by Dawn French
We were required to do some twatty things during our time there. There was one exercise where we had to wrap each other in newspaper with Sellotape to form human eggs. The lights were dimmed in the studio and we were instructed to stay inside our ‘eggs’ for as long as we needed until it was time to slowly break out, reborn into an entirely different world where we had to invent a new language and find a new, utopian way to live together. You can imagine how seriously I took this. I figured outright giggling wouldn’t go down well so I opted instead for a little snooze inside my hot paper egg. When I woke up, I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, so I thought I’d better break out pretty sharpish in case they were all waiting for me, imagining I was being introspective and interesting. I pierced the paper with my finger and made a hole just big enough to peer through. In the gloaming, I could just make out that everyone else was still inside their eggs. I must have only nodded off for a few seconds. Drat. The teacher saw me peering out and gestured encouragement to give birth to myself and come out into the brave new world. I was buggered. So, very slowly, I ripped my shell open and crawled out, muttering my ‘new’ language, which I had decided would be a slowed-down, slurred version of Elvis’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’. So, I was shuffling across the floor, spreading like a lumpy puddle, gurgling, ‘Wahse – meen – saay – ooonleee – foolz – ruuuhsh – eeen –’ This went on for an eternity. I was alone in the nightmare until some other sucker finally joined me. The minute I saw Fatty pop out of hers, that was it. I couldn’t control the laughter any longer, and was eventually asked to gather myself outside. Honestly, hard-working folks were paying taxes for us to arse about like this! Of course, there was the flipside where we did serious classes which, had I bothered to concentrate, would have come in very handy later on. Voice, for instance. By the time I left I didn’t know the difference between a uvula, a vulva and a Volvo but, astonishingly, I somehow had the qualification to teach it! Phonetics would have been another good one to have had under my belt, the language of language. Phonetics would have helped me to write down accents and nuances in shorthand and replicate them later. I have needed this skill a thousand times and, stupidly, I haven’t been equipped, because back then I was too busy doing laughing to focus on anything important. How I achieved the degree at all I have no idea.
One particular exercise has returned to haunt me over and over again. In the first year, we were all instructed to go to the zoo, choose an animal, draw it, study it and bring notes back to class for further work. A trip to the zoo! For free! Hurrah! Of course, my day consisted of ice cream, gorilla impersonations, a ride on a camel and some colouring in of parrots on a kiddie drawing pad. It was a fun-packed day out, just grand, a day at London Zoo. When it came to the tutorial, I hurriedly sketched a sloth – a creature I hadn’t even visited on the day – improvising the picture using a sort of koala bear mixed with a huge slug as my starting point. I thought that even the tutor might be a little bit amused by my choice of the laziest creature on earth. Little did I know that these choices would dog us for three years, that it was some kind of psychological trick. In the many months that followed, I had to pretend to be a sloth, think like one, invent a human like one, improvise like one, make costumes for one. And why? Because apparently, I was a sloth. My choice indicated the animal I most identified with, supposedly. But I was mostly identifying with ice cream on the zoo day! No matter, I was labelled a sloth from that day on – even when I went to see my tutor for my final farewell tutorial, he greeted me with, ‘Ah, the sloth. Come in!’ I am NOT a sloth ... am I?
Meanwhile, life in the flat was peachy. Angie and I loved sharing, except for the not infrequent occasions she had a gentleman caller, whereby the form was that I would vacate our shared room for the night and kip on the sofa. On one of my sofa nights, I woke up suddenly to Angie screaming for help. It transpired that her beau had somehow split his foreskin doin’ the dirty, and she was useless at the merest sight of blood, never mind when it involved genitals! So there I was, half-asleep, cradling this shocked stranger’s todger in some icy water in our sink, while she called the doc. Happy days!
We had a cleaning rota and each took our turn, or not, to clean certain areas of the flat, which inevitably led to hilarious arguments. We made marks on the side of milk bottles to ensure no one was illegally slugging our precious pints, we ate huge six-day-old stale pasta soups with grated cheese on top, and quiche, and mash, and bread with butter and sugar sprinkled on top. We had big, loud, themed parties, tarts and vicars, togas, rival drama colleges, all sorts. We took weekend jobs chambermaiding or in the local pub or cooking for firemen to make a few bob, which we then spent on punky clothes at Camden Market. We were pathetic punks, not properly committed, just dressing up at weekends. We went to see The Rocky Horror Show again and again, we went to watch bands like the B52s and the Eurythmics and anyone who was on at Dingwalls if we could blag our way in. We had the most excellent tea parties with our classmates. I had a crashing crush on Rowan Atkinson, who lived nearby, and, much like David Cassidy and Peter Tork, I felt sure he would love me if only we could meet. I agonised over whether to drop a note through his door. Luckily, I lost my bottle, and didn’t put him through it, but we did go to see his live show and considered him a genius only hindered by a geeky sidekick I later found out to be a man called Richard Curtis.
I loved the company of my new friends. Of Gilly, who had set the flat up for us, who drove her Mini like a madwoman while cradling hot coffee in her lap, and who had a comprehensive collection of Lladro figurines which I considered to be supremely elegant and sophisticated. She was dating Malcolm, our landlord, who was the most dashing and handsome man in Chalk Farm. That was good, it was unlikely we would be evicted while that lasted. (It has now lasted about 30 years, and provided me with the dreamboat that is Sophie, my first godchild.)
Then there was Jobo, or Yoyo Knickers as I called her. What a woman. Tall and gangly and über clever. She had just returned from Kenya, from some relationship with an exciting chap, and she was like no one I had ever met. Fatty was drawn to her and they were very close by the time I started to know her. She was an exuberant, daring minx with a love for elaborate pranks. She would do anything for a laugh or a dare. It was too irresistible not to challenge her. She would perform her tasks with enormous panache, like, for instance, shouting out her love for strangers on the street, or pretending to be blind at the wheel of her car and asking passers-by for directions while wearing two eyepatches. Getting entirely naked driving through central London and staying so for the whole journey. Wandering about in the street below our flat with our laundry basket on her head and no trousers, and on and on with the gags. She is fearless and wild and beautiful. She was unafraid to fake fits when difficult exams were due, to tell elaborate porkies to staff in order to explain the lack of essays she submitted. She lived in a fabulous crumbling old house in swanky Chelsea and no one believed her when, late once again for lectures, she explained that the ceiling had collapsed at her house, when of course it had. She had fabulous long legs and occasionally did a bit of advertising work for Pretty Polly tights – or did she? Who knows! She said she did – anyway, she had a bit of cash and was always free with it. I will never forget when she noticed how hard up I was, and how embarrassing it was for me to completely run out of dosh by the end of the week. Somehow she obtained my bank details and anonymously put money into my empty account which saw me through a whole month. I didn’t know who had done it for ages, but found out later that it was she who had been so fabulously generous.
In our last year at Central, there was a student union-organised cabaret evening. We didn’t ordinarily bother with these shows at college because it seemed to us they were yet another opportunity to have to witness the actors showing off and loving themselves to bits. The courses were so divided. They didn’t want us there, and we didn’t want to support their ego-fest. But this time, Fatty and I were encouraged by our friends to do a sketch. By now we had been
amusing ourselves for a year or so, inventing characters at home in the flat. We used to put our hated leotards on backwards, we sewed tassles onto our ladybumps and thus we launched the ‘Menopatzi Sisters’. Ta-da! We decided they were the last in a long line of an Italian circus family. They were useless acrobats who performed pathetic feats of weakness and ineptitude. It was such a simple pleasure to jump about like daft dafties for the entertainment of our chums. We improvised other characters too – Americans obsessed with spiritual wellness, and punk duo the ‘Menopause Sisters’, and lots more. Never for one second did we think these little amusements would become more than private. When our friends encouraged us to perform at the cabaret evening, we were a bit hesitant initially, we hadn’t ever done anything like this in public before and hadn’t intended to, but eventually we decided to go along in order to prevent it being yet another exclusive night where the teachers were unrepresented. We had very little nerves – what did we have to lose? The evening went well, we performed our American sketch and the Menopatzis. People seemed to laugh in all the right places. I’m extra pleased that Gary happened to be there that night because on reflection I realise that it was a seminal moment, a turning point, although, of course, I didn’t know it at the time. We hadn’t shamed ourselves and we’d had a good laugh – and frankly that’s pretty much been our yardstick ever since. I try to make her laugh, she tries to make me laugh, and if anyone else enjoys it too, then that’s a bonus.
I wish you could have seen us, Dad, I think you would have liked it. You certainly would have liked her. She’s dead funny, my friend Fatty.
Dear Fatty,
I THINK YOU’VE made the right decision to go blonder as you get older. It covers up the enemy grey better than brown hair like mine. I used to dye mine a really dark chocolaty brown but I noticed a couple of years ago that my hair didn’t go with my ageing face any more. I don’t know why but lighter hair suits wrinkles better, so now I am trying a lighter red colour which is OK but it means I can’t wear any more of my red clothes which I’m very fond of. I don’t expect you to do anything about this; I’m just outlining my dilemma, hair-wise. I can’t really be all that bothered with hair, to be honest. It’s just some dead stuff hanging off your head really, isn’t it? Shame we can’t grow something more useful like Mr Potato Head, who so generously and wisely grows cress out of his. I’d quite like to grow asparagus or daffodils, either of which would be preferable and beneficial. Instead, I’ve got these limp locks which have to be constantly fiddled with and trained to do what they’re told with, naturally, the aid of light-reflecting booster technology to get the illuminating shiny finish I deserve. That’s why I’ve kept the same style for so long; I sort of know how to do it in 13 minutes, which is 13 minutes longer than I like to devote to its care.
Anyway, anyway, anyway, I was only saying this because a particular friend of mine has blonde hair (don’t worry, it’s not you) and is exactly like all those girls you hear about who are not the brightest button on the shirt, y’know, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, y’know, dead thick. Anyway, anyway, anyway, she was round at my house with two of my other friends, one of whom is a redhead and one of whom is a brunette. I expect you’re thinking that I just choose all my friends from a Wella colour chart – well, I don’t. They are people I have met as I have woven my way through the tapestry of my life like a needle containing thread is pushed through an ancient kilim rug by a blind old Arab man with arthritic thumbs who should stop making rugs now because he’s so old, but he doesn’t want to, otherwise he’d have to stay at home all day listening to Jeremy Kyle making poor people hit each other when they find out they’re not Lauren’s real dad because her mum’s a slag who dun it wiv over 30 blokes without no protection on it, for God’s sake, how many more times, think about the kiddie. The blind man’s wife has it on every morning in their flat in Earls Court and he hates it, so he’d rather tip-tap his way to work with his old white stick against the railings till he gets to the old musty carpet workshop where he has a cup of jasmine tea and a suck on a hubble-bubble pipe, before he sits down cross-legged and threads a special curved needle with a strong cotton of many hues, which is in fact the thread of my life made up of hundreds of tinier threads wrapped around each other which are my many friends, who are many colours, not just redhead, brunette and blonde.
Anyway, anyway anyway, on the day that all three were at my house, they were discussing their teenage daughters and I was fascinated to listen in because I too have a daughter of the teenage persuasion as you well know, and I thought I might pick up some tips on how to do it right. My brunette friend said that she had been in her teenage daughter’s bedroom, cleaning up. I don’t do that any more because it’s too dangerous. Some of the stuff on the floor in my kid’s bedroom is now moving of its own accord. Some of it has just turned to mulch and silage, and we are thinking of selling it to the local farmer to spread on the fields. Anyway, anyway, anyway, I would NOT enter her bedroom to clear it up, especially not without protective gloves, but my brunette friend was doing exactly that, when she found a bottle of vodka under her daughter’s bed. She was gutted because, as she said, ‘I didn’t know my daughter drank.’ My redhead friend then piped up that it was an amazing coincidence because she had also been in her daughter’s bedroom cleaning up. What’s wrong with these women? Have they no health-and-safety survival instincts at all? Anyway anyway, anyway, turns out she came across a packet of cigarettes and was so very upset because, as she said, ‘I didn’t know my daughter smoked.’ Unbelievably, my blonde friend then admitted that she, too, had been clearing out her daughter’s bedroom and had been utterly shocked and dismayed to discover a packet of condoms because, as she said, ‘I didn’t know my daughter had a cock …’ Can you believe that?
Dear Dad,
MY LAST YEAR at Central was a bit crazy. I was aware that David and I were growing apart but I wasn’t ready to face it full on because I still loved him very much. Isn’t it mad the way we postpone the most important stuff? I was living a liberated life in London, free of the immediate restraints of a big relationship because my chap was thousands of miles away. I missed him a lot, and I was always utterly faithful to him, but I was also having a great time discovering who I really was, which turned out to be not somebody who should marry David, or who David should marry. As you know, David was quite a forceful personality and liked to be in charge. Surprise, surprise, that’s who I was becoming too, someone quite assertive who knows their own mind. At the time I still slightly reverted back into a somewhat meeker role when I was with him because that’s how it had always been. Old dynamics die hard. Plus, to be honest, there’s a big part of me, like a lot of people, that loves to be looked after, protected and sheltered inside a partner’s love. I didn’t realise then, as I so clearly do now, that it was all possible on a much more equal footing. On reflection, all the signs were there but I was blind. And reluctant to let go. In fact, I took the polar opposite action and charged ahead with arrangements for the wedding. Fatty was to be a bridesmaid, the Blue Monkey church was booked and we were investigating various venues for the reception. Oh what a circus, oh what a show.
It was the Easter holiday 1980 and the last time I would visit David before we were to be married. It was an important trip because I was going to stay in the house where we would live together afterwards, the marital home. By now he had moved from Calcutta and was living in Colombo, Sri Lanka. I had visited him several times in the previous two years when he lived in Calcutta, and I found my trips there most odd. I loved India – the colours, the sounds, the smells, the incredible, mystical difference of it all – but I didn’t really warm to ex-pat life. The exclusive clubs and the drinking and the non-working wives and the separateness from local life. Most of all, I found it difficult to stay at his flat surrounded by servants. SERVANTS! I was a 20-year-old student in dungarees and Kickers, what was this all about? I would take off my old second-hand Camden Market T-shirts, and before I could blink they
’d be back on the bed washed, ironed and folded. I was expected to organise the household arrangements, order the shopping and oversee the menus. Life there was caught in amber, somewhere in the 1940s. I was addressed as Memsahib and bowed to. It was too strange. Outside, it was even stranger. Parts of Calcutta were beautiful, with a faded grandeur, but the poverty was horrific, and I was constantly confronted with situations and sights direct from a Bruegel nightmare. Half-bodied people scooting along next to me on little carts, women with dead babies in their arms, pleading for money, other beggars with alarming facial disfiguring, lepers with gnarly stumps and famished, emaciated children, all tugging at me, wanting a few paise. Here I was, a fat young white woman, shopping for fruit and beads in the market while all around me was despair. The clash was revolting. I started by giving money to everyone, but of course that caused further begging, more insistent and louder, until I was forced to retreat inside in utter shock.