man, you’re a fake, if it’s Charming Man, you have no imagination, if it’s…

“Charming Man.  Such a tune”.

And on cue, fake Morrissey launched:

‘Punctured bicycle on a hill side desolate…’

Lover boy didn’t even know the words.  I kissed him just to quench his silence.

“What did I do to deserve that”? he asked.

That was it, right there.  My worries diminished.  I knew in that second that I was heading home to Jack Bauer and a reheated stew.  Don’t ask me such questions.  Grab me.  Tell me what you’re going to do to me.  Be the man.  BE THE MAN!

Nothing but a phoney in a room full of phoneys.

I spent the rest of the evening spontaneously tonguing him and walking off on adventures like a feral cat with commitment issues.  I broke into the club next door, (which was turd so I returned), I repeatedly told a student that he looked like Darius Danesh until he alerted security…at one point, me and my friend Emma pretended to lez off on two pouffets.  A clever ruse to get the old man bassist to notice us.  He did, moving our drinks out the way like a helpful dad.  (The best thing about that moment is that it wasn’t awkward).

All in all, the evening was odd.  Nothing like a tribute band to enforce the ideal that you are playing at being an adult.  I sometimes feel I’m living in the glitch in the matrix, the unhelpful space between two pouffets as your arse sinks downwards. 

Yes fake Morrissey, you have a smashing quiff and you sing pretty good but you’re probably called Melvin and work in IT.

And yes, kisser boy with the same first name as my ex-boyfriend, you may look the part of a sexy mosh pit pull but you never broke into a palace with a ‘spoon and a rusty hammer’ and you’re far too approachable and easy to read.  The Michael Mcintyre of leading men basically.

So next time, I will go to a ‘real’ gig and find myself a genuine riff-tastic shamen.  (Maybe I’ll even shave my legs in anticipation).  

And I will of course fill in that tax return, Moira.   I think we’re all due a big, fat rebate.  Aren't we love?

Wednesday, 18 December 2013

Time to Grow Up? (Parties and Open Houses)

As we all know, the only good thing about Christmas is:

  • A bearded man emptying his sack in your room

  • going to ‘Open Houses’.

Mulled wine: get in my face.

I’ll even pretend to like Christmas, anything to reach the buffet and the secret stash of Moet and Chandon.  (Lolly don’t like the cheap shit). 

My first Open House of the year was at a Uni friend’s gaff.  (Remember Uni everyone?  The £6 out of your pay packet each month; a happy reminder of those jager bombs you sank 12 years ago). 

The only problem was that the party meant…urghhh…eeesh…crossing the river.  The Shard screaming a shrill warning from its Barbican river bank:

“Do not cross over, oh great one.  Stay away from the chicken bone pavements, cavalier spittle and (shudder) Ethel Austin fashion boutiques”.

But I shut my eyes, pumped up Kate Bush on my Beats and sped forth to the middle class playground of Herne Hill.  Inclusive of petting zoo.  Casual.


(I can happily report that I did not encounter one chicken bone upon my journey, only a vast array of printed canvas bags in the pop up market.  South London, don’t you DARE take on Crouch End in yummy mummy-ness.  You’ll be selling carrots with the leaves on and queuing at your bus stops before we know it.  Where are the chavs?  Chavs?  Anyone)?

Now, the ‘do’ was frickin’ lovely.  Snackets, champagne on entry and my hot friend greeting me; all freckly and ginge.  As I went to throw my coat down, we hesitated at the closed bedroom door. 

“Shit, are people getting down to it already?” I asked, my excitable eye twitch working overtime.

“No. Someone might be feeding a baby”.

Babies?  What?  At a party?  But I’ve brought poppers.

I hung my matted ‘faux fur’ on the balustrade and headed downstairs to a mix of toddlers and married couples.

‘To be fair, we probably all have lots in common (as well as our age)’ I perused, setting out to locate a Retty girls three party essentials:

  1. Bubbly.  (Champagne or Cava, preferably both.  In the same glass.  Exotic.  A taste of the continent).
  2. Singletons.  (Any out there in Las Wilderness?)
  3. Smokers. (Generally the most interesting and quieter of the species: less talk, more listen.  Plus, anyone who chooses to isolate themselves from society, has my vote).

I troffed my body weight in nachos and met a dancer (gay AND taken), charity fundraiser (married), a director I worked with five years ago who failed to remember me (married and a parent), a teacher (engaged) and a divorce lawyer (single).   JACKPOT!  He had floppy hair and was obvs posh but I enjoyed the way he worked the room, courting business from even the most amorous of couples.  A knowing look here, a business card there…he also swore at the most inappropriate moments, generally in front of parents or open eared toddlers. My head was saying ‘run’, my heart was saying ‘soulmate’.

Chatting outside under a corner of Brixton sky, I meandered in for a snog when he dropped a clanger:

“I thought I was IN with the hot chick by the fondants but she kissed the tall guy in the pudding jumper”.

Great.  It was probably my bindi.  No one wants to kiss a blonde westerner with a bindi, do they? 

As night fell, I downed my Cava/Champagne mix, thanked my adorable mate, his husband, his parents, the dancer, the fundraiser, the director (who was now squinting a vague recognition that I perhaps sold him a beverage once, instead of playing lead wench in his play), the teacher and a baby, because, well, he was the only one blowing me kisses.


The next night, I attended the party of my voiceover agent where most people were about thirty years my senior (boom!) and tiddly from the free bar (double boom)!  I was referred to as ‘youthful’ all evening and the velvety toned oldies were bumming the bindi (*triple boom)!  

*Too much boom?  Is there such a thing?

I spent an hour talking to a silver haired wonderment because he was wearing a tie of hot air balloons.  Between tales of his bezzer mate Terry Wogan (AKA Trouser Snake), he’d drop in famous voiceovers he’d done throughout the years.  It’s hard not to wee in excitement when you’re on 7.5% cider and you realise you’ve just been talking to the **guy who introduced the 1 o’clock news for 20 years. 

**I’m a cheap date.

I got the tube some of the way home with an ace Geordie from the party.  At this point I was shit faced to within an inch of my life and full of festive hum-buggary.

“I just want a man who can come round and put a shelf up, you know”?

“Wye eye pet”.

Oh, wow.  I was THAT girl on the tube.  I should have just fallen to all fours and barfed on someone’s Reeboks.  (But I was north of the river and we don’t wear Reeboks, darling). 

I am trying to like Christmas, I really am.  And I’m enjoying the free bars, the Open Houses, the buffets, the bubbles.  I will trick myself into being a little more glass-half-full, which is…well, ironic. Because no one should wake up the morning after a Christmas party thinking:

‘Shit, did I really spend 10 minutes on the Victoria Line complaining that “guys don’t like girls with boobs anymore” to THE voice of Big Brother?

…your left eye now glued shut with a rusty bindi and your left hand still clutching an unopened bottle of poppers, child lock intact.


Tuesday, 19 November 2013

Being Shallow in the Modern Age

It’s not you.  It’s me. 

I had a date.  So naturally I stalked the internet for him to seek out a deal breaker and cancel. I’m not sure why I do this.  I get scared.  Mainly of awkward silences but also the thought that I might like him and have to surrender my cod-for-one in a parcel, tickety-boo existence.

You Tube proved fruitful. A few watches later and I was copy and pasting the link to my nearest and dearest…

‘Guys, watch the following clip.  I have a date with the guy who appears 43 seconds in.  Quick question.  Does his mouth move weird’?

“No.  You have issues,” came the first reply.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked another.   (And that was just my mother).

I don’t know.  I’m a ball bag?  If men did this to me, I'd get the hump fo sho: 

‘GREAT rack but serious wrinklage around the lower neck area and definite early signs of bingo wings.  Would probs cheat at the first whiff of adventure.  Twat.’

Eventually, after the clip had circulated, a trusted friend commented that his tongue might be a little too big for his mouth.  We both concluded that that might NOT be a bad thing (wink wink).

But then he made a big Boo Boo: he left me a voicemail.   Not cool dude.  (For a sometimes receptionist, I don’t half hate taking phone calls).

I waded through my answer machine, Babs leaving miniature love notes:

“Hiya love, it’s mum.  Just calling to see if you’d seen Sam Bailey’s performance.  She’s got a right voice on her.   You’re not answering so you must be out…again”. 

“Hiya love, it’s mum.  Can you write your Christmas list for Aunty Brenda?  She’s going into Norwich at the weekend.  You must be out…again”.

A few from PPI and then…

“Hello Lolly.  It’s Frederick.  It’s Wednesday at a quarter to eight in the evening.  Just calling to see if you’re well…

You lost me at ‘press 1 to listen…’

I pressed 3 for delete and lamented on why I’m such a shallow chump.  Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.  And now I’m ignoring his texts like all those boys have done to me.  I am scum. 

I decided to recover from my misdemeanours by dating someone else.  He was big, with a beard and there was no trace of him on the t’internet.  I courted him in my usual affectionate way: 

(All names have been carefully and seamlessly changed in this event of public slaying).

We met for a pint in Golders Green.  Here were the main issues:
  • He’d suggested Golders Green.  (We all know, the ONLY good thing about Golders Green is the chance of a Richard Madeley spot  in Waitrose).
  • He was sporting a half beard.  (Shave it or grow it.  But most of all; just grow it).
  • He looked like page three of the River Island catalogue.  (Leave the gel in 1997, babe).
  • His hands appeared callous free.  Get OUT.  (They hadn’t so much as seen a flat pack in their limited, sausage sized life).
I coped with all this by largely talking about myself and live-tweeting the whole event.

A date is like a drawn out salsa.  And I know all the moves.  Plus, I’ve been at it so long, I make Brucie look like a teen Belieber.  

Let them buy the first drink so they feel like a man, and step and slide.  Look around the room occasionally so they can do a quick body scan, and shuffle step…BLAHHHHHHHH.

"Ah, me bloody back.  When do we fake her death and phase in Winkleman"?

Yes, I’m shallow.  And it jars with my general state of being primed, (often misguidedly), for battle.  Is it too much to ask for a man of middle age to come over, assemble a book case, allow me to cook him dinner and play a symphony with his pork pipe?  Who says feminism is dead?!  Eh?  EH??!?! 

If I don’t ‘get a piece’ soon, my Tim Roth obsession will keep flaring up like ecszma.  God knows how many gash episodes of Lie to Me I’ll have to sit through, just to feed this steamy, rough and ready impulse.  It’s more debilitating than scrawling through You Porn’s back catalogue of Frisky Firemen.

Fundamentally, it makes me no cooler than ‘cat lady’ in Flat 2 of my building, (you can set a clock to the post-Emmerdale ping of her microwave).

Maybe I should text the first guy back.  (I mean, if you were kissing the mouth, you wouldn’t see it). 

Oh actually, hang on people...this is fate because I think…I THINK, I have another voicemail from him:

“Hi Lolly, it’s Frederick.  Don’t take this the wrong way but I’d like to withdraw my offer of a date.  It’s not you, it’s me.  My ex has been in touch and the feelings are still a little raw.  Also, I Google Imaged you and what the FUCK is wrong with your double chin dude?  Harold Bishop should be worried…”

I press 3 to delete and fire up Lie to Me.