Karen Krizanovich: An American Bitch in London


Not that I’m envious of Lady Heather Mac promoting rat milk to save the planet (I won’t be milking the little fuckers, mind) but trying not to look like an ass on TV is not as easy as you think.

First off, to get to studios to film Gee Whiz I Hate That TV Show you often have to know where you’re going. This I find a bit odd as I like to just get into a car and say, ‘Okay, drive me!’ I reckon it’s their job to know where we’re going, not ‘the talent’. (Note the sarcasm. Always note the sarcasm.)

Of course, you get paid for doing these I Hate The War, They Weren’t Like That In My Day programmes but you don’t get paid a lot – hardly enough to cover the mortgage. Secondly, there is NO professional make-up and hair (which we used to get, pre-digital). So you have to do your own – hence┬ámy glee that Nana, my star hairdresser, is finally back from working on that film in Budapest. I can barely comb my own hair, despite having blow-dry lessons from that lovely place in Fitzrovia called Clipso.

If you’ve ever seen anyone on TV look a) dead b) lightbulb-ish or c) like a bit of pub pannelling, it is because of the make-up. Just be glad you don’t have to be thrust into the public spotlight (albeit on a show that has an airtime so late that no one watching it will be sober) wearing amateur slap. The last one I did, commenting about Spiderman for a lovely crew, I know my neck didn’t match my face. Well, at least it didn’t match my ass either…

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