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Hi, I’m Ellis!

I’m a writer, actor, director and mouthy Scouser. 

My passion is exploring social and political issues through a comedic lens in hopes that it brings greater understanding and greater empathy. 

I started skinny, shattered and skint as a way of documenting my lived experience of the Coronavirus and the experiences of those closest to me.

After this pandemic (I’ll be getting absolutely twatted drunk and dive bombing into a pool) this blog will grow into how I, as a working class lad, navigate the world. 

I hope you enjoy what you read here. My dream is that this blog becomes some sort of community where we can discuss important issues, with respect and empathy, and help build a kinder and more thoughtful society. 

Please reach out on social media to share thoughts, ideas, opinions whatever you like. I want to hear from everybody who stumbles across my writing. It’s an incredibly lonely time for the planet so it’s nice to feel seen and heard wherever we can. 

I am skinny. I am shattered. But, with your help, I don’t always have to be skint... you can buy me a coffee here:

Twitter: @Ellishowiee
Instagram: @Ellishoward7

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It’s a Thursday evening, it’s 8 o clock, and I’m honouring the only social commitment I’ve got... clapping for our NHS and front line workers!! My mum throws her voice ( maybe this is a Scouse thing but it’s impressive and terrifying in equal measure ) telling me to get my  "skinny ass outside" . I’m unsure whether I’m about to hail the best public institution Britain has to offer or have a bare knuckle fight with her… maybe it's both? I rock out into my front path with gusto to let her know I’m not scared, just incase she had any ideas. I'm styling her PJ bottoms and my Dad’s oversized fleece. I’m hoping I look like a gender non-confirming activist like RuPaul, Eddie Izzard or Madge from Benidorm, but judging from the stares of Number 72 I conclude I just look a  fucking mess . Our claps are well spirited, my hands are as red and raw as Cilla Black in her prime, our whistles and shouts are even louder than ones Holly Jervis or Jennifer Holliday could muster, and it


Stay alert, go to work, don’t go to work, stay at home, home is where the heart is, live laugh love, eat pray love, love Tennis, play Tennis, from Wednesday you can play Tennis for twenty hours a day if you like, unless it’s with someone from outside your household, actually no, Dominic, Dom, scrap that, you can choose one person to be with outside your household, so what I’d suggest doing is holding open auditions to see when it all comes down to it, who’s really worth the hassle? Is it Mummy or Daddy? Is it your fella or your weird Uncle? Is it your Grandmother or your side-piece?   A mess. I do not need to be reminded to stay alert — I’m a kid who wears a mustard shirt, sports a tinsel fringe and wears white socks on the streets of North Liverpool. I am a brother who watches his big sister wash her face after four night shifts of watching people die and cry for their loved ones goodbyes while her face is cracked with the combined dents of stress, sweat and face mask


I want to start this blog on a huge note of gratitude! The response to my last blog, WE ARE NOT IN THE SAME BOAT ,   overwhelmed me and I cannot be more grateful for your reads, shares, thoughts and coffees. This is an incredibly lonely time for the planet so to feel seen and heard is the kindest gift you could offer.   It’s Monday night. My voice is usually taunted as being eerily similar to Paul O’Grady or Mariah Carey in the latter part of 'Emotions' but tonight… it is full Ray Winstone. My faux fur slippers are firmly planted and I stare at my Mum in the eyes, unwavering, and say “ pass me the fucking remote Chez ”. Getting the remote off Cheryl is difficult at the best of times, but when she’s planted with a bottle of Budweiser and a playlist of Karen Carpenter and Gladys Knight, it is a job for another Oceans heist film. My grey Sharpei, Blu, her bodyguard and my nemesis, shoots a discerning look which says " don't fucking try it lad "  but tonight