Conran’s conversational stand-up tells the story of her biological clock. Told she wouldn't conceive, she accidentally gets pregnant, but then tragically suffers a miscarriage. Intermingling anecdotes about her paper thin walls, her gentleman callers, her sex-starved friends and her inarticulate family, Conran’s hour is funny and bittersweet. Perfect for audiences wanting a friendly and frank lunchtime show.
Conran proves herself a natural and unaffected storyteller, and it's a tale worth telling.
Conran cheerily meets and greets us as we enter, setting up an informal atmosphere: a man in the front row has even brought a half-finished pizza in with him (and becomes known as plain Margarita). Conran maintains this comradely mood for the duration of her performance. The first half of the show is mostly recounting Conran’s sex stories - it feels like you're listening to an old friend get tipsy in the pub.
Certainly not for the prudish or squirmish, Conran delights in escalating stories about industrial dildos, missing earplugs, and the problems of living alone with her imaginary husband Jeff. By the time Conran tells us about her traumatic experiences with losing her daughter, we have warmed so entirely to her that we are all on tenterhooks. By the end I feel like the shop assistant Conran describes, who started crying after helping her pick waterproof mascara to wear at her daughter's funeral.
Conran apparently Googled ‘How do you end a show which has been a bit grim?’, but there weren't any answers. There are no real endings, she tells us, just where the story ends. For her hour Conran proves herself a natural and unaffected storyteller, and it's a tale worth telling. With all this, and proceeds going to an important cause, there's every reason to go and love Lou C’s show.
