Laura Lexx

“You can be a genius and you can be kind. And one of those things does not have to come at the expense of the other.”

Seth Rogen, on Catherine O’Hara

I love it at a charity gig when the Compere is like “these comedians are giving their time for free”

Like time is limited for us.

Me: *nods graciously* I did indeed only watch 3/4 of a series of Real Housewives today so I could be here

Modern parenting is HARD! On the thighs...

Being in love is like central heating (central heating is crossed out) air conditioning

you turn it on before guests come over and pretend it's like this all the time

Adapting my British jokes for an Australian summer

My first possum!!!!

even if you accept the packet is empty - caterpillar got their first it's his book

Preparing my 3yo for her life by adding to each of her books a pop up face plate page, and she has to pull a cute little ribbon across to turn off cookies before she can access the hungry caterpillar

Screenshot of a news report saying Andrew Mountbatten Windsor turns 66 today

AND ON HIS BIRTHDAY?!?!?!?! On his BIRTHDAY?!?! Am I… happy? Is this happy?

Puhlease tell me they took him by Royal barge to The Tower….

Bingo you stupid bitch. And that’s why Damo is helping you out so much. Not because he’s desperately tipping water over your dried out whale skin on the beach but because there’s no shame in you improving your craft.

There's just no shame.

And I hate it. I’ve hit a point in life where I’ve just stopped entering the rooms I’m the worst in. Wait, is that true? Sometimes you’re on a bill with the comedy greats. Sometimes you’re the literal worst comedian in a room by any measure of success. Does that make you feel like this?

No. It’s not the same. Why? Because… because… because I can improve there. Because there’s no shame in improving my craft.

No. Because I still feel terrible puffing in the wrong clothes - when did all leggings get a tight elastic seam up the arse crack? I still feel horrible stopping 30 seconds before anyone else has to because the bile is creeping up the back of my throat. I still feel resentment for the crunch of my shoulder through each rep and the twitching of my foot as it judders through muscle fatigue. Just be better.

I don’t want to be the worst person in the room. I deeply, truly, hot tear painfully don’t want to be the worst person in the room. I’m the wildebeest that’d get caught. I’m the rejected decorated nest. I’m the Attenborough sad voice at the end.

And then the narcissism hits in a wave… the audacity to think these people in the room are even looking. That they can do 3 sets of 15 in 3 40 second bursts and write internal soliloquies to my body fat.

The shame wave follows the narcissism… the self-loathing that now I hate my body and my personality. Do I assume they’re judging me because I’m judging them? Am I judging them? I notice a person I’d not seen before despite having shared the room for the whole of the 40 minute class and realise no - I’m not judging them. They’re not the main character. No one’s looking at me. No one cares. Does it fix it?

I hate that feeling that my body is this awful book people can read: She’s slow and fat, simultaneously pale and red. She must be a mum. She must be too busy. She must be too lazy. She must have given up. She must not care.

But I do care! I care about words and sunshine and exploring and people and I am a mum and being a mum is nothing BUT moving and I haven’t given up - I’ve got involved… I’ve been so busy living I rarely cared about the vehicle that got me about… it wasn’t interesting. I do care - I want to feel flexible and strong and immortal… I just don’t care about the paint job. But I do a little care about the paint job. I don’t need the paint job to be perfect. I’d just like there to be… some paint.

I haven’t been to an actual gym in a long time. I work out - but I made my garage into a gym for the full goblin experience. And why? Because there’s nothing so deeply, soul crushingly awful than being the least capable person in a room. Especially physically.

I don’t want a body. I’d love to be a nebulous wraith. I didn’t want a body when it was perky and hot and I don’t want a body now it’s this creaking, lurching, vessel of betrayal. My whole life my body has felt like a liability. I think it’s why I got into comedy where my body could be secondary - this was the closest I could find to being a professional concept.

I got a personal trainer when I came to Australia. I have a personal trainer in the UK, but she’s called Presence, and she has blue hair and her focus is making me like myself. I got a personal trainer when I came to Australia. He’s called Damo short for Demon and he has no hair Anywhere and his focus is killing me.

He set 20 reps. I did 12. He said 8 more. I said I can’t. He said you can. I said I can’t. He said give me all you got. So I did. I threw up on his shoes.

Fitness is relative. A writing dump based on this morning, Day 6 of being a British girl in Australia

Fitness is relative. The UK is a very small country ergo - fitness in the UK does not equate to fitness somewhere as sprawling as Australia. Furthermore, fitness in the UK is relative to actually not really every being able to go outside. Fitness is easier to fake in the UK because we all wear more clothes. You can be a top British athlete and the requirement is moving to another room. And our houses are not big. We have park runs. But our parks are the size of Australian gardens.

The eternal dilemma of the parent

Oh it’s intermittent faSting? In which case I apologise for the smell and I am no longer confused about the lack of weight loss

Ok it’s been 28 years now, it’s time for me to ask: who has been pronouncing it wrong this whole time, me or Faith Hill?

Centrifiggle or centrifewgull?

Maybe Andrew had over due library books so she had no choice?

Ssshhh now the clever men are talking. Ours is just to nod and be impressed.

EXCORIATING thread on how certain media types are falling over themselves to excuse Nonce Andrew

Alt text for the image: a headline from the Torygraph reading "Fergie's unpaid debts drove Andrew back into Epstien's arms"

If women didn’t love shoes so much then the fine gentlemen could FINALLY take a break from luring vulnerable children to isolated islands and torturing them for sexual pleasure

Schrodingers woman: pathetic and incapable but also completely responsible for every action men take

This bit's not finished, it's a new idea, but it's the start of my boiling piss rage at all the headline problems of the world being men and then the solutions we're given also being fucking men

Next week in the Telegraph: the secret way the alluring trafficked sirens controlled the poor President and Prince with their secret global agenda perky tits

Andrew, staring bleakly at his lack of options…
His white male privilege
His being a literal prince
His mother the millionaire empress
His brother the future king
His creep island rapist sick fuck mate

Do you see how cornered he was?

Once my husband put my non stick frying pan in the dishwasher and you better believe I made a friends with a local sex trafficker as the only solution

We’ve all done it… found our husbands credit card statements and immediately rung a paedo