Jenny Eclair looks back: ‘Anorexia is difficult to get out of. I can joke about it now, because I’m overweight’
Born in Kuala Lumpur in 1960, Jenny Eclair is a comedian, actor and author. The daughter of a major in the British army, she spent her childhood in Singapore, Malaysia and Germany, until the family settled in Lancashire. After studying drama at Manchester Polytechnic, Eclair began standup in the 1980s, and in 1995 became the first female solo comic to win the Perrier award, now the Edinburgh comedy award. Her career since has been prolific: comedy tours, writing and hosting for TV, radio and podcasts, as well as publishing six novels. She lives in London with her husband Geof Powell; her daughter is the playwright Phoebe Eclair-Powell. Her book Jokes Jokes Jokes: My Very Funny Memoir is out now, and she is touring until June 2025.
It was the mid-90s and I was at my peak when this photo was taken. I looked exceptional, glorious, fabulous – the most beautiful girl in the world. I had discovered a brand of fake tan that worked well on my skin, and my body was toned from all the yoga. There was a lot of money sloshing around in comedy, so I could afford to do lots of different setups for my Edinburgh festival poster. I went into the studio with several ideas, one of which involved this bunny outfit from the 1970s. It was really quite decrepit. The rabbit I’m holding is Flopsy, my daughter’s pet. Flopsy was lovely, but disappeared one day. Her hutch door was open, but there wasn’t a smear of blood. It must have been a fox, but I got the blame.
In the end we didn’t use this shot – we went for one with me in electric curlers in a dressing gown, and I don’t think much else underneath. The show itself was called Prozac and Tantrums, which didn’t make sense alongside a photo of me and a bunny. I suppose we made the right call, as I got the Perrier.
I was 35 and only had a few more years of feeling that good before I went rapidly downhill. There was a lot of power in being beautiful, and I do wonder now if it was more than a coincidence that my sudden success in comedy happened in conjunction with that period of looking good. Regardless, that success didn’t make me feel fulfilled. In fact, I unravelled as soon as I won.
The aftermath was like a dream – my photo even made it on to the front page of the Guardian! But the euphoria was short-lived, almost nonexistent. I was hit with a barrage of bad feelings after the fringe: horror, homesickness, a massive hangover. I felt as if I had to live up to this bravado, and that made me quite panic-stricken in my private moments.
I was playing a character. I was not being myself. I spent all my 20s and 30s trying to make people think I was great; it was exhausting
Every single pore in my body was screaming: “This is great, enjoy it!” But it was also damaging. Limiting. My management really struggled to know what to do with me. It wasn’t an expected win, so there was nothing lined up. They wanted me to get a safe footing in the industry and did manage to wrangle me a series on Channel 5. A late-night chatshow with booze. It was a bit mad, really. Plus I knew I was playing a character. I was not being myself. I spent all my 20s and 30s trying to make people think I was great; it was exhausting. It wasn’t until I was in my 40s, when I became a novelist as well, that I was able to get to the point where I had a following who understood who I truly was.
I started out in punk poetry. Back then, I wore little black cocktail dresses with diamantes and slingblack stilettos. A curated look. But when it came to comedy, I never, ever wore a skirt or a dress on stage. Women were in the minority. Hattie Hayridge [who played Holly in Red Dwarf], once got her skirt lifted up by someone in the audience mid-set. It’s only in the last couple of years that I genuinely wear what I want.
Anorexia is a disorder you skid into, and it’s very, very difficult to get out of. My disordered relationship with food began when I was at drama school, and accelerated during the summer holidays when my mother was in hospital. She was having an ovary or kidney out. I was so self-obsessed, I didn’t think to ask which functioning organ was being removed. But either way, she was gone for several weeks, and my father couldn’t cook anything beyond eggs, because he was a 1970s man, and my brother was much younger than me, so it was my job to hold the fort. I realised quickly that it was very easy to cook for other people and not for myself. My big trick was spaghetti bolognese on chopped white cabbage instead of pasta.
In some respects, I wish people had been firmer with me. Actually, a friend of my older sister’s did say something effective at the height of my disorder that proved therapeutic. She said: “I never, ever thought you would become this boring.” I wouldn’t get out of bed. I was weak. Socially, I was closing down. But I really enjoyed the attention as well. It was a very vicious circle. I loved people looking at me.
Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of myself on a Zoom call and think: ‘Oh, you’re still quite cute.’ But like a pelican, I’ve become very jowly
Anorexia is something I can joke about now, because I’m overweight. A doctor would probably say I could lose three stone. But the condition has had a very far-reaching effect. I still have rules. I will not have lunch before one o’clock, and I prefer to delay eating. I have a lot of delayed gratification. I used to more or less exist on Diet Coke, but it just gives me cystitis now. I still don’t eat cake, but I genuinely don’t have a sweet tooth. It has been erased from years of discipline. The sugar almost gives me a migraine.
Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of myself on a Zoom call and think: “Oh, you’re still quite cute.” But I know that my neckline has gone. If I was serious about what I looked like, I would definitely have a neck lift because, like my dad, like a pelican, I’ve become very jowly. I have good skin, but I can’t wear eye makeup for any length of time because I have dry eye disease. The days of a good smoky eye have long gone. I’m fortunate that my glasses suit me and I’m really looking forward to the silver of my hair coming completely through. I finally won’t have to bother with the bleach. I first had it streaked when I was 15, so going grey is going to be a big moment of change.
When it comes to my career, being very hard-working for many decades is now petering out. I am 64 and letting that go. Geof is 76 and I want to spend some time with him. I also want to spend time with my grandson, especially now my daughter is so busy. I realised all of this in lockdown – it was a great rehearsal for retirement. I get a lot of pleasure from being at home, doing hobbies. I love painting. As soon as I became menopausal, the hobbies took over and replaced my libido. I have no sexual urges, but put me in a craft shop and I get very excited.
I have accepted that I have been as successful as I will ever be. The chances of getting a fabulous TV deal are remote, but I’ve paid off my mortgage, so there’s a sense of freedom from that. My job now is to entertain the people that like me. I cannot be fucked to persuade anyone new that I am great. If you don’t like me now, you’re never going to, so let’s leave it at that.
