Lucy Porter: ‘I’m actually a simmering cauldron of rage’

Hi Lucy, where do we find you today?

Well, I’m busy preparing for my exciting new tour, Let Yourself Go, and gearing up for getting on the road. So I’m amassing tea bags and various snacks and I’m sewing a backdrop for the show.

Wow, impressive!

Yeah, I’m like a weird old crafting woman. Have you ever seen the film Donnie Darko? There’s the dance troupe in that, Sparkle Motion, and I’m taking my inspiration from their banner. My shows increasingly have a 1950s Cliff Richard film, let’s do the show right here kind of vibe to them. I always like to have something for the audience to look at, but you can’t have a massive set unless you…

Unless you’re Michael McIntyre.

Exactly, if you’ve got the budget for a tour bus. But unfortunately it’s just me and my 16-year-old Ford Fusion, so it’s whatever I can fit into its surprisingly capacious boot.

So this new tour… I’m not sure if this is a typo, you can’t possibly be embarking on your 18th solo show?

Yeah, I find that hard to believe as well, actually. I don’t know where they’ve got that number from. I suppose it is about that. Because I’ve been knocking about for so many years. It’s a terrible addiction. Some people would say, I’ve done 18 solo shows, that fills me with pride, whereas I look at it and think, oh God, I haven’t been able to quit the habit.

Trust me, it’s impressive. You must be a prolific writer.

Well, I mean, it’s just life that happens to you. When you’re an observational, confessional stand-up, it’s not like writing a novel.

Yeah, but it depends how much you’ve got to confess.

That’s it. I’ve just led a very naughty life. I have a lot of personal failings because my show is largely an exercise in airing my dirty laundry and chastising myself for all my shortcomings. It’s easy to write a new one every year because I’ve always done something dumb in the intervening year.

And it’s more cost effective than therapy, isn’t it, going on the road?

Very much so. I mean, they pay you. It’s a remarkable scam that I’ve discovered.

Can you remember your first show?

Yes. It was a weird mess of not knowing what I wanted to be. It was a bit of stand-up plus these terrible characters. I can’t act so I don’t know what I was thinking. The poor audience had to sit and watch me put on a funny hat, then try and do an accent. And I did that three times for three different characters. The stand-up was going really well and then I’d do one of these characters and everyone would sit there slightly baffled. And then I’d get on with the stand-up again and they’d be like, oh, good.

What were the characters?

There was a Californian self-help guru. Then there was a very posh, like a Tara Palmer-Tomkinson sort of socialite. And then another one that was obviously so bad, even I can’t remember it.

So your new show is called Let Yourself Go. What can you tell us about it?

Well, the title can be read in two ways. I was accused on social media of having let myself go. I thought it was quite a funny phrase. When you’re young and you let yourself go, it’s a wonderful, joyous thing where you’re dancing on tables and having a great time. And then when you’re middle aged it means you’re lying on the sofa with a slanket doing a jigsaw. I think I have let myself go, but it’s quite a good thing. And it just felt like a good way to talk about the joys and non-joys of being in your 50s and starting to be more comfortable with yourself. You’re letting go of a lot of preconceptions about what your life was going to be. I think you adopt your final form.

So did you engage with the person who said you’d let yourself go?

No, oh my God. The problem is you get good content by engaging with these people, but you’re also engaging with an absolute bell-end. You just get a disproportionate level of douche-baggery online. I’m one of those people who talks to people in the Post Office queue. I’m much happier with that.

Well they’ve done you a big favour by giving you a show title.

Exactly. Don’t engage with them. Just use them to further your own career.

What’s this about taking the register at the start of the show? That sounds fun.

I do like to check who’s in, just to make sure that we have enough menopausal women to go ahead with the show. We need to be quorate. But it’s all consensual rather than picking on people, which I have done in my time. If you want to join in, that’s great. And if you simply want to have a nap, then that’s also absolutely fine. It’s a nice, warm, safe space for a middle-aged man to close his eyes and dream of his shed. I know that sounds like I’m missing out on comedy gold, but I value my own sleep so much these days that I don’t think I’d have the heart to wake a napping man. I’m very happy with my audience. I can smell the deep heat coming off them.

Your blurb for the show also mentions Botox regrets. I don’t see you as someone going down the Katherine Ryan route.

No, my God. I’m absolutely in support of anyone’s right to have Botox and fillers. But my attitude is you get to an age where you have to decide whether you want to look tired or surprised. And I very much feel tired is the route I’m going down. I did once try Botox and I talk about how awfully badly that went in the show. So if you want to put people off having fillers and Botox, then this might be a good show to bring them to. But never say never. I might get to a Joan Rivers point where I have a facelift and become a bit more aggressive. But for now I’m a softer, wrinklier person and I’m quite happy with that.

Depends how the career’s going, I suppose. You might need to give it an injection.

Ha. It’s weird, you don’t see normal-looking people on telly anymore. Everybody’s had something done. There’s no bald men! I really miss them. You never see a comb-over these days.

You’re not quite a veteran yet, but you’ve been around the block a few times. What’s your most memorable gig down the years, good or bad?

Well, it’s obviously going to be bad, isn’t it? Those are the interesting ones. Nobody wants to hear about the amazing triumphs. There was one at Glossop Labour Club. It was me and Johnny Vegas and a couple of others. We all died so badly on our arses and then we got snowed in at the end of the gig. So the promoter said to the crowd, the comedians are still here, do you want them to do some more? And the entire room just shouted, ‘No!’ They preferred to just sit in the dark and silence for two hours than listen to a minute more of our comedy.

What are you like on the road? Are you a rock and roll animal or are you sipping peppermint tea backstage?

Well, obviously, the impression I’m going to give the audience is that I am sipping peppermint tea. Whereas really, I’m out until four in the morning in nightclubs. No, I mean, I did that back in the day. But now, I always make sure I get a room with a bathtub. Then I can go back and have a hot bath before I retire. That’s my idea of heaven. And I do have a jigsaw holder so I can take my jigsaw with me wherever I go. Because it’s the easiest, most relaxing thing to do backstage.

You come across as such a lovely person… Do you have a dark edge?

Would you like me to get my husband on the phone right now? He will tell you how awful I am! I used to get really frustrated about that when I was younger. I would try and do the most dark and horrible material I could. And still all the reviews would be, she’s so charming. Whereas now, I’m quite happy if people think I’m nice because I’m actually a simmering cauldron of rage.

Talking of your husband, the comedian Justin Edwards, have you ever thought of doing a double act together?

We did think about doing a Krankies tribute act but flipping it so that I’m Ian and he’s Janette. That’s something we keep plotting to do.

That would be fantastic! Haven’t you got a book coming out soon as well?

So I have. It’s called Middle-Aged Women Get Shit Done. It’s a love letter to my fellow women and it’s a series of observations about the responsibilities and also the delights of being a middle-aged woman.

Were you always going to be a comedian? Did you do it at uni?

No, I didn’t. I did an English degree. I always loved comedy, but never thought I’d do it. And then I just kind of fell into it because I was in Manchester in the 90s. And there was this massive comedy scene with people like Caroline Aherne and Steve Coogan. I wasn’t a natural-born show-off but I’ve very much grown into it. And I do intend to do it till I die now.

So there’s no reason why you wouldn’t be doing it in your 90s.

Well, yes, as long as we can all still leave the house, and my audience are still alive, then I’ll still be doing it.