Getting three grand compo for a fall in a shopping centre: Sarah Lancashire's greatest achievements

HAPPY Valley star Sarah Lancashire, aged 58, believes that despite the BAFTAs all her greatest achievements are from outside acting. Here are her top five: 

Faking a fall for £3k

I was a struggling student in London, spotted a Tizer spill down the precinct and realised, almost in slow motion, that no-one had put a cone out yet. I seized my chance and went arse over tit outside John Menzies. The compo was three grand and off the books. Paid me through drama school.

Starting a chant at the football

I got taken to Boundary Park for an Oldham Athletic game and it was shite. Two-nill down to Shrewsbury in the old second division. But to amuse myself I started a chant about who the bastard in the black was and before I’d finished it had gone around the whole North Stand. Never been prouder. Up the Latics even if they are crap.

A 132 checkout at darts

Through the 90s, to wind down from Corrie, I played for the Owd Kitts darts team and in a grudge match against our local rivals I produced some bloody scintillating darts. I checked out on 140 with a treble twenty, treble sixteen, double twelve finish. They practically carried me out on their shoulders and we all got a free pint of mild.

Doing cash-in-hand fencing work

There are a lot of gaps in an acting career, and I fill them with foreigners. Me, a couple of firemen, a police officer on disability pension and Barry, who’s got an ankle tag, do fencing for cash. Whether mixing concrete, digging holes or stealing panels from round the back of Wickes, I find outdoor work good for the soul. And my agent can’t take his usual 20 fucking per cent.

Finishing the Stalybridge Eight

Starting with the Station Bar, which is right there on the platform, and taking in the pubs with the shortest and longest names in Britain, you have to go around all eight pubs and do a pint and a shot in each one. You get a passport stamped in every one. I managed the lot. Derek Jacobi had to bow out after he shat himself in the Rose & Crown.

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Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

New Year, new you. You’re getting into identity theft.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Your lucky number for this year is 5,305,421, so if you see it you know good fortune is coming your way! Your unlucky number is two.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

You’re halfway through Jordan Henderson’s autobiography when you realise you already know everything about his career and don’t give a fuck about his home life.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

The crab’s an outdated symbol for a star sign. Why not trade it in for something badass, like a cobra in a bowtie drinking an Old Fashioned?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

You really fancy Brentford for the title this year. The title of your new perfume ‘Brentford, by Dior’.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You could make moules mariniere with your eyes closed. It’s mussel memory.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

They’ve found the bin Prince Harry talked to on mushrooms and it says he’s cheapened their relationship by discussing it. There’s a photo of it looking very disappointed.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Why the fuck is Scandinavia so expensive anyway? It’s hardly Disney World, is it, a bunch of mooses and trees and shit?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

The first issue of the partwork, at just 99p, comes with a real criminal brain! After that you’ll collect the 168 parts month-by-month to build your own Frankenstein’s monster.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Don’t bother starting that affair with your personal trainer. You both know that by mid-February you’ll have stopped turning up.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

It’s great we’re sending manned missions to the Moon again. After all, there was fuck all there last time but loads of stuff might have arrived while we’ve been gone.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Harry mentioned you in his autobiography. Not Prince Harry, mind, Harry Dennis from primary school. It’s a self-published memoir entitled All The Wankers I’ve Met.