My parents were eccentrics, living in a big mad house in the country. We had a free-flying parrot and a goat that came on walks. Everything was an adventure. At midnight on a school night, they’d say, “Let’s visit the graveyard!” or “Let’s go sledging by moonlight!”
I was an empathic child. I’d cry if I saw old people walking alone. I’d tell my mum, “We must find out where they live and visit them!”
The Day Today taught me not to feel like a fraud. It was a roomful of mostly men who’d been to Oxford. Me and Steve Coogan were the only ones who’d been to Manchester. Me and Rebecca Front were the only women. I learned to be brave.
I lament the lack of funny women on TV being silly. It’s a shame Smack The Pony didn’t release the clowns. We didn’t have punchlines – we just did daft things. And we decided never to talk about diets, periods or being fat. I’m very proud of it. I can still watch it and not cringe.
We’ve got our Emmy on a timeshare. Fiona [Allen]’s got it at the moment, it’s Sally [Phillips’s] turn next, then it’ll be back to me.
If I could go back in time, I’d go to the stone age. Get the clubs out, smack the men around the head and drag them around by the hair. Get things right from the beginning, so we don’t end up in this ghastly bilge water of misogyny that we’re wading about in.
Allah stopped me smoking. I was a tobacco fiend who started on the bus in Scotland aged 12. Last year I was in a hotel in Turkey with a mosque opposite. I was coughing in the middle of the night when suddenly the call to prayer drifted through the window. Like honey, it floated into my body. I thought: “I’ve got to stop now.” And I did.
I had pneumonia a decade ago and very nearly died. It was a huge wake-up call. I couldn’t breathe and could only take tiny sips of air. You realise that breath is everything and health is the most important thing.
My vice is a magic mushroom tincture. There are times when you just want to see the world with a bit of glitter. I never got into drugs, apart from smoking weed. I think I was afraid because there were addicts and alcoholics in my family. Now I’m at the age where I’m like, “Christ, yeah, let’s have a bit of that!”
Before a difficult meeting, I play very loud Led Zeppelin and head-bang. Just to free my mind.
I have a word with myself when I see my face on the big screen. I’ll go, “Who is that extremely old lady?” I decided not to have anything done to my face. I’m distressed by what plastic surgery, injectables and fillers are doing to women. By messing with our faces we’re saying we’re not good enough. What do young girls take from that?
Cold-water swimming makes you fearless. My son had leukaemia when he was nine. Every morning before going to the Royal Marsden I’d throw myself into Tooting Lido. Then I could turn up on the ward, have a bit of resilience and not cry in front of him. It’s like magic energy. I started a sea-swimming group in Hastings during the pandemic. It began with four of us and ended up with 104, because people needed it so much. It’s a gamechanger for mental health – and it’s free.
I’m barred from two places. One is a pub in Newcastle. The other is Waitrose, in Banstead High Street, but that’s another story.
Money isn’t the key to happiness, but it does bring peace. I was on universal credit during the pandemic when there was no acting work and couldn’t even cover my rent. Actors and artists sail close to the wind. You can never plan long-term.
I was groped by my childhood hero. I watched soap operas religiously and loved one well-known soap star, but he touched me up during my first ever rep job. He stroked my bum in the canteen queue and went, “Mmm, nice arse.” The next day, I saw him in the corridor and wanted to bolt. Instead, I grabbed his crotch, and said, “Mmm, nice bollocks.” He never spoke to me again. Quite awkward because we were in a play together.
I once wet myself on-stage. I corpsed with laughter, tried to suppress it, and soaked my trousers. Sitting, horrified, in a pool of piss, I realised I had no lines for the next three-quarters of a page, so dashed off-stage, pulled off my drenched jeans and grabbed the first thing I could find – a pair of very large chef’s trousers drying in a window. I tore back on-stage wearing these clownish trousers and picked up the dialogue again. As it dawned on everyone what had happened, there was another wave of uncontrollable giggling. Luckily, by that point, my bladder was empty.
I’ll never retire. I want to keep working until my lines are being fed into an earpiece through my handbag.
I have so many happy places. On a cliff, in the sea, under a tree. Or dancing at an illegal drum ’n’ bass rave, dressed as a crow.
My Lady Parts: A Life Fighting Stereotypes by Doon Mackichan is out now (£16.99, Canongate)
