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LIVE APPEARANCE: It's A Funny Old Game

4/23/2014

On Saturday I will be performing live the act that features in my short film, Knock Knock. Lynne Parker, Exec Producer from Funny Women came to the screening and asked me to do it as part of a night she's arranging which will be a mix of women and football and comedy, so that's a coincidence isn't it.

Despite their apparent differences, ventriloquist act Gottla Geer are burqa-wearing football fans as well as being the best of mates. Mates who will be appearing at Funny Women's comedy-football soirée mélange 'World Cup Special' at the Leicester Square Theatre this Saturday night, 26 April 2014.

With Gottla the more human of the two and Geer the more vocal, the pair highlight the fact that it's difficult to ascertain allegiances even among friends. When asked of her expectations of the crowd this Saturday night, Geer said "Being smack bang in the middle of London, I should imagine it'll be full of Manchester United fans, which - given the current climate - means they'll have low expectations, so that takes a bit of the pressure off me to perform. Should be a decent night, yeah".

For more information on shenanigans and to buy tickets, follow this link:

http://www.funnywomen.com/events/382/world-cup-special-no-balls-please

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*** PRESS RELEASE*SUSAN HUSBAND'S comedy short 'KNOCK KNOCK'***

1/3/2014

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My short comedy film, Knock Knock, (what I wrote and am in) is now finished and will be screened at the Leicester Square Theatre on Monday 20 January. Showcasing a couple of characters that I conceived a whole 7 (seven) years ago, my impetus for making the film was that, had I seen someone else do such a set up before I got there first, I didn't know if I could've lived with myself without being perpetually embittered. I would've had to do big cardio exercises so as to focus my anger, I tell you.

I have always tended to take on roles in which I cannot really be seen. Like that of a Producer (which is a bit like being a ghost AND a goalkeeper; nobody really appreciates all that you do until you let a big pea-roller in and only then are people aware of your presence). Once when we did an excerpt from Macbeth at school, I played the ghost, which involved me blowing talc off my hand from beneath a table, and in the sixth form I played the voice of Audrey II - the plant in Little Shop of Horrors - singing into a mic from behind the curtain while Lauren Pushkin and Toni Burke did excellent jobs of being Seymour and the Dentist on stage, with Sara Stewart inside a plant pot being Audrey II's movement, so I suppose that a burqa-clad ventriloquist was the natural progression. It's also uncanny, because walking around Upton Park in a burqa - with people looking right through me - really did make me feel like a ghost.

The film was originally titled 'Up The Hamas' but my Producer pointed out that this was inappropriately inflammatory and that he wanted to work / live again. I love him and it's too early for him to be a dead ghost, so it's called 'Knock Knock'.

There are so many extremely talented people I'd like to thank for this - as per the credits - and also a big thank you to the Godfather of theatricality that is Martin Witts - and all at the Leicester Square Theatre - for loaning us the space for the private screening (and to Stewart Lee because his run finishes on the Sunday, and to Frank Skinner, whose run doesn't start until the Tuesday - very thoughtful of you, chaps). We will ask everyone to buy drinks to 'support the arts'.

Up the Hammers! (We could do with a few ghosts in goal AND up front.)

Susan

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Doppelgänger? Tick.

8/21/2013

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I'd been wondering when I was going to find him / her. I think today was it.

It's almost the end of this year's Edinburgh Festival now and I haven't been up there as I've been too busy logging and transcribing for 200 hours and putting on 10kg, but anyway, a fair few people who I know in the comedy world are up there and have been messaging me asking when can we meet for coffee (does it have to be coffee?), shall they put my name on this and that guest list, rare rare rare....But the purpose of this post isn't to pretend I'm well popular OR into Afro-Caribbean vernacular, it's because I've found someone who I think must have used a photo of me and Photoshopped it into their show poster because they are here on illegal pretences and need to adopt a British Citizen's identity. I still keep having to look at it, the picture.

The show is called Mother F (Gilded Balloon, 14:45, Billiard Room) ; a production performed by Susan Swanton and Isabel Ford where a mother dies and two sisters rummage through her attic. This takes me back to my first week at art school...

There were five of us in the house and Reece and Andy had found a sack of typically Asian women's clothing in the cellar.

We were away from home for the first time.

It was exciting.

An Oasis CD was on.

I was doing some film project which involved me filming OBVIOUSLY different people crossing the road, using passing cars as swipes. Andy had agreed to be one of these obviously different people and was dressing up in a sari when our landlord, Mr Mustaqim, walked in. I mean, it was a perfectly innocent mistake to make, but I can understand that it was quite distressing for our landlord to see one of his new tenants (£32 a week. £32 A WEEK!!!) in his recently dead wife's clothes.

Anyway, back to the lookylikey thing...my friend, A.C. Reeve, sent me a picture this afternoon. He had had a qualifying conversation with someone which led him to believe that it wasn't me doing a show up there, but the photographic evidence needed to be confirmed, clearly.

Photo courtesy of A.C. Reeve.

OH. MY. DAYS.

If you have never seen me, then this won't mean much, but....HELLO.....FRIENDS??? (and friends, if you have a picture which is practically an exact replication of this, please let me know).

I then thought of the message that Sonia sent me last week from Edinburgh, asking if I was in Edinburgh in a way that made me question whether I actually was in Scotland as I sat there in North London. She'd contacted me at the start of the run, very kindly offering me tickets to some excellent show, which I had politely declined due to not going this year, and she was now asking if I'd just walked past her in the street. I felt like a liar and started to think "If I'm up in Edinburgh, why on earth did I turn down those tickets?"...

Up closer, it's only very slightly different, but still...

After a Google image search of the two performers, I didn't know if I was pleased or disappointed to find out that the one called Susan isn't the one who looks like me. "My one" is Isabel Ford. Anyway, the boring bit is that it's only this one photo that Isabel appears to look like me in. I think it might be the closest I've come so far to having a twin though.

As I'm just about to write a script concerning mistaken identity, this comes at a timely time. I think I would like to meet Isabel one day. Isabel?

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When in Rome, know that 'hypocritical' is a Greek word

4/14/2013

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Sometimes I'll 'like' updates by non comics but wouldn't've if they were made by comics. I was feeling a bit hypocritical about all this until I remembered that we're all answerable to being impressed by Susan Boyle but I don't think we'd think she was as good if she looked like Katherine Jenkins.

We are seduced by the unexpected.

Think about it. If your greengrocer suddenly exquisitely expressed herself through the medium of dance, it would be YouTube worthy. Similarly, if you went to Pineapple Dance Studios and had detailed micropropagation production techniques of Jerusalem artichokes spontaneously explained to you by a breakdancer, you'd be overwhelmed by their brilliance.

That human instinct of being the first to discover something and wanting to tell the world that you discovered it, stays with us for life - or at least until we switch our phones and computers off. One of the things our parents first impressed upon us is that it's important to share (good stuff, not stuff like rabies), so it's only natural that the next best thing to sticking a flag in the North Pole ourselves is to see one of our best friends doing it.

Bye.

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Vocal work in progress featuring the track 'You Got A Boyfriend'

4/14/2013

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So this audio file is the latest jinglegag I've done, which will be made into an accompanying mini music video, most probably featuring @charliehenniker and myself. The idea is that someone will hear it and realise that they'd like to fund a whole 6 album deal's worth so that everyone's a winner.

https://soundcloud.com/su-hu/you-got-a-boyfriend-short

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1986 (creosote, fake sick & patois)

2/2/2013

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I grew up in a corner bungalow at the end of Kirkland Avenue, but most of the action took place on the other road that made it a corner residence, and one that wasn't overlooked by any houses apart from ours (and when I say 'houses' I do still mean 'bungalow', although we did have an illegal loft conversion in 1988).

It was the street that I learned to roller-skate in. The street that I had to cross in order to get to school. The street that had 'hip-hop' sprayed on its pavement in 1986, just a few paving slabs away from the school's entrance, which inspired me to enforce a choreographed ritual upon Corina and myself that saw us pointing to our hips, and hopping, until we got into our seats in Mr. Burns' class.

Me and Corina a couple of weeks ago with one of her spawn. Picture courtesy of Joan Munro.

By the way, one of Mr Burns' favourite songs then was Peter Gabriel's Sledgehammer. He (Mr Burns, not Peter Gabriel) said that I was probably the best poet for my age in The London Borough of Redbridge, which was probably the biggest compliment I had had at the time and made me think that if he was thirty years younger and not married, I may've been in with a chance. In fact Mr Burns was probably the only man I would've been alright about my Mum having an affair with, and I did once fantasise about this scenario when I picked up the phone and it was him. He was only calling to see if she would be one of the responsible adults - known as 'helpers' in 1986 - on our Isle of Wight trip (...oh well, still got it, Dad) but still, it was exciting to have the man who insisted on being your personal crisp sampler every day call up your HOME. Corina and I listened to La Isla Bonita I don't know how many times on her Dad's Walkman on that coach trip.

It was also the street that was renowned for learner drivers and those having extra marital affairs in the area.

If you think about it, your criteria in order to execute either are exactly the same, apart from the fact that the affairs people had two cars between them and don't necessarily have to have great eyesight. The first of the couple would arrive and park up, and the one to arrive second was usually the one who got in the first one's car. I used to be so intrigued by all this affairs business as it was so new to me. I thought that people got married because they wanted to and stayed married because they wanted to. I mean. How silly. I think of Dacre Avenue now whenever I see L Plates on a hen night.

(We pronounced it as in 'acre' with a D on the front, not like the rum-based cocktail with more 'i's.)

Mr Burns was a non-practising Jew and my Mum quite fancied Freddie Mercury, so you can see why my mind was racing. It would've been a bit weird, though, if Mr Burns had driven over from the school opposite, and my Mum had started the car, driven two car-lengths, stopped, and got out and in with him.

The smell of creosote always makes me think of Eric Spear - the bloke who composed the Coronation Street theme tune. I was only ten and was probably returning from just having had my first snog with Alex in his shed in Strafford Avenue (opposite Corina's house), which always seemed to whiff of the tar-based preservative. Even though he was only eleven, he knew he wanted to be a pro-trumpet player and everyone who walked down the street heard him practising his cornet (before he graduated to the trumpet) and Coronation Street was a particularly good one to catch him at. I have always been attracted to hard-working boys who have stuck to their guns and I'm very proud to say that he is now a pro-trumpet player. Of course, I like to think that it has something to do with my saliva.

This seems like a good point to insert a diary extract from that year. I only kept it until 13 March as after that, I didn't see the point in preserving the memory of life for a while because on 13 March, my cat, Holly, was run over in front of me by a light blue Beetle. I remember thinking that it was a cooler way to go than by an Escort or something. The driver kindly asked if he could take her to the vets, but we were just about to take Daniel Gamblin home after the swimming gala so we went straight to Goddard & Allen's after we dropped him off. I saw him over Upton Park a few years ago, but I didn't mention this incident. Holly coughed up blood all over my Dash tracksuit, all the way to Leytonstone. That night, me, Mum, Dad and Holly's four kittens all slept in the same bed. It was quite sad and my first real incidence of death since goldfish Jill ate goldfish John (I named them after my parents) and then died, and no doubt good preparation for when Auntie Wendy would die later that year.

Note how I made a note of a Cabbage Patch Kid's first birthday in the top right hand corner of the entry. I must also point out the name of the diary. I called it 'Dear Dora' as a nod to Alex's favourite sports brand at the time, Diadora. But then, after the diary had been going for a week or so, I felt I must also attribute Alex's name in the title of it too, and so it was added. THEN I thought I had better cover my tracks and disguise the fact that I fancied Alex, just in case anyone read my diary, so I added a 'd' on the end. Good skills, Susan. They'll never know. Then, in twenty-seven years time, you can write a blog post about it and tell everyone because it really won't matter then.

At the risk of digression, I have no recollection of the lyrics as stated in the above diary entry, but I've just googled them and found this...In retrospect, perhaps they had something to do with the interest that surfaced in my undergraduate thesis, titled 'Not Quite White', which was an investigation into cultural identity and focused quite heavily on Jamaican patois.

'If art is a crime, may God forgive me'

Someone once grafittied the above on Dacre Avenue. It took me a few weeks to realise that it was more poetic than it sounded because the 'If' and the 'art' were fartoo close together, so for about a month I thought it was a crime to pass wind, and wondered why someone with such a bad grasp of the English language would have the confidence to spray their musings for what seemed like indefinitely on a public surface. It seemed to wash off a few months later, though...just like the jar of past-its-best peanut butter that I poured over the wall - albeit when I was nineteen - to see if anyone thought it was vomit (my Mum did and cleared it up. I never told her it was only peanuts).

Everything is just peanuts, isn't it.

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You Rub My Back...

12/2/2012

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(...And my back will feel all nice)

In a scientific study earlier in the year, 'they' found that BOGOF (Buy One Get One Free) deals excited men more than football and women liked half price deals more than Ryan Gosling (I mean women liked half price deals more than they liked Ryan Gosling, not more than Ryan Gosling liked half price deals...or football):

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2102537/Forget-love-BOGOF-gets-heart-racing-Brits-excited-bagging-bargain-finding-one.html

(excuse the Da*ily Ma*l link)

I've been thinking about the meaning of the word 'bargain', and how its definitions are akin to being as close / distant as the terms 'girlfriend' and 'prostitute'.

Let's look at this, shall we.

bar·gain / ˈbärgən

1. An agreement or contract establishing what each party will give, receive, or perform in a transaction between them (or something acquired or received in such an agreement)

2. Something bought or offered at a low price - like a bargain in a basement

HOLD ON! We may as well say that it means either :

1. The bit I want plus the bit I don't want

or

2. Just the bit I want

How different can you get?

I think that most people associate the word bargain with something they're getting for nothing or a knock-down price; a 'steal'. When I used to work down the market for Syd Cohen, the bloke on the stall opposite (who sold all kinds of stuff, a lot of it electrical, some of it useless) used to say "dagger, dagger, dagger" when he bagged up every sale and passed it out to the 'appy customer. I didn't understand what this meant so one day I asked him and he told me that, in days gone by (the old days, if you like, but not "back in the day", which sixteen year olds today often use to mean about 18 months ago), people used to keep a knife by the till in case anyone tried to rob it, so it was a reference to that. When someone was stealing from you, you got the dagger out.

For those of you that are interested, here's an excerpt from some lyrics I wrote at the time (around 1999), which were heavily influenced by the style of the Stereophonics (keep in mind that I sold knocked-down ladies' suits and the bloke opposite was always finding "another last one" when people wanted more of the same):

A Cordless Kettle and A Figurine Nun

I like the green but I need a size 22
I’d be a 12 but I’ve got trouble here with my boobs
She tries 18 and I know I’m wasting my time
I say yeah yeah, smile my best and be polite
They kid themselves into thinking what they say is right
I’m left there hanging with the hangers it’s a pantomime
What do you want it’s 30 quid for a hundred pound suit
She asks her boyfriend if he thinks it makes her arse look cute
He nods his head he’s thinking bout the match this afternoon

Money from them’s like blood outta stone
They want the Sistine Chapel for the hire of a school hall
Dagger dagger dagger it’s another last one
A cordless kettle and a figurine nun
A cordless kettle and a figurine nun
A cordless kettle and a figurine nun

Another reason I'm thinking about bargains is because of a tweet I sent yesterday:

I thought I'd up my game as I've tweeted Audi recently to try to get a free car and there's been no response from either the UK OR the USA, so I thought I'd make it more like a competition. That way people are bound to scrap amongst themselves to give me a motor. Of course, originally part of me thought it would be a waste of time because who is going to want to give me a car just because I ask for it? Think positive!...that is only the start of the bargaining. I could make it into a competition. Take all of them for a test drive across Europe, on a road trip, see which one I like best, review them and it could become part of their campaign if their target market are people like me....

Of course, it's not just about what you can take from someone, it's about what you might be able to give in return. There's something where I live called the time bank - a skill exchange where no money changes hands. A bit like the old days, indeed.

http://www.haringeytimebank.org.uk/

I haven't offered any skills as yet as I'm not sure what I'm looking for in return is actually offered, but you feel free if you'd like to join. I would love to hear what you have to offer. In life in general. Perhaps we could skill swap?

My Mum was very fond of saying "cast your bread upon the water...", whenever anyone was reluctant about taking a course of action that was not due to stand them direct gain, and I would always complete the phrase with "...and it comes back soggy". These days I am less cynical, especially as everyone seems to be doing the Atkins diet.

The End.

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Brain, Larynx, Lips, Manoeuvre

11/24/2012

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That moment when you arrive clutching one item at a Sainsbury's till with an empty conveyor belt, at the same time as someone with the weekly shop for a family of four, is always a tricky one.

There is no steward's enquiry, you just have to decide amongst yourselves as to who goes first. Luckily, this lady decided that I should. Of course, I offered up a barely heard "Are you sure?" with added non-mouth movement, which would make it hard for her to hear, so she'd have to ask again if she wanted to hear and if she was tired she'd probably not ask me to repeat myself and say that I should definitely go first.

Good. That was sorted. I think she probably felt sorry for me and my lonely bottle of wine. "Thanks so much" I sincerely and audibly announced. "It's OK - I've got a 2 and a 3 year old waiting for me at home so any excuse to stay out..." she said. I appreciated her polite diffusion, especially as I can't imagine her family planning projections were directly proportional to the amount of time she envisaged having to spend time in supermarket queues in order to dodge returning to the offspring involved. I think she had decided that I should be in a hurry to get home and open that wine, seeing as I'd have no children to stay away from. Fine by me.

I then observed the large number of bottles of Lucozade she was buying. My immediate reaction was to say to her that if her kids had a little less sugar, maybe they'd be less of a nightmare and she'd be able to love them a bit more. Anyways, I didn't say that of course. Something in the back of my mind told me to shut up immediately. I am usually really good at thinking before I speak. In fact, at school they said I should speak more because they knew there was a lot of thinking going on.

In this instance, I suddenly had a vision of this kind hearted lady pushing a trolley of Lucozade to a nearby hospital for a sickly relative who wasn't able to chew.

Phew, that was a close one.

Me, Samantha & Charlotte the teddy

It made me recall a similar incident last year where I said what I was thinking without first thinking it through (although the circumstances were not really reality so I'm not too disappointed with myself). I was working at the London Fetish Fare, where one encounters all sorts. So I was having a conversation with two gentlemen infantilists - Samantha and Emma - who were telling me how they like to do fashion shows, crafts and make house with their friends and look after Charlotte the teddy bear. They really were going into some detail about it all. Call me old fashioned, but all this paraphilic infantilism was new/s to me, and it was intriguing for sure.

Me and Emma

I had become so immersed in their role-play that my disbelief had already been suspended; goodbye 18 stone HGV drivers in oversized 1980s bridesmaids' dresses, hello Ems and Sammydoll. I couldn't help but notice that Emma was on crutches.

Me: Ahh, what happened to you? Are you poorly because you fell off the swing?

Emma: No, I've got MS.

And we're back in the room.

The End.

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The Not So Naked Truth

11/23/2012

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I don't think it's a particularly weird thing to do but I suppose I'm the only person I know who does life modelling, whereas I know quite a few people who run marathons. So I started doing it a couple of years ago because it seemed a bit scary slash character building but that it wasn't going to kill me; I had - and still do have - a 'what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger' kind of mentality, so it seemed a bit like the prospect of bungee jumping but with less threat of breaking your neck.

I realise that doing something because it's not going to kill you is a pretty weird motivation but I think sometimes you need quite a wide brief in order to get out of bed in the mornings. The year I started life modelling, I had been to seven funerals in the preceding fourteen months. Not only had none of these people died as a result of getting naked (or bungee jumping), but their deaths helped to put things into perspective and crystallise my life motto of 'nobody's died', as in 'it's no big deal, why are you banging on about it like it is'. And even when someone has died, it's not that big a deal because the worst part is over for them. I suppose I should change my life motto to 'nobody is dying' as a more appropriate comparison to 'bad' things happening, as that's probably the worst part. But anyway...

The other night I went to see a man about a job - Burlesque life modelling. It piqued my interest because it seemed to join up some life dots for me. I sell corsets, I get naked in art classes and I work in comedy, so it was to be expected. I arrived. It was a private room in Bloomsbury Square and people were drawing with music playing. The model was on a raised platform in six inch platform heels and standing on a large piece of ruched up fabric. The first thing I notice about this health and safety nightmare is that she is wearing make-up. It strikes me as a strange first thing to strike me, especially given that she is also wearing hold up stockings, black mesh 'panties' as the Amercians would say, and a black backless top incorporating bra thing with stocking holder upper thingies dangling down the legs because the stockings were hold ups anyway and had no need for them. It was complicated - that's all you need to know. I observed the class for half an hour. Here are the other things I noticed that were different to what I am used to:

1. The demographics. In a class - taking place in an art college - of about 15 evening class students, usually about 4 of them are male. I'd say here it was about two thirds or three quarters male. Something like that.

2. One of the men popped out for a loo break mid-draw. Nobody ever usually does that where I'm from; they at least wait for a break. The class had only been going 15 minutes.

3. The artist I was sat next to signed his quick sketch. Hmm either he's famous or deluded, or perhaps both.

4. The coordinator man gave pointers on how long they had left in a certain pose, rather than practical artistic tips. I am used to the likes of the lovely James Tyldesley* moving around the class, passionately getting lost in time with his students, and then asking me how long we've done (but not before my arms have gone to sleep or my shins are burning from the concentrated directional air flow of the heater). The first time he asked me how long we had done in a certain pose, I had to tell him that I didn't know as I wasn't wearing a watch (I have written a sketch about this actually but am yet to shoot it - St Martin's wanted stupid money so I'm still on the lookout for a fee-less location with no red tape).

5. Oh my days! I have only just realised this big difference now - the class were all sitting down at the Burlesque art group, whereas normally they are standing around easels. Hmm this further adds to the spectacle and objectification of the whole thing...

So anyway, with all the above in mind, I am still sleeping on this one. The fact that I am feeling more uncomfortable about modelling not-so-naked than I ever have done modelling naked is interesting, but of course it's always context, context, context.

And then this curve ball: the geezer told me that the model goes on to remove items of clothing at the end. So in effect, what people are drawing is a striptease. Ah, yes. I see now. Less is more, more or less. Except when you start off with nothing. My brain is beginning to hurt like when I try to imagine where outer space ends.

N.B. You get a tenner more for a Burlesquey outfit session than a regular birthday suit one. Why is this? For wear and tear incurred, apparently.

The End.

*http://aubergineart.co.uk/art/james-tyldesley/

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What shall we talk about now then?

11/14/2012

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Sorry.

Now that we've got the hardest word out the way, it should be easier.

Is there anything you want me to talk about? My new website? Oh go on then. I am marginally less excited about it than I was when I got my MySpace page, and that didn't revolutionise my life, it just told the world I was a 24 year old Wiccan from Vanuatu. I'm going to keep this short as I have burnt pizza to eat and people to ignore.

Ideas for regular blog posts that get us both involved (you AND me)...just spit-balling here:

Dance move of the week
Exercise tip of the week
Event of the week
Set me a task / challenge / dare (i.e. go to the toilet in the Bank of England, or deliver Alan Sugar a meal on wheels)

Let me know.

All the best,

SH

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LIVE APPEARANCE: It's A Funny Old Game

*** PRESS RELEASE*SUSAN HUSBAND'S comedy short 'KNOCK KNOCK'***

Doppelgänger? Tick.

When in Rome, know that 'hypocritical' is a Greek word

Vocal work in progress featuring the track 'You Got A Boyfriend'

1986 (creosote, fake sick & patois)

You Rub My Back...

Brain, Larynx, Lips, Manoeuvre

The Not So Naked Truth

What shall we talk about now then?

SuHuNeedU

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