MOIRA Bell, cleaner, single mother and hardest women in Falkirk, is the alter ego of award winning novelist and performer Alan Bissett. He first wrote and performed the show – The Moira Monologues in 2009 and audiences fell in love. Her shoot-from-the-hip-working-class-matriarch mannerism, based on the stories Bissett grew up listening to his mother's sisters and grandmother tell their Falkirk housing scheme, are a sight to behold.
The Sunday Herald sat down with Moira – well, perched nervously on its seat really – and found that beneath the hard-as-nails exterior, she's one of the warmest women you could meet (but don't tell her that to her face, ken).
MOIRA Bell is in full flow, fag in hand, when she suddenly breaks off. It still seems quite unbelievable to her she admits, that anyone would really pay to see a show that consisted entirely of her telling the stories of daily life to her best friend Babs. And now they want more? When you could hear stories like that in any living room, in any housing scheme up and down the country, any day of the week? She can't fathom why.
"Punters just turn up tay hear the same sortay patter I gie ma pal Babs iviry night, sittin oan her couch in oor slippers haein a fag." She gives me her best double take. "Ye even get folk reviewin me for, like, newspapers an that. 'Oh, so authentic! Four stars!' Course it’s authentic. I’m no a f****n' liar. Wha are aw these bulls****ers they must be seein at aw the ither shows?"
It's clear that her confusion is genuine. But it's just as obviously misplaced. She may be hard as nails and her language colourful, but her ability as a storyteller, with the expert guidance of director Sacha Kyle – "no many folk I'd let tell me whit tay dae partfay Sacha," – is second to none. Audiences, whether in her local Hallglen in Falkirk (where the show premiered in 2009) or in Glasgow theatres, have loved the show as much as the critics.
Her last one treated them to tales of her wee dog Pepe, bullied by the rottweiler next door, her love of the Scotia karaoke night, and her seduction of the English teacher at the school where she works as a cleaner. Their first date – The Taming of the Shrew at an Edinburgh theatre – did not go to plan and it definitely did not make a Shakespeare fan of her.
"Ye jokin?" she snorts. "Twa oors ay Tamin ay the Hingmy? Coulda been in Norwegian for aw I ken. An they were aw laughin their heids aff like ‘fwa fwa fwa’ an I’m like: ‘Dinnay act it. It’s no Michael McIntryre.'
"Ken whit that is? Insecurity. Like if they dinnay laugh folk’ll hink they’re thick."
Since then she's been single. It's not, she admits for the want of trying. Though now 46, she's willing to try new things and has been giving online dating a whirl in recent months. Asked to describe herself on the form, she wrote: "I am the shout, likes. I am the f****n' shout." Hot, she reminds me, is a state of mind.
The reality though has not quite matched up to the promise: it's just not a patch on a night out down the Maniqui (her local haunt of old) when men were unable to hide their wobbly bellies and lack of personality behind a computer screen.
"See, I preferred it when men approached ye acroass the danceflair," she says. "They hadtay staun their grund in frontay ye an gie ye the patter there an then, steeday sittin miles awa ahind a screen carefully craftin their answers like a sh***bag." Then there's the explicit pictures: "Aw a sudden. Boom. There it is." Her eyes widen, her expression unreadable.
But enough of the niceties. It's been a pretty tough few years emotionally for Moira. She's lost her mother and perhaps even more devastatingly, her beloved dog Pepe has also passed away.
Joy has also come into her life though in the form of her grandson. Her face lights up at the very thought of him. "Aww wee Matthew’s jist amazin," she beams.
And it feels different this time round, she admits. Moira was still at school when wee Matthew's father was born. "Ah feel like I can actually enjoy havin a wean in the hoose this time, cos it wisnay easy tryin tae raise ma Gary an still be expected tay turn up tay French or Physics the next moarnin," she explains.
"But I’ll be the best Gran in the world. He just makes me feel that saft-herted. Onybody messes wi him I’ll punch them in the throat. I will high-five them in the face. Wi a chair." She takes a quick drag on her cigarette and relaxes her clenched fists. "It’s a joy havin weans in yer life."
She's not turned so "saft-herted" that she's taken her eye off the political ball. Party politics might not be her bag, but on the bigger issues she's as sharp as she is pragmatic. Brexit? Not only is it an embarrassment but a hugely inconvenient one in Moira's view.
"If it’s gonnay take me longer at passport control gawin in an ootay Amsterdam I’m dead against it," she says firmly. "Yon Nigel Farage is like wannay them widos that geez it, ‘Mon then! Mon then!’ as he’s backin oaf doon the street awa fae ye. EU just staunin there, airms folded, shakin its heid. Hale hing’s a rid neck."
Her views on Scottish Independence are less cut and dry though. She voted No in the Indyref, but she couldn't be further from quietly eating up her cereal. "I'm no sayin I dinnay want Scotland to be independent, cause it wid be quite nice tay be proud ay oorsel like that," she says slowly. "But ma feelin is Scottish folk, English folk, Welsh folk, Northern Irish folk – we're aw the same, ken? We're aw jist folk. An let's be honest – the rich are takin the p*sh ootay aw ay us. There's posh b******s through in Edinburgh an there's posh b******s doon in London. A b******'s a b****** whauriver they are."
But if there was to be an Indyref2? Well, it might be different. "I dinnay like this patter aboot thaim doon there proppin us up. Aw this "how wid yese possibly survive withoot us?" Like we're just bams wha couldnay even run a fruit n veg stall? Mair ay that, next time an I'll be votin Yes." She can be a warm as a sunny day in Bermuda. But it might be wise not to get on the wrong side of Moira.
Moira Bell returns to the Edinburgh Fringe with an all-new show, (More) Moira Monologues, at the Scottish Storytelling Centre from August 2. https://tickets.edfringe.com/whats-on/more-moira-monologues
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