Saturday, 21 March 2015

New Website!

It's been a fun time here at Blogspot for the last few years but it is time to pick up my sequin backpack and seek new pastures...

You can now find LOLLY DOES LONDON at Be sure to click on the link and subscribe!

Friday, 13 February 2015

Zig a Zig Ahhhhhh

I am too old to be out in Shoreditch but there I was, heading to a 90’s themed party.  Although, in East London, a ‘90’s themed party’ is effectively just a ‘party’.

I went to the wrong floor at first.  Ah, here they all are!  Black chokers, ill-informed denim jackets, shit hair…nope!  Just your regular Shoreditch drinking hole.

Revellers at the right party

This was my first night out as a singleton for months. 

Suck it up. 

It felt like a reunion after the hibernation of a monogamy cocoon.  Friends of yesteryear, all dressed like Tools.  Yeah!  90’s heaven!  All I needed now was a toke on a herbal fag and to be fingered on the dance floor.

It was great to see people again and I am partial to a jager bomb but I can’t be doing with all this shouting over the music business:


Ooh, aah, just a little bit….


Ooh, aah, a little bit more…

Before I could respond, a Tamagotchi fell into my lap.

Suzie!  Where have you been hiding?  Ooh…don’t come so close with those buttons, I’m not so good at keeping things alive.

Oh sod it, I thought.  No point lamenting.  This is a par-tay!  Sing it Kavana!

So I did the only thing a melancholy hotty could do in this situation: I boogied my way over to the guy with the most facial hair (a tough feat in Shoreditch - this guy was packing some tufts).

“Hey.  Nice tache, super sleuth”.

He turned.  Nodded his appreciation.

I then launched the killer line, the Eros arrow, always primed to work:

“You look like Richard from Guess Who”.

He turned.  Looked at me.  His tache unmoving, like a sexy, dead slug.

“Guess what”?

Oh, balls. 

That’s when it hit me. 

These bastards were barely alive in the 90s.  Babes in arms when Leslie Ash still had thin lips, when Brit Pop was riding high and Dane Bowers was the casanova of choice. 

What was I doing here?  I was there the first time around when pills were pure and STD’s an enviable disease.  (“Oh my god!  You had sex?!  Virtual high five, sista”)!

It was great to see everyone but I could catch up with them at my leisure, in a quieter, more refined atmosphere.  Perhaps, over a cup of Yorkshire Tea or during a stroll on the Heath.  Maybe even take in some Jacobean theatre and converse in the interval.

I gently orchestrated an Irish Goodbye, something I have perfected brilliantly over the years.  I pulled my coat and scarf from underneath a drooling Noel Gallagher, authentically locked in the mutha of K Holes.

Heading for the Overland, I meandered through piles of sick and queues for pop-up techno clubs.  The promise of policed fun hung diligently in the air. 

I was done with promises.

Safe in the sanctum of an empty train, I played things over in my head. 

I had come out too soon after the break up.  Booze would not help me get over this one.  Neither would kissing super sleuths. 

I suppose much like the draw of East London, it is all a smoky fa├žade.  Right?!

None of it is real…life, love, Shoreditch.  (That’s actually a great slogan – the tourist board can have that one).

It had been a great party but I had chosen to leave.

Alighting at the station, I gave my mum two rings to pick me up.  But then I remembered that this was no longer the 90s, so I queued for the bus and headed home alone.

Thursday, 18 December 2014


There’s nothing quite like an audition to show where you are supposed to be AT in life. 

Two years ago, I sat firmly in the ‘loveable, best friend’ casting bracket.  Not hot enough to win the guy but wise enough to be chief council and smiley enough to be a funny sub-subplot.  My inbox glistened with castings:

‘Warm, bubbly with an interesting face.  Quirky.  No model types’.

‘Quirky’ was the Lollster’s 2013 buzzword, along with ‘average + build,’ ‘no household names’ and ‘willing to work for free’.

When I didn’t get the job, I could relax, content in the knowledge that I just wasn’t bubbly (chubby) or interesting of face (dog-like) enough for the role.  It was NEVER down to being shite. 

But at least I was in the younger category.  The female with something to say, the female living her life.  The female with an above healthy Bueno addiction and all round dis-interest in cats.

Now, I go up for mums:

‘Warm, bubbly with an interesting, (if slightly haggered), face.  She has probably done a lot of drugs.  Quirky.  Bingo wings.  Mother of a young teen’.

There was a time when I would have been grateful to have been handed a temporary husband when heading into a casting but now I’m handed 2.4 children too.

“Just treat them like they’re your own” the casting director proffers.

Er…”but I just came from the pub and kids usually think I’m a c**t.  Oh, I can’t say that in front of the youngest?  Oh, wank.  Sorry”.

“Just pretend to make cup cakes and have a conversation about fairies…and keep the swearing to a minimum”.

I look to my two fake children who are already working the room: 

The older one is a stage school type who reeks of piano lessons and elocution.  His CV is already five times larger than mine and he has more contacts than I’ve had hand jobs. 

My ‘youngest’ is dressed head to toe in pink and unfortunately, it appears that she has gone to the Keira Knightly school of acting. 

“Hold this spatula Maisie, now can you remember when we saw that fairy in the garden”?

“We don’t have a garden”.  Pout.

I laugh quaintly, pretending to stir some hot caramel into the invisible sponge.  I momentarily forgot that we are in London and not the northern, countryside childhood of my yester year.  ‘Maisie’ has obvs grown up in an all concrete, Peckham penthouse.

“Ha ha.  What is your favourite fairy then, sweetheart”?

She looks at me, square in the eye, her ‘older brother’ squeezing her shoulder now, willing her creative genius to flourish, forthwith.  The two of us are spending the advert money in our heads.  Like mother, like son.

“Pink”.  Pout.

What?  Pink?  That’s not even a thing.

“Your favourite fairy is pink”? 

What a dumbass.

She stands there, hands by her sides, oblivious to the non-existent sprinkles I just put in her eye line.

Then my husband enters like a plumber in an eighties porno.  He’s suitably hairy.  I recognise him as the murder victim in a recent Poirot re-run.  He’s quasi famous!  ITV2-1 am-in-the-morning famous!  This is in THE BAG!

“Hi honey”.  He skids across the work surface and offers me a limited edition, non-stick cake baster. 

“For the woman who has everything”. 

He holds me. I smile.  Our son smiles.  Our daughter looks into the mid distance.  I kick her ankle.  Show me some teeth honey….a three grand buyout teethy smile…she pouts.  Man, I love my family.

My husband clings on to me for dear life.  He can smell the 50% for an optional second-year-repeat-fee. I look lovingly into his eyes, his dark, seen-better-days eyes and scan down to his Harold Bishop jowel.  It occurs to me that we could never pass for a couple, just as I couldn’t have birthed two children and look THIS FRESH. 

Or…OR did I just get old and not notice?  Did something just pass me by there?  The 144 bus and MY LIFE?  People my age DO have two children and baking skills.  Some of them have rank husbands.  Some of them are OK with it.  Shit.  This was like looking in a pound shop mirror.  The life that could have been. 

I drop the pink youth off with her real mum as my ‘son’ skateboards back to Dalston.  (Kids grow up so fast these days). 

The mum is toned and at least two years younger than me.  She has even brushed her hair. 

“Well, that was torture”.  I note to my bubbly, (chubby) husband.  “Pub”?

He waves his wedding ring at me in a camp yet sorrowful fashion.  What a joker.  Like I was after a bit of ass.

I sit in the pub, alone, drinking Tia Maria cocktails. Other 30 something women are littered around supping up calories.  This is like one of those anti-suffragette posters.  A warning.  What not to be.  A grave yard for the crows footed wenches who had once, dared to dream.

My phone rings.  My agent.  Yes!  That was quick.

“Hi Lolly, something’s just come in.  The latest James Bond…”

Yes!   They’re filming in London and they finally came a knocking…

“Miss Moneypenny…”

Yes.  Of course.

“They’re casting her mother”.


“I’ll do it”.

“It’s for the understudy”.

What?  How does that work?

“James Bond; the musical comedy.  A tour around old folk’s homes in the north-west”.



“I’m in”.

Thursday, 11 December 2014

The Pursuit...

This would be a terrible time of year to break up with a partner; it’s nearly Christmas and my blender has packed in.
We’re NOT breaking up.  Nor is this a ‘conscious uncoupling’.  He’s just moving out for a bit.
Personally, I blame the Tories.  The government’s inability to cap London rent has resulted in us sharing a room no bigger than a cupboard for the last six months.  There are shelves in Smeg fridges with more breathing space than our room.
We waited until we’d nailed Sopranos Series 5 and then we had ‘the conversation’.  For the sake of Tony and Series 6, we were going to make this work. 
A bit of space.  It’s what everyone in this polluted city craves, innit?  Space to swing a cat.  Space to do a smelly trump without offending.  Space to fry an omelette without waking your lover’s slumber, two inches from the hob. 
“OK, I agree.  Space is what we need.  Move out for a bit...
 but leave your Kenwood Gourmet FP505 blender and juicer, babe.  Yeah?”
And now, it’s a bit weird.  A mixture of loneliness and freedom.  The best of both worlds?  Or the worst?  I’m not sure. 
He left during a three day game of Trivial Pursuit.  The board lies unfolded in the tiny, designated eating area by the window.  My swelling pie, a daily reminder that I can never quite keep a man.  But I CAN rest in the knowledge that I am thoroughly schooled in Geography, Entertainment and Sports and Leisure.  (Every cloud).
Initially, I relished the partying ‘til dawn, once more.  Barging in (loudly now) as the shop below laid out its Christmas trees for the morning trade.  But then I awoke to the boyf’s weekly coffee delivery that I had ordered for his birthday.  The inscription on the label taunting my whisky-fuelled brain:
“Enjoy these beans Broseph.  Love from Lolly: light of your life”.
I’m weighing what this all means in my head.  Here are the good points of living alone again:
  • The return of Tom Yum Sum Noodles (from a packet) and Double Wank Sundays.
  • Leaving the washing up.
  • Watching shit model documentaries and generally being a base human being: lying unwashed, amongst crumbs of Discos (Salt and Vinegar) and Wheat Crunchies (Crispy Bacon). 
  • Coming home to an empty house.
  • Determining what needs washing by the sniff test (instead of the delicate, holding up to the light technique).
  • Not having to watch rugby.
  • Munching on two advent calendars instead of one.
But here are the bad points, in all their shitty glory:
  • Not seeing chest hair on a daily basis.
  • Not nestling my face in chest hair.
  • Not running my fingers through chest hair.
  • Not seeing him.
  • Not eating with him.
  • Not hearing about his day, as he tears through the fridge in search of cured meats.  (As he slowly remembers that he’s not Tony Soprano).
  • Coming home to an empty house.
  • Not being able to relay my tragi-audition stories through the medium of interpretative dance.   And feeling loved.
  • Washing half a load of clothes and consequently SCREWING THE ENVIRONMENT.
  • Waking up amongst a crumby pile of Walkers (Prawn Cocktail) and Wheat Crunchies (Crispy Bacon).
So, the next time I see him, it’s going to be as his Date on DATE NIGHT.
I’m out of touch.  Do I shave my legs?  My Foof?  Do I talk about my achievements and twirl my hair seductively?  Do I laugh in the right places and let him buy the first drink?  Do I tempt him back to my gaff with the promise of a blowie and some (newly blended) carrot and cumin soup?  Do I make him breakfast?  And hang on…who's washing the dishes?
I’m nervous.  But then it wouldn’t be a proper date without nerves, would it?
The only given here, is that I WILL be caning his ass in our unfinished game of Trivial Pursuit.  Let’s hope that we both have the stomach for a rematch. 
Universal love and (more importantly) The Sopranos-Series 6 are counting on us.


Wednesday, 10 December 2014

Lolly Does Christmas!

Sit back and let Lolly do the leg work this Christmas! 
Here are my top tips on buying gifts and those crucial No Nos:

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

The Name's Scrooge. Lolly Scrooge.

Black Friday.  Pink Monday.  What next?  Wank Wednesday?


Everything about it.   I wear sequins all year and suddenly it looks like I’m conforming. 

I regularly pop cheap bubbles mid week.  Now, suddenly I’m expected to share it with my fellow man? 

The girls in the office squealed in excitement as the Poundland tinsel was scattered amongst their PCs and overworked telephones.  I was forced to make a paper chain of snowmen.  Granted, my eyes were grateful for five minutes away from the spreadsheets of doom but A FLIPPING PAPERCHAIN? 

Who invents this shite?  Baby Jesus?  If I was him, I’d be turning in my tomb. 

I wore the adopted name ‘Scrooge’ like a Greggs hairnet; a badge of honour.  A totem of elitism.  Peering from my ivory tower upon the office town that santa and his reindeer had sicked up on, in shades of gold and silver.

And then, it came.  The piece de resistance…SECRET SANTA!!!


I pick out the first name.  I know I’m antisocial but I don’t have a scooby who Mary is.

“Er…can I exchange”?

I drop it back in and pick another.   Chantelle.  Oh yeah, my old mate Chantelle.  WHO?!

“One more go”?  I beg.

In my defence, I am a temp.  The only time I talked to the vast majority of people in the department is back when I was promoting my one woman show. 

“Howdy stranger!  £10 tickets for a sell out Edinburgh show?  Playing in London for one month only!  Roll up!!  Roll up!!”

My flyers taped to the kitchen cupboards like fold out snowflakes.

In the end, no one from the office came to my show.  But someone did helpfully un-blu tac it from the fridge the day that the run ended…which was both helpful and considerate.

I’m not sure what it is about Christmas that I hate so.  Here are some ideas:

  • Meat.  Little meat wrapped in big meat.  Stuffed meat.  Meat in the middle of the dinner table.  Carcuses in the kitchen.
  •  The irony of a non religious public, celebrating with oversized TVs and £20 off of a food processor.
  • The pressure of weighing your wounds against last years’.  Am I bigger?  Am I better?  Am I richer?  Am I loved? 
  • Feeling guilty for not returning Crimbo cards.
  • The pressure of yourself.  Beneath the Global Hyper Colour scrunchies and turd beanie hats, even Trendies have to remember who they are at Christmas.

In the end, I rested some tinsel on the mouse wire but only because it wasn’t my desk.  (I also helped myself to half a packet of Hobnobs.  Comme ci comme ca).

So I’ll keep my head down and I’ll pretend. 

Flash my sequins like a fistbump to the season.

Buy a Secret Santa gift like a good little Santa’s helper.  Besides, I find that the only thing missing from any CEO’s life is an anonymously sent, extra large, inflatable, neon-flashing penis.

"Hey, it wasn't me guys.  I'm just the temp...


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.