Dawn French Live: 30 Million Minutes

This programme contains some strong language

Ladies and gentlemen, this is an announcement.

May we remind you that the use of photography during the performance

is strictly forbidden, and please turn off all mobile phones.

We wish to warn you that this show is of no interest whatsoever

to people who are harsh or critical.

It is fact that only utterly lovely people will enjoy it.

Therefore, any total tossers may as well go home now.

We also wish to warn you this show may contain nuts.

Thank you.

CHEERING AND APPLAUSE

Ah, hello!

Yes!

Hooray!

Oh, how lovely to see you!

Good evening, ladles and jelly spoons.

Right, first off, let me reassure you,

30 Million Minutes is not the length of the show...

..it's just how long I've been alive.

30 million minutes is 59 years, give or take a minute,

and don't worry, we're not going to be here for 59 years, all right?

With any luck, we'll have this all wrapped up, quick sticks,

including a lovely interval - mine's a gin and tonic,

if I may be so bold,

no-one's ever bothered, please feel free -

and then, afterwards, everyone can make their own transport arrangements,

and so long as you all bob me a quick text to let me know

that you're home safely, I'm happy with that.

Good. So, a little bit of reassurance there,

but, conversely...

I'm afraid I do have to stress you out a little bit,

because there's a certain amount of urgency about this show tonight,

because, tonight, a Sword of Damocles

is hanging over all of us this room.

Well, OK, over me,

because the time we have together tonight

may well prove to be the only time I have left.

Well, the only lucid time I have left.

Let me clarify. This next 120 minutes

represents the sliver of time

between the madness of my menopause...

now, thankfully, over, more anon...

and the impending madness of my dementia...

LAUGHTER

..which I'm absolutely sure has already started.

Of my dementia,

which I'm absolutely sure has already started.

So, you see this is the only time I have

when I can tell you about some of the things I think I know.

So, look, I'm going to have to keep it snappy.

Looks at imaginary watch.

So sit back, shut up,

and be prepared to have the living shit talked out of ya!

All right, here we go. OK. CHEERING AND APPLAUSE

No, no, no, no time for any of that, no time.

Time, you see, that's the whole point.

What you are looking at here,

and also here,

and especially here,

is a time-starved husk of a woman.

How come I seem to live my life six months in arrears?

How am I ever going to catch up?

Of course, I know what I need.

Do you know what a fermata is?

It occurs in music.

It's a pause of unspecified length

where everything just stops.

And that's what I need.

I need everything to just stop, and then I can catch up,

so I flick a switch...

you all just stop like that,

frozen in time, whilst I just go about my business,

reading what I've got to read,

and writing what I've got to write, and doing all my thinking,

both important and daydreaming.

I'll have a little kip, I'll kiss my dog full-on the lips... You know,

all the really crucial stuff, do all of that, really catch up,

then I'll flip the switch again...

and I'll get back into the slipstream of time

along with the rest of you,

and that's me cock-of-the-hoop, time-wise, totally caught up.

Ooh, and by the way, when I've got you all frozen in the fermata,

don't think for a minute that I won't be up to all sorts of mischief,

because I absolutely will.

I'm definitely going to have a little peek down your pants.

Yeah! I might nick your shoes, if I fancy them,

and I probably am going to lick you up the face.

And you know you, there?

You know your girlfriend? Well,

while she is frozen in the fermata like this,

I'm just going to creep up to her,

and in her ear I'm going to whisper all about the other women

you regularly sleep with, and then I'm going to creep off again,

and then when time starts again, she'll just suddenly know,

and she won't know how she knows.

Lovely. That'll learn ya.

So, time, yeah.

Look, I do have a certain amount of time confusion,

I will admit that, because I'm 59, right,

and apparently that is middle-aged.

How can it be middle-aged?

Unless I'm going to live to be 118,

and that seems unlikely. So, God,

have I been alive longer than I'm not going to be alive?

Am I more than halfway through?

Oh, God! You see?

Time, it's the non-negotiable currency

that you can't stop counting.

Like, for instance, I've used up 30 million of my minutes so far,

and all the time I'm asking myself, "Can I get some more?"

And if so, where from, and who from?

Surely some people have got some spare minutes that I could haggle for,

haven't they? You, for instance, madam, do you really need to be alive?

Yeah, you do, yeah, yeah.

Yeah, all right, you do, all right, keep your hair on!

All right. Well, not you, then, not you.

But what about horrid,

violent, abusive, murdering bastards?

Couldn't I procure some of their spare minutes that they don't deserve?

Sorry if that sounds a tad judgmental, but you know,

I would consider a fair exchange, like,

you, horrid, violent, abusive,

murdering bastard, you give me

a million of your minutes,

that's about a year and nine months, and in return

I give you...

a hatchback!

Or a pony, or some cake, or something.

That seems like a reasonable, decent deal to me.

Surely Donald Weetabix-head Trump...

..or Ann Widdecombe, or anybody from the cast of Made In Chelsea...

..surely those people aren't entitled to their full quota of life, are they?

Anyway, anyway, anyway, never mind how long have I got,

because I haven't really got enough time for that.

The more pressing question is - who am I?

Well, look, of course I do know my name,

I am Dawn French, but, you see,

I'm also Moo French to my close friends and family,

and I'm Mrs D Bignell.

My point is that I'm someone's mother, I'm someone's wife,

I'm someone's sister. I'm a cousin, I'm a godmother,

I'm a client, a pimp,

a killah!

I'm all of these things.

But for the purposes of tonight's show,

I'm going to put all of those mini-me's

into a giant metaphorical tombola drum,

I'm going to whizz it round till I puke,

then I'm going to pull out a few fragments

to see if I can make sense of it all,

because, after all, how do you be a person?

Right, well, look,

I started, like a lot of us, very young.

As a baby, really, if we're honest.

-CROWD:

-Aww.

Yep.

With scarlet fever, apparently.

My mum brought home an alarmingly red lump,

covered with hundreds of stubbly crimson pimples,

skin as raw and knobbly as vermillion sandpaper.

My brother thought she'd given birth to a giant, screaming strawberry.

Oh, God, he did not like the volume of me at all.

In fact, he nicknamed me "The Foghorn",

because apparently every time he would approach me,

I would alert the parents by going,

"Eeeeeeeeeaaaa!"

The closer he got, louder the warning. "EeeeeaaaaAAAA!"

Because he was my most immediate danger, you see,

because he was intent on shutting me the hell up, permanently.

I was intent on getting the most attention.

For instance, he's called Gary, right?

There we are. And one day, when we were about this age,

I referred to him as Gazelle...

..which was apparently a heinous crime,

for which he thumped me.

Now, if I'm honest, that thump didn't really hurt at all,

but I managed to cradle my arm dramatically, like this,

for eight hours until my mum got home from work.

And by cradling my arm dramatically for eight hours,

I actually injured my actual arm.

So, that was ironic, but...

I got sympathy, and I got attention. Yes!

Funny how that need for attention still resonates with me now.

I mean, between us, I think that performers

have a proper sickness of need.

At the root of all performers is a little toddler,

in a nappy, going, "Mum, Dad, look at me!"

Because we crave the approval, you see.

And even when we get it, we want loads more.

We're just greedy little toddlers at heart.

MILITARY MUSIC PLAYS

Ah!

Yep, in 1961, I was nearly four,

about two million minutes,

when something happened to our little family.

Now, we were living on an RAF base called Leconfield,

because my dad was a sergeant,

and basically we lived wherever his job was.

So, there we were, in Yorkshire,

and my only concern in life

was how to accessorise my dog.

DOG BARKS

Yeah. It's a little bit cruel, but very amusing.

So, anyway, one day Dad comes home from work, right,

and he explains that we have been chosen

as a suitable family to meet

and have tea in our own home

with a visiting dignitary,

someone the camp top nobs are very excited about,

someone called the Queen Mother.

Now, I hadn't heard these words put together like that before, so,

hang on a minute - not the Queen, then, but her mother.

But not called the Queen's mother, like it should be,

if we could all speak normally for a minute, please.

No, this was the Queen Mother,

the constitutionally correct but grammatically flawed...

..ceremonial figurehead,

and beloved mother of our Queen Elizabeth II.

Listen, I didn't really understand it at all.

All I knew was that someone massively queenie

was going to be coming into our actual house, sitting on our settee,

and putting her queenie lips on our actual teacups.

That in itself, very, very exciting.

What wasn't at all exciting

was the tornado of stressy preparation

the Dawn Mother went into.

Oh, God, everything had to be dusted, and mopped, and hoovered,

and antisepticked, and pegged out on the line and beaten,

including us kids.

We had new shoes, we had new outfits, and we had new haircuts.

The Dawn Mother had a fabulous new perm, and a twin set,

and the Sergeant Dawn Father, of course,

wore his uniform.

Oh, God, his uniform. I absolutely loved it.

Sort of bluey grey with shiny buttons down the front,

and a shiny belt buckle,

and a polished peak cap that you line your fingers up with,

like that, to salute.

To me, that cap wasn't a cap at all.

That was a crown, worn by the king of our family.

Anyway, after hours and hours

of agonising curtsying practice,

finally the big day arrived.

Now, we had been primed

to refer to her as "Your Majesty", initially,

and thereafter as "Ma'am, rhymes with Spam."

Not "Ma'am, rhymes with Sparm",

and certainly not "Merm..."

LAUGHTER

So anyway, there we stood on our front porch, right,

tarted up in our best bibs and tuckers,

brand-new everything, even new pants.

I have to say, that did alarm me.

Was the Queen Mother really going to be checking our pants?

Christ, this is going to be a thorough inspection!

Anyway, there I am with a rictus smile

awaiting the arrival of a queen,

when the big black car pulls up.

Hang on, car? Where's the solid-gold carriage?

And more importantly, where are the sodding unicorns?

Surely the correct transportation for a Queen. But no,

she just gets out of a car, and...

What fresh hell is this?

She's wearing a hat.

Where's the blooming crown?

Somebody call the police, cos the crown must have been nicked,

cos she hasn't even got a crown on!

I am beyond disappointed at this juncture.

But it's too late, because the Queen Mother

is barrelling up our garden path,

she's floating towards us on a haze of lilac froufrou.

Well, my brother and I followed the cue of the Sergeant Dawn Father,

and we commenced our well-practised bowing and curtsying.

And what happened next was the stuff of my nightmares for years to come,

because as I arose from my

rather well-executed curtsy, I thought,

the Queen Mother smiled...

..and she had virtually black teeth.

Yeah, black teeth, like a witch.

Because, believe me, when you're three years and nine months,

black teeth equals witch.

I couldn't believe that a Queen witch

is coming into our house and nobody was doing anything to stop her.

I was utterly dumbstruck,

and I refused to look at her or talk to her

for the entire rest of the visit.

It was quite simply the most terrifying half-hour of my life.

But guess what I found a couple of years ago

in the RAF archives? Have a look at this.

This is the actual day.

Here she is arriving on the airbase.

Now she is choosing an airman to have oiled up

for the return journey.

Now she's looking at a plane, poor love, endlessly doing that.

Now she's on our garden path,

and she's flanked by a chinless wonder,

of course. That is mandatory.

There's the paparazzi, my first dealing with them.

Here she comes, up the path,

and there is the Sergeant Dawn Father.

There's the Dawn Mother, and now the bowing and the curtsying, please.

And now, I've seen the teeth!

"No. No. No.

"No. All right.

"But you can't come in, you're not coming in,

"you're a witch, get out.

"Get out of our house, now!"

And she's in.

LAUGHTER AND APPLAUSE

Needless to say, that was an amazing day.

Actually, of course, I had a very cheerful, blithe childhood,

I was blissfully unaware of any difficulties

or hardships that my parents might have been coping with.

I had no idea, for instance, they were often struggling financially.

You know, I really enjoyed the big,

hearty bowls of stew that my mum cooked.

I didn't realise until years later

that she used to grate every potato

and parsnip and onion and carrot

and dilute it all with chicken-bone stock

to make it all stretch further,

the more and more members of our family came to live with us.

I just thought the dumplings were getting fewer.

Oh, boy, did I love that stew,

cos it had Mum in it.

Mum always knew that we'd come back for second helpings,

so she took to dishing it up in giant serving bowls

to save the return journey.

So, little kids with giant bowls of chicken-y flavoured vegetable stew

on our chests, in front of the wrestling on a Saturday.

Do you remember the wrestling?

WORLD OF SPORT THEME PLAYS

Yeah!

Yeah. Mick McManus,

Jackie Pallo, Giant Haystacks...

God, we loved it in our house.

Used to sit on the settee and just scream at the telly,

"Right, kill him!

"Right, now, kill him".

Totally believed they were mercilessly beating each other up

every single Saturday afternoon.

I didn't realise that this was basically showbiz.

But the wrestling provided a backdrop for yet another

French family Saturday ritual, because in the mornings,

after us kids had done our chores,

which usually involved shovelling tonnes of

guinea pig, rabbit, hamster,

horse, dog, tortoise, parrot

and-whatever-else shit,

we went to the shop, and as a treat,

we were allowed to choose a quarter of whatever sweets we wanted, right?

We pretty much always had the same.

Dad had rhubarb and custard,

Mum had raspberry ruffles,

Gary had toffee bonbons, and I always had chocolate limes.

So, we ate the sweets in front of the wrestling

as a sort of hors d'oeuvre to the giant buckets of stew.

Dad and Gary and I would devour the whole packet of sweets in one greedy

sitting because it was too delicious, too tempting,

couldn't resist it. Mum, on the other hand,

would take just one of her very posh-looking raspberry ruffles,

she'd untwirl the lovely red foil,

and she would pop the chocolaty,

coconutty, raspberry-y delight

into her mouth, and... Mmm...

savour every last taste.

And then she would put her bag of sweets away,

ready to bring out again the next night and have one more, and so on,

until the end of the week.

I think this was a lesson in frugality

and self-control.

This is a lesson I have yet to learn.

One raspberry ruffle a night?

How? How, in the name of God, how?

Big respect to the Dawn Mother for that, I have to say.

I tell you what I loved most of all, of course, was the weekends,

because, privately, I would go up to my bedroom

with various best-friend-type girls,

and we would play, of course.

Now, I must have been about...

Mmm, about eight when my very bossy friend Jackie came over,

and we were playing in my bedroom - you know, the usual stuff, dolls,

pretending to be air stewardesses,

pretending to work in a shop kind of a thing -

and then she put on one of my mum's old nighties

from the dressing-up box,

and, honestly, the conversation went something like this...

"Right, I'm on the bed, here's a lipstick,

"you draw on me."

"Oh, all right, Jackie. Um...

"What do you want me to draw?"

"Hoops around here."

SHE GIGGLES

"OK!"

"Right, now round here,

"where the front toilet is."

SHE GIGGLES

"OK!"

"Right, now round here, where the back toilet is."

"Yeah. OK!"

"Right, now you can kiss me on here."

"Right, thank you, Jackie."

"No, say - 'Thank you, Doctor'."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Right, now rub your tops."

"Right, good. Right, now get up on the bed here with me."

"Right, now, do sexing."

"Ooh, la-la la-la la-la-la."

"La-la le-la-la la-la. La-le-la. La-le-la. La-la la-la-la-la-la.

"La-le-la-le la.

"La-le la-le la-le la."

"Yeah, good, good.

"Right, now do sexing, but this time like a Chinaman."

"La-le-la-le-la-le-la-la."

"Right, good. Say thank you."

"Thank you." "Thank you, Doctor!"

"Thank you, doctor." "Right, now, get off."

And then she put her normal clothes back on and we returned to pretending

to work in a shop again, all perfectly straightforward(!)

It was a little bit perverted.

So, other than having plenty of Chinaman sex...

..my main three passions as a kid

were to become a prima ballerina,

a bridesmaid and a pop star.

And I was hell-bent on all three.

But honestly, how wonderful was it to have imagination,

without any limitation whatsoever,

to be utterly assured in the knowledge

that being a prodigiously gifted

prima ballerina was well within my reach.

That's me at the end, there.

I was gloriously free to believe this - for two reasons -

the first being simply the way that dancing made me feel.

Uplifted and elegant and graceful.

Nobody could deny me that, it was wonderful.

Therefore I was wonderful when I was doing it.

And secondly, I had absolutely no idea

that I didn't have the perfect body for ballet.

It didn't cross my mind that I might not be well-proportioned

or tall or lithe or dainty.

I thought I was all of these things,

and much more besides.

In fact, I still do think that.

LAUGHTER

Now, the need for me to be a bridesmaid

was, frankly, verging on psychopathic.

What was the big deal?

Was it the flowers, was it the dress?

No, I know exactly what it was.

Of course, it was the attention, wasn't it?

You can see that I did manage to land the job three times.

I am supremely fulfilled in all of these photos.

But...on one occasion,

my auntie and uncle announced that they were getting married,

and I went stratospheric with excitement.

This was surely in the bag, bridesmaid-wise,

because I was pretty much the only niece on our side of the family,

so surely it was a done deal?

I spent weeks doing a little tippy-toes dance of excited anticipation.

I had so many questions to ask my auntie

when I was going to see her the following week.

Like, you know, what was my hair going to be like?

Would it be up or down, would there be ringlets?

What colour would the dress be?

Oh, pray for pink.

Would it be long or short or midi, would it have sleeves or just straps?

Would there be gloves, maybe lacy gloves?

What would the nature of the shoe be?

Might this, at last, please, God, finally,

be my first opportunity to wear tights?

Tan tights?

American tan tights?

I could only dare to dream.

Well, the day came that Auntie Joan

took me for a walk around Buntingsdale Lake.

Oh, my holy God, this was it,

the moment she was going to ask me.

I tried to contain myself, but inside I was just screaming,

"Yes! Yes, Auntie Joan, I will be your devoted handmaiden,

"I will follow you up the aisle,

"holding your gossamer train aloft",

and all the while she's been blethering on,

"Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah",

but I am in my own private, preparing-to-be-a-bridesmaid heaven.

Yes!

But now I do need to concentrate,

because she seems to have a serious face on.

Right, what is she saying?

Something about too many nieces,

odd numbers, not to be too upset...

What, what, what, WHAT?

What is she telling me?

Oh, my actual God!

Auntie Joan is telling me

that I'm not going to be a bridesmaid!

Me no bridesmaid.

Not can bridesmaid be.

I was absolutely devastated.

But I was buggered if I was going to let her know, so, anyway,

we walked home, and after they'd gone,

I told my mum what had happened,

just pretending that I don't mind at all. "Just leave it, Mum.

"Don't make a fuss about it, it doesn't matter,

"because I didn't even really want to be a bridesmaid!

"It doesn't matter."

Of course, my mum knew me much better than that.

She knew that I was the kind of little girl

who wanted bridesmaid blood.

Well, we drove to Manchester to buy a new outfit

for me for the wedding.

We didn't discuss it, but we both knew

that a lot rested on this outfit,

because it needed to upstage

those fecking chosen ones...

the bridesmaids.

Well, like all revenge buys,

it was pretty grim.

LAUGHTER

Yeah.

As you can see...

job done...

..because the focus was lifted entirely away

from the appointed bridesmaids

to me, the dwarfish, fuchsia jockey child.

All eyes on me!

Mission accomplished. Lovely.

Incidentally, very proud to tell you that I'm still at it,

bridesmaid-wise, because a couple of years ago for Comic Relief, right,

Miranda Hart had to arrange a couple's wedding,

their real wedding, in a day.

Well, guess who vigorously volunteered to be the bridesmaids?

Yes! Get in!

SHE LAUGHS

MUSIC: A Whiter Shade Of Pale by Procol Harum

My third ambition was to be a pop star.

There I am, giving it a really good go.

I would choose one of my favourite songs, I'd whack up the volume,

and I'd just be that singer.

I was about ten when I first heard this song,

absolutely loved it.

I was convinced it was about a gymnastics team

on a boozy cross-Channel ferry,

who see a ghost.

SHE MIMES: # We skipped the light fandango

# Turned cartwheels 'cross the floor

# I was feeling kind of seasick

# The crowd called out for more... #

MOUTHS: More! More! More!

SHE MIMES: # The room was humming harder...#

MOUTHS: What does that mean?

# As the ceiling flew away

# When we called out for another drink

# The waiter brought a tray

# And so it w-a-a-s

# A little later

# As the miller told his tale

# That her face at first just ghostly

# Turned a whiter shade of pale... #

SHE MIMES

Ahh! Ahh!

Between the ages of six and ten,

Dad was stationed at various camps in Cyprus.

Well, for us kids, Cyprus

was one long, hot, lazy,

cicada-rattling summer's day,

interrupted by only one irritant...

school.

School was on the camp, and only in the mornings,

because it was too baking hot to be in the classrooms after that.

Mum and Dad would both be at work all-day long

and, mad and irresponsible

as it now seems on reflection,

us kids would be taken, as a group of us,

to the beach, every single day at lunchtime,

and left there till the early evening.

LAUGHTER

No sun cream, just us in our swimmers,

with a couple of coins each to buy a Fanta.

So, we spent five hours

every afternoon floating in the glittering,

unbelievably blue Mediterranean Sea.

We'd put on our snorkels,

and we'd pretend to be dead.

SHE BREATHES AS IF SNORKELLING

The game was not to move a muscle.

First to move loses.

It was a good thing we didn't actually die,

because we pretended to be dead so much, nobody would have noticed.

I can vividly remember the sound of my deep breathing into the plastic tube,

and trying not to drown in the dribble that collected there.

It was quite hard not to move

when bursting from the kid next to you

came a yellow, hazy cloud...

..of hot wee.

SHE GROANS

But even better than all those thousands of hours spent in the sea

with those other kids during the week were the fewer hours

spent in the sea at the weekends with Mum and Dad.

First of all, there was the Lilo.

We'd all sit on it in a row and try and push each other off,

and I have had very little triumph in my life

that matches the victory of

having the Lilo all to yourself.

Yeah, power.

Dad would always stay in the water much longer than Mum,

but best, best, best, best, best, best of all

is when Dad pretends to be my own personal dolphin,

whilst I hang around his neck and he speeds through the water,

faster than any human surely can.

How strong and broad and brown are his shoulders?

And how beautiful does the water feel splashing on my face?

And how safe do I feel when he tosses me in the air

and I splosh into the water nearby,

only to be scooped up by my dolphin dad,

who is by now even making

the required dolphin noises?!

How much do I never want it to end?

But it must, because I have important work to do

back at the house.

Now, then. There are two very important jobs

that require my six-year-old attention in Cyprus.

The first job is roller-skating.

Now, this must be done, because I have been given a pair of metal,

strap-on roller skates for Christmas,

so it's vital I thunder up and down the pavement outside our house

relentlessly till bedtime.

Up...

ROLLER SKATES CLANG

..and down...

ROLLER SKATES CLANG

..and up...

ROLLER SKATES CLANG

..and down.

ROLLER SKATES CLANG

Never getting any better at it at all.

But feeling like I'm covering acres of ground

and, therefore, somehow seriously conquering it all.

The other job that required my attention

was the fence around the house.

Now, I have painted a horse's head on the post,

and Dad has attached a shoelace for reins,

so it's vital that I sit astride this fence

and cover miles and miles

with my determined galloping.

Galloping! Galloping, galloping galloping, and jump!

And galloping, galloping,

galloping, galloping, galloping, galloping, galloping!

Now, listen,

we all know what was going on with the jiggling on that fence.

You know, I didn't entirely understand it.

All I knew was that it was BLOODY AMAZING!

SHE LAUGHS

Can't quite believe I've told you that.

Anyway...

One other tinging clear memory that I have of Cyprus

was what I later came to realise

was actually the assassination of JFK.

Because all I can remember is that the adults were in shock

and they were crying, and they wanted tea with sugar in, and biscuits.

Well, I wanted tea with sugar in, and I certainly wanted biscuits,

and all I knew was that the way to get that was to cry

and blub out, "Ohhhh...

"Ooh, Kennedy's dead.

"Ohhh, I can't believe it.

"Oh, Kennedy is dead!"

I'd absolutely no idea who Kennedy was...

..but saying that got me LOADS of biscuits.

So, thanks, Kennedy, whoever you are.

I was forever following my brother around

because I so wanted to be in his gang,

and he SO wasn't going to let me.

However, traipsing around after him

gave me a very good opportunity

to observe him with his mates.

In other words, to look at boys.

KLAXON SOUNDS

Yes. Boys.

What do they consist of?

Is it really slugs and snails and puppy dogs' tails?

Or is it more like snot and farts

and smelling their arsey fingers that they'd just scratched their bums with?

Yeah, yeah, it's the latter, yeah.

I mean, if we're honest, boys are revolting and horrid

and really we should just hurl huge concrete blocks at them.

And yet I found them endlessly fascinating.

Let me tell you the highlight of my week when I was a young teenager

at boarding school in Plymouth, right.

Now, I only used to board during the weeks.

So, the weekends of freedom became incredibly precious.

The preparation started in the middle of double French

at the end of a Friday afternoon.

Along with a couple of my mates,

I became consummately skilled

at secretly getting ready to leave school

at 4:15 on the dot.

Now, Mrs Whitfield was a vigilant and somewhat feared

French teacher, but even in front of her I still managed,

behind my desktop, to apply...

forbidden foundation, lipstick, mascara...

"Oui, Madame. Oui, oui, oui, oui."

Aqua Manda perfume, deodorant...

"Bon, Madame, bon!

"Bon, bon, bon, bon, bon, bon, bon, bon."

Even managed to roll up my skirt till it was a mini,

take off my socks,

put on my American Tan tights,

take out my plaits, brush my hair...

"Ouvre la fenetre."

..all in readiness to bolt out of the door

the minute that end-of-school bell rang.

Within two seconds of that final clang I would be

trawling up the road dragging my end-of-the-week suitcase behind me.

As I approached the target,

I'd be virtually exploding with excitement.

The target was Goodbody's Caff,

and the reason to go there was that it contained boys.

KLAXON SOUNDS

Lots of them.

So, outside, my mates and I would have our final tweaks,

you know, hair, cheeks,

nipples, woo! Right, OK, OK.

Take a deep breath. And enter.

There they were.

The pantheon of prize Plymouth College sixth-form boys,

all sitting at one table, huddled round hot chocolates.

We would nonchalantly breeze past their table,

absolutely ignoring them,

and go and sit ourselves down at the furthest table in the corner

and nurse two Cokes between six of us.

Oh, boy, did we ignore them.

It was delicious to turn our backs on them, relentlessly reject them.

Our plan seemed to work because they ignored us, too.

Which of course we took to mean that they were gagging for it.

Neither table made any eye contact and nobody said a single word.

This sort of noncommunication could go on for three hours,

until eventually one group, usually us, would be asked to leave,

and so we would just slope off without so much as a glance

or a grunt at them, until we were outside.

"Oh, my God!

"Oh, my God, I love him so much!

"Oh, my God. Did yours ignore you?" "Yeah, mine ignored me, too."

"I love him so much.

"I'm going to have his name engraved on an ID bracelet."

"Yeah, what is his name, actually?" "I don't know. I don't know."

"I'm just going to marry him, that's all I know, because I love him so much!

"Oh, oh, I hope I'm not pregnant. Oooh!

"Right, let's meet here next Friday, do it all again, what a blast."

It's bloody mad!

I did of course have equal crush energy on grown-ups as well.

Mostly on unattainably starry people,

like David Cassidy.

And of course on Steve McQueen.

And on The Monkees..

..especially Peter Tork,

who was the best, no argument, and if you don't agree,

you can shut up and you're stupid and you smell.

I actually mean that.

I did also have all-consuming crushes on other,

rather more interesting people,

like Nana Mouskouri.

Yum. And on Val Doonican.

Yum yum.

And on Alexandra Bastedo.

Do you remember her from The Champions? Absolutely gorgeous.

But of course my biggest crush of all

was on the divine,

incomparable...

Eric Morecambe.

Oh, my goodness, yes.

My love for Eric will never know an edge or an end, truly.

He is my yardstick by which all other funny boys

trip and fall before they even get out of the starting blocks,

in comparison.

You know how magnets beckon metal?

Well, that is how I was drawn to Eric Morecambe.

Sadly, I didn't ever get to meet him.

Mind you, it was probably for the best, he'd have had to take a restraining order out on me.

But to this day, I still love him,

so God bless you, Eric Morecambe.

So, for me, my passage through young adulthood

wasn't too difficult, in the main.

I was in constant negotiation with my courage,

and with my confidence,

but something I knew for sure was that in the choppier waters,

my ballast most certainly was my family.

The four of us had our own secret codes.

We had our own jokes, we had our own personal shared stuff.

The Fellowship of the Frenchies.

Dad, Mum, Gary, Dawn.

Four dots joined together, our family.

Four corners of a square.

So now, growing up. OK.

How do you actually be a woman?

Well, as far as I know,

I am one physically.

I mean, I seem to have the correct number of bumps and holes...

..and nearly all of them are in the right place.

I mean, I feel sure that a doctor or a lover would have told me

if anything was proper wrong, wouldn't they?

Do you know, I've been thinking a lot about this, recently.

Just goes to show how long the journey is, up from Cornwall.

I've been wondering, right,

how many holes does a woman actually have?

I mean, excluding eyeballs and skin pores, that would be silly

to include those. I've done a tally, right.

I think it's eight...

but there are people who do say seven.

So look, have a little think about it, you know,

discuss it with your gynaecologist.

Draw your own conclusion.

Don't get back to me on it,

because I've decided that it's part of a woman's mystery, isn't it?

Like, you know, I am many, many,

many, many holes.

Yes, I am a colander.

I am a golf course.

I am Emmental cheese.

Sorry, I digress. Right, where was I? Yes, yes, that's right.

I was about 13 or 14, right,

and I was treading water in a deep well

of dangerously low self-esteem.

For instance, in all of these pictures,

I am firmly believing that I'm a hideous monster

that no-one will ever want to kiss.

And then something very key happened.

I was going to a party on a Saturday night,

and I was very excited and a little bit nervous about this party

because a boy that I adored,

a farmer's son called Neil, was going to be there.

Now, I found Neil especially attractive

because he spoke so openly

about mating.

I thought that was thrilling.

Anyway, he'd been studiously ignoring me for weeks, right,

and I was determined to get his attention.

So, I decided to employ my secret weapon...

hot pants.

-Do you remember hot pants? CROWD:

-Yeah.

Yeah. What in God's name persuaded us to believe this was a good idea?

Cos they only suited one person in the whole world, didn't they?

And that was Twiggy.

And I was so not Twiggy.

But nevertheless, off I trolled to Trago Mills.

Do you know Trago Mills?!

-CROWD MEMBERS:

-Yes.

-Oh, I'm so sorry that you do.

I'm so sorry.

There is a support group that meets every Tuesday, if you need help.

SHE LAUGHS

For those of you who don't know Trago Mills,

it's a huge, weird jumble of a discount store

and there's lots of them dotted around the West Country.

And the one near me was in Bodmin, right,

and that is where I had spied

a pair of purple suede hot pants,

the only ones they had in a large.

Now, if I'm absolutely honest, they didn't actually do up.

But I loved them so much that I wanted them anyway, right,

they had to be mine. So, get the picture.

Brown suede wedge espadrilles,

American Tan tights,

far-too-tight not-doing-up purple suede hot pants,

so thighs are bulging out, tummy's bulging out over the top,

I can't breathe at all.

I've got a cheesecloth smock on,

I'm a mess of beads and bangles,

big round black sunglasses

and long, straight hair parted in the middle,

like Ali McGraw in Love Story.

I'm feeling a little bit shit,

because not only can I not breathe,

but I also can't walk.

But I'm tottering hurriedly towards the front door at home,

trying to avoid parents at all costs,

when Dad suddenly pops his head around the door.

"Ah, Pudding. Can you just bob in here a minute, please?"

"No, Dad, I'm going to a party."

"In HERE, madam."

"Oh, GOD!

"What is it?"

This was bound to be a telling off or a curfew or something.

"Right, well.

"Nice lederhosen."

LAUGHTER

"They're not lederhosen!

"Hot pants!

"God!"

"Well, whatever they are, you look a right bobby-dazzler in them,

"don't you?" "Dad, honestly, I'm going to be late..."

"Now, shush, Moo, listen.

"How much do you think Mum and I love you?"

"Oh, God... I don't know, a lot or something."

"More than that, Dawn, much more.

"When you were born, we realised that having a dear little baby girl,

"having you, completed our little family.

"The four of us, together, for ever.

"Never forget how lovely you are, Moo.

"You are a rare thing, you're a natural beauty.

"You're a corker. How lucky would any boy be to have YOU on his arm?

"Don't you dare ever be grateful for any boy's attentions.

"Because YOU are the prize, my love.

"Be choosy. Take your time.

"You decide how, when and where, not them.

"They'll wait. Know this, Pudding.

"When you are out of this house, it's up to you to protect yourself,

"your reputation and your dignity.

"Now, we love you, and we need you.

"Off you go."

So I went to that party feeling ten-foot tall and fabulous in

my hot pants. And Neil even came up to talk to me.

But I wasn't having any of it.

Because he was a mere mortal,

and according to my dad, I deserved a God.

LAUGHTER

You see, it was very clever, what my dad did that night.

Because just when I was seriously doubting myself, he gave me armour.

And actually, I've been wearing it ever since.

But you see, it took consideration to do what he did.

And impeccable timing.

I'm a massive fan of good dads, actually.

Yeah, that is something I wanted to mention tonight.

Something I feel certain of,

and something I wanted to say to any dads who might be in the audience.

Be in no doubt that your daughters,

your darling daughters,

will measure every significant male

in their lives by you.

So you'd better be a tip-top enough example of a proper man.

Be someone to aspire to be like.

Be decent and kind and cheerful and understanding and generous and funny

and selfless.

No pressure!

LAUGHTER

So, confidence.

That's really what it was all about.

And I'm aware that that can be a little bit tricky,

because we can all feel a little bit shit sometimes, can't we?

And I'm absolutely convinced that for a lot of women,

those shitty feelings are often

triggered by issues to do with our body shame.

Grr!

What a shame.

Actually, let's have a little think about that.

The body. OK.

Well, basically, this is sort of it,

isn't it, for most of us.

So why don't I run you through my shortcomings as I see them?

Right? Starting with - head.

Yeah, relatively happy with all of this,

I inherited most of this from my parents. My hair's quite thick,

that keeps my head warm, that's good.

I've got ears, eyes, nose, mouth, they all seem to work.

Five of the aforementioned holes, by the way.

Little clue there.

Most of this is arranged in a fairly symmetrical pattern.

I mean, obviously it's all crinkling a little bit with age, but, you know,

come on, that's to be expected.

And anyway, I think it's quite useful for rain guttering,

to have a corrugated face.

So I'm happy with that.

So, moving on to - neck.

Yeah. Well, this is irrelevant, because I haven't got one.

LAUGHTER

No, I just haven't got one.

Absolutely nobody in my family has got a neck.

Everyone in my family, right,

goes directly from chin to chest without passing go.

There's no inward curvature whatsoever.

It's more sort of convex, like a gobble on a rooster.

I mean, obviously this does lead to some jewellery crises.

Because apparently, a necklace

goes on a neck.

Well, no havey necky.

So, not buying your necklace, mate.

No bitterness there whatsoever.

So moving on to - shoulders.

Yeah, shoulders.

Well, they're OK.

They're sort of functional, aren't they?

They're quite good for shrugging.

They're obviously where I keep my chips.

Um, there's nothing really to see here,

so moving along to arms.

Yes. Arms.

Now, these really are quite interesting,

as they're definitely much shorter than is required.

Especially on a very tall, willowy woman like me.

Yes, I am tall and willowy!

Rude!

You'd imagine, wouldn't you,

on a tall, willowy woman like me,

that I'd be gifted lovely long, appropriate, elegant arms.

But no, instead, I was given these.

A couple of butchers' wives' stocky legs of mutton.

I mean, you know, they're not pretty,

I can't do strappy dresses or anything like that,

but again, you know, they are fit for purpose.

Because they work at carrying stuff and they go round a kid and they go

round a husband, so I'm perfectly happy with that.

So, moving on, to - hands.

Yeah, hands, right.

There they are, the end of my body.

Look at them there, five cocktail sausages,

flopping off the end, there.

Quite untidy, really.

Been described before as stumpy.

But honestly, how amazing are they?

Just in terms of sheer engineering,

they're phenomenal.

There's 27 bones in each one of those,

and the densest area of nerve endings.

And that whole opposable thumb thing that I do that reminds me that I'm a

primate. And all the stuff I've done with these hands in my life.

Like, you know, I've held my mum and dad's hands with them,

I've held my own daughter's hand with them.

I've played two-ball endlessly up against the garage wall with them.

I've stood on them.

I've held on at scary fairground rides with them.

I've slapped an idiot's cheek with that one there.

I've used that exact same one

to shake Fatty Saunders's hand every single night

before we went on stage or in front of a camera,

I've had my future told from them...

Charlatan!

Um...

LAUGHTER

I've pinched and punched my brother with them.

I've held my darling's face in them.

I've put wedding rings on this one, twice.

I've measured ponies with them.

I do pointing.

With... Ooh, that's something I wanted to mention tonight, actually.

Do you know, I realise that I've been a fool for 59 years

because for all of that time, right,

I've been pointing with one finger when all of that time,

it's so much more effective to point with all ten.

LAUGHTER

No, it's good, honestly, I urge you.

I urge you. To point like this from now on.

It's much, much, much, much better.

Very satisfying.

But honestly,

everything I have ever touched in my life

has been touched by these.

So every single piece of chocolate...

..that I've ever eaten,

has been put in here by these.

Thank you, hands!

God, I love them!

Who dares to call them stumpy?

Well, look, here's another wonderful thing they do.

Right, good.

Good point, well made, I think.

OK, right, so moving up and over now...

Oh, God, here we go. There's absolutely no avoiding them...

norks.

Or baps, or Little and Large, or Wood and Walters,

or if I'm absolutely furious with them,

which I often am, because they're such show-offs,

Ant and Dec.

LAUGHTER

Yeah. Well, look, I could do a whole show about just these, couldn't I,

because frankly they do arrive everywhere before I do.

They even arrived on my body before I was ready.

What was I, three, four, something like that.

Frankly, I can't remember not lugging these around.

Do you know, once, right, I was on this radio show.

I was doing an interview,

and I decided to take my bra off and put it on my head,

thereby proving that my entire head fitted into one cup...

..of my 42G cup industrial bra.

So I am in effect carrying around

two entire head-sized lumps on my front.

Frankly, it's amazing I've remained upright at all.

So, yeah, all right, they're huge and lovely jubbly, wibbly wobbly,

and oo-er, we're going to need considerably bigger buns,

and wa-hey-hey-hey! And all the rest of it.

But you know, calm down, what are they, really?

They're just a couple of udders that boys regard as a theme park.

Aren't they? Aren't they?

No, you know, don't get me wrong.

I love all that, you know,

WHEN it's appropriate.

But honestly, getting boys to concentrate...

And by boys, of course, I mean men.

And by men, I mean straight men,

and by straight men, I mean boys...

LAUGHTER

Getting them to concentrate on anything else is a major feat.

I spend a lot of my time going like this,

to bring the focus up to my face.

"Hello, I'm here to discuss my overdraft."

Focus on my face.

"What a beautiful service

"and a fitting send-off for your lovely old dad."

Focus on my face.

"So if you could just talk us through my daughter's GCSE results?"

Focus on my face.

"Well, I've come to see you because I feel betrayed, and ugly,

"and I'm hoping that these sessions will..."

Focus on my face!

"Sorry, what did you say?

"Pop my top off?

"How dare you?

"Focus on my face.

"Oh, sorry, you're the doctor and this is a breast check, sorry.

"Sorry. As you were. Focus entirely on the lovely norks, thank you."

So moving on now to belly.

Belly, yes. Well, look,

the fact is that I've never actually seen anyone else's body quite like

mine in this respect.

But I'm going to let you in on this,

because this is one of the weirder parts of me, right.

I am the only person I know

who has a belly the exact same size

and in the exact same position

on the front of my body

as my arse is on the back.

No, that's true!

No, that is true!

Right, I'll show you! I'll show you, then!

LAUGHTER

APPLAUSE

WHOOPING

LAUGHTER

How did that happen?

Well, of course I know full well how it happened.

Curly Wurlys, that's how.

So I am, in effect, a sphere with legs, aren't I?

Like a sort of M&M character, aren't I?

Is it a good thing or a bad thing,

do I really mind?

In truth, I don't really consider it that much.

If my belly gets bigger, I just get bigger trousers.

Is that so wrong?

I mean, the up side of having this big belly for so long

is that I've got lots of loose-fitting tops.

So I have become the go-to person

for all of my pregnant friends

to borrow my clothes for six months every now and again.

Talking of bellies and babies,

mine refused to cooperate in that department, just wouldn't make one.

I mean, obviously I wasn't alone in THAT endeavour.

And I wasn't alone in the responsibility, but, oh,

boy, that was a very tricky time.

It was like my belly was calling to me to become a mother,

it was one of the most certain and powerful urges that I'd ever felt

and it kept relentlessly not happening.

And I wondered why it didn't work.

I even wondered if perhaps we weren't supposed to have a baby,

like it was somehow deemed that we shouldn't.

And then, with IVF, miraculously,

it did work.

And then a couple of weeks later, it didn't.

So big grief, more scans, more injections.

And we started to dilute our happiness with this giant sadness.

I mean, obviously we kept it all quiet, and private,

so chirpy, normal life was going on all around us, totally unaware.

Normal life, like when your friend gets pregnant by accident

and asks you to go with her for her abortion.

You don't know if you love her or hate her and it's so unfair.

And then you work out that... of course you love her,

it's just that life is one big, ugly

awkward, irascible, cruel bitch,

and you surrender. And you stop trying to MAKE a baby,

and you start trying to FIND a baby.

And that leads you to a mammoth adventure.

But in the meantime, this belly

became a sort of an adversary who lay dormant for 20 years

or so after all that, until about five years ago,

when I became quite ill with all kinds of hell kicking off in here,

where I keep my lady plumbing.

So much so that I can clearly remember one night

when I was on my own up here in London, and I was doubled over

with cramps and I was bleeding so badly that I decided

to spend the night in the bathtub so as not to ruin the bed.

And being typically British, of course,

I decided not to call the doctor, so as not to ruin his night.

LAUGHTER

So I was choosing bleeding slowly to death in the bathtub...

..over bothering someone.

Well, anyway, eventually I did collapse, and I went to hospital.

And my doctor was so convinced that I had uterine cancer

that he ordered a second biopsy,

to be sure, when the results of the first one came back clear.

But even before the results of that second biopsy,

I'd decided to be done with my old enemy,

my defunct reproductive stuff,

because it was curtailing my life.

It was deciding how well or ill I was.

So I made my peace with it, you know, "Thanks very much, womb,

"for being part of making me female, and all of that.

"I do think we could have cut a better deal.

"Like, if you weren't going to make eggs good enough to make a baby,

"you could have made me some chocolate eggs as a consolation prize.

"But listen, your work here is done."

So my womb and I parted company.

Goodbye.

So, that's my belly and its contents, which by the way,

as I stand before you tonight,

may not contain a womb,

but most certainly does contain a tuna baguette!

Yeah! And a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

AND a Red Bull!

Not an actual red bull.

No, OK.

And a quarter of chocolate limes, yes, of course, at all times.

Yeah, all right, and a giant Toblerone that I got at the airport.

Stop bullying me about it, please.

So moving on now, southwards from belly,

to this rather marvellous mysterious area here,

The Growler.

Yes.

Yes. That's what I like to call it.

Or Mary, or Minky,

or Mumford & Sons.

Um, you know, the beardy ones.

Anyway...

Look, look, look.

There's absolutely nothing I'm prepared to share with you about

this particular area of mine...

HE'S looking a little bit relieved.

..except to say that if you thought bosom examinations were a challenge,

believe me, lady garden examinations are a Herculean task.

Bluh-bluh-bluh!

Oh, my God, a strange man has got his hand inside me.

Bluh-bluh-bluh!

Oh, God, he's up to his elbow!

LAUGHTER

Bluh-bluh-bluh!

Oh, God, I seem to be having sex with something cold and metal.

Bluh-bluh-bluh!

Help me!

So now, to hips.

# Oh, baby when you talk like that You make a woman go mad... #

Yeah, I'd just like to point out that Shakira, the singer,

who I like VERY much, by the way,

is in fact a mahoosive liar.

Because her hit, this, Hips Don't Lie, THAT is a lie.

Because on the very last night

of the very last recording of the Vicar Of Dibley, right,

we had a huge party to celebrate.

This song came on and I got up to dance to it, and yeah, all right,

I had had a LITTLE bit too much to drink,

and I over-danced so much

that I actually injured my actual hip

and I had to walk on a stick for six weeks!

So, Shakira, love, frankly, your hips DO lie.

So moving on now to legs.

Now, then. These really are quite interesting.

Considering the fact that I have clearly been given someone else's.

LAUGHTER

No, look, look - look at those.

Look at them. Look at them! DON'T LOOK AWAY!

-Look at them!

-I

-have to look at them!

These, THESE, are a short, fat, elderly man's legs.

LAUGHTER

Hang on a minute. Hang on a minute.

Little bit too keen to agree for my liking.

Oh, God, look.

When I say elderly man, I actually mean dead.

Well, look, these aren't for a woman!

Are they? Do you know, once, right,

I had to do this sketch with Fatty Saunders where we had to be hoiked

aloft on wires for hours on end.

And when you do that, they put you in something

called a flying harness.

Well, hers arrived, and it was a tiny little dainty nylon thing.

Mine arrived...

..in a trunk...

..and it was a big, leather, strappy

monstrosity sling sort of a thing

that you might lift a horse in.

Well, as I was climbing into the truss,

I saw the nametag etched on the inside of the strap.

You know, the person it was originally made for.

Harry Secombe.

What?! I mean, don't get me wrong,

I LOVED Harry Secombe, but really?

I have HIS body?

Yeah, look. These are Harry Secombe's bloody legs!

Very unfair.

So moving on swiftly now to feet.

Yes, I do have the feet of a hobbit.

And yes, they don't fit into any ordinary-width shoes, but hey,

do you know what, they carry me anywhere I want to go.

They do it year after year and they never complain,

so, good. So that's it, basically.

That is my body. That's how I see it.

It does its job, it's healthy, and I like it,

even though some of it is a little bit strange and it doesn't sit very

well onto any kind of scientific chart,

it's never stopped me from doing anything that I want to do.

It's where I live.

And I fit in it very comfortably, thank you.

But it's just my shell.

It's not the only thing that defines me.

So you can imagine that I am gobsmacked when I see this.

MUSIC: Lip Up Fatty by Bad Manners

Do you know, when I was due to have my hysterectomy,

I was at my lowest, my weakest, my illest.

My doctor told me that if I could lose a bit of weight before the

operation, he'd be able to do it with keyhole surgery,

it'd take three weeks to recover.

The other option was big, open surgery

and three months to recover.

Well, that was it. That was all the motivation I needed.

So I set about dropping a few stone.

Lots of tiny, joyless, low-cal eating

and loads more walking for weeks on end. It was grim.

But I managed to lose some of the weight

so I could have the keyhole surgery, so great.

But that's all it was, was practical,

but of course...

MUSIC RESUMES

MUSIC ENDS

ALL: Ohh!

LAUGHTER

What a prize twat.

LAUGHTER AND APPLAUSE

Do you know, one of the joys of being this age

is that I truly realise that all of this is utter bollocks.

And you know what, I am someone whose dad gave her armour.