Who the fuck is Zoë Spencer?

Official Weasel Words — This is a road-test of one of our planned new interview formats. Let us know what you think? And many thanks to Zoë for going out on a limb and taking the plunge and other clichés.

Who the fuck are you? Zoë Spencer, dancer and occasional writer. 

I have nothing to declare but my genius and … ? Our web serial, The Vegas Thing. I’m writing it with my love, the lustrous Madeline Harvey, and it isn’t terrible.

Why the fuck should we care? Fucked if I know. Take ten minutes out of your life and read some, see what you think. What? Like you’re too busy? As if.

What the fuck do you care about? I used to volunteer at a local charity that worked with mothers and children who needed a little help. I can’t work there anymore but I still care about them. If we can’t look after the vulnerable and needy, then really, what use are we?

If you could murder any best-selling author and get away with it, guaranteed, who would you kill? And how? Shakespeare, I think. But I’d need a time machine. I can’t tell you how badly I hated him in school. See also Thomas Hardy.

You are about to be castaway with the author or fictional character of your choice. You’re going to be alone with them for a full year. Who would you choose? And why? Shakespeare, so I could kill him again. And eat him. Or maybe Hermione. No, hold on. I’m missing the obvious. I would choose Emily, my character from 500 and The Vegas Thing. That’s just too tempting to resist. To spend a year with someone I created. Also Emily’s fun and surprisingly good in a crisis and she knows all about camping and hunting and fishing and shit.

If The Vegas Thing was a song, which one would it be? And why? That’s ridiculously hard to answer because The Vegas Thing is a story of two halves. My half would be the Ramones covering Motorhead’s Ace of Spades. Maddy would have Kate Bush doing something tacky by Fat Elvis, I think.


I have seen the future of crime-y girl-driven fiction and its name is …? I can’t say you, can I?

No. At least, you shouldn’t. Not here. But thanks for putting it out there. OK, then that book you gave me ages ago. The Panopticon by Jenni Fagan. That one rocked.

What is next for you? We’re polishing up Girls & Boys which is basically wank bait and then we’re going to finish The Vegas Thing. After that, I don’t really have plans to write anything else. Let me see TVT make it to paperback and  I can retire happily, undefeated. I have other things I want to do.

Your three closest friends on the internet. Fuck, marry, kill. Go! Seriously? I’d kill myself before I’d harm my friends. And I think we all know who I’d fuck and marry.

Way to avoid the question. Thank you. I thought so.

Have you come to terms with your own mortality? Do I understand I’m not going to live forever? Yes. 

Have I accepted it? Probably not, but I tell myself I have. 

I don’t believe in anything, and I’m certainly not kidding myself that there’s anything after death except decay and recycling – worm food, fertilizer, fossil fuel? But I think I’ll be ready when my time comes. Just don’t let it hurt too much, you know?

But you can never tell. I mean, everything changes and it’s obviously easier to be all phlegmatic and shit when you’re young and healthy and there’s absolutely no one depending on you. If I was a mother, I’m sure I’d feel different.

Probably when you’re old enough and finished with your life, death becomes easier again. Like, what’s another year of watching daytime television, hating everyone for being so stupid, and still having to deal with bills and doctors and government and shit.

The only thing is, I suspect it doesn’t matter how ready you are, when it starts to happen most people will panic and fight for life.

I haven’t answered that question at all, have I?

Tell us a secret. I have a massive zit on my cheek.

Say something outrageous. I cannot abide anything on my toast except for butter. Butter is brilliant. Everything else is shit. Also, this country is overrun with cunts. The UK Independence Party are a bunch of cunts. If you’re a member, you’re a cunt. If you vote for them, you’re a cunt. Britain First? Cunts. David Cameron? Cunt. George Osbourne? Cunt. Sun readers? Stupid cunts. Daily Mail? Nazi cunts.

Jeremy Fucking Clarkson? Go die in a car crash, you rear-engined cunt.

People who sign petitions supporting Clarkson? Top Gear Cunts who need public figures like Clarkson to reassure them they’re still better than foreigners, immigrants, and anyone who isn’t white other than Will Smith or Lewis Hamilton. And that women only exist for men to look at.

Black > Unpretty
Sebastian Vettel needs to move his right hand a little to his right.

People who sign petitions against Kanye West? Sad racist cunts who should have been drowned at birth. What? Is there only one stage at Glastonbury now? Or do they nail your feet to the mud as soon as you arrive in front of the Pyramid Stage? Are you seriously telling me you’d rather watch a geriatric karaoke band like the Rolling Stones? Have you even got tickets? You absolute shower of cunts. I get in for free, by the way, so have that, you two-hundred-and-twenty-five pound cunts.

A little more Zoë

ZR7Zoë Spencer thinks umlauts are very important. As a little girl she always spelled her name Z-O-E-dots. Nowadays she spells it Z-O-<Alt>137.

As a former young adult, she prefers to write on Young Adult themes. Sadly her stories about cliques of sharp-tongued mean girls and the fluffy pixies who live at the bottom of their gardens invariably take a nasty turn somewhere around Albuquerque and by the time she’s finished they’d make Caligula blush. And no young adult ever wants to read that kind of filth.

In the summer of 2011, Zoë won a competition called The Next Big Author which was sponsored by the publishers Bloomsbury, Random House, Orion, Little Brown and Hodder & Stoughton. Zoë didn’t notice until May 2012. True story.

Zoë has never been seen to smile but her dentist has confirmed she does have teeth.


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