What Would Beyoncé Do?! Read online

  They booked me in for ten nights in the main house. Ten nights in the main house. This time I nearly shat myself. People were going to pay for tickets to see me; £15 a ticket, 160 seats in the main house, to see me. My little free show. Tickets went on sale and I sold out. I went on to have five sell-out runs of What Would Beyoncé Do?! in the main house. Standing ovations every night, playing to packed rooms. My tech, Eve, who I loved, would be up in the balcony in the tech box every night, singing and dancing along. This was not the free festival any more. I had proper lighting, sound, a tech, but still my wonderful audience. I was living my dreams.

  There is something about being on stage and having my audience in the room with me, women of all ages, all backgrounds, black, white, Chinese, headscarves, shaved, braided, all women. The energy is electric. There were nights when they would run and join me on stage. Nights when they would shout stuff out from the crowd and everyone would join in. I never got heckled, only in the good sense. I remember one time doing this bit about Klaus and it’s a breakdown crying bit where I do a big finale, and one girl shouted out, ‘Forget him babe, he’s not good enough for you! Come out with us!’ It totally broke the tension I was trying to build. Er OK, just let me have this finale and I’ll be right with you!

  I loved performing at Soho. I’d liked how in Edinburgh I had my playlist and I was in the room as the audience were coming in. I wanted to continue that tradition. So I’d go through my ritual of doing my hair and make-up in the dressing room and then I would start the show. My playlist would play, the doors would open and the audience would come in as I was on stage.

  This pre-show thing of mine, being on stage as the audience come in, actually calms me, I love it. I hate being off stage waiting to be announced, I get too nervous. My audience transformed my show, they would start dancing to the songs, so as I grew in confidence I would start dancing and joking around as they came in. Doing little one-woman plays to the song lyrics and messing with them by throwing in a power ballad after a proper raga tune. I could tell how much fun the show was going to be by how hyped up the audience were.

  My ritual of getting somebody to announce me transformed into a warm-up act. I would get the most nervous-looking human being up on stage, build them up like a hero, with everyone cheering them, then give them a cuddle and get them to repeat my name several times, Luisa Omielan, Omielan, Omielan – it was important to get the audience familiar with it. Then I would disappear behind the curtain in my grey hoodie, ready to unveil. As I left, I would tell my warm-up, ‘Don’t be nervous, just think of yourself as er Kelly or Michelle . . .’ and then point at myself and do a fist pump. The audience would howl. It was showtime.

  After the show, I’d run to the exit door as the audience left. Even though it felt weird not having a bucket in my hand, I didn’t like not being there to say goodbye. It became my house, my party, I’d invite my audience in and wave goodbye as they left. This became a brilliant time to take selfies with my audience. I love selfies! But for the love of the Lord, take it from above and put a filter on it babe!

  One night I got a standing ovation for ten minutes. I was so fricking elated, and amazed. The next day there was a review in the Evening Standard: ‘3 stars, female-friendly, urban pocket rocket.’ Urban? Pocket rocket? Female-friendly? I don’t know why these words were used in the sense that it was a bad thing. The reviewer (male) went on to mention ‘white wine spritzer audiences’. What’s that supposed to mean? I didn’t understand why this critic would reduce me and my audience to a box like that. My show made me feel empowered and excited about the world. This review reflected none of that.

  I had never known sexism in comedy. I was born funny, I am funny, women I know are hilarious. But people love to tell you what you are. What you do, how and why you do it. I feel sorry for these people. Why can’t they just let themselves go and love the emotions and the comedy? We make it all for them to enjoy. You have to take it on the chin, though, because sometimes they write amazing things and other times they write things you wish they hadn’t. But my audience had my back, they wrote to the critic disagreeing with his review; he later retracted it and changed it to four stars. But I didn’t care after that; my audience loved me anyway.

  I started getting a few pieces in the paper, and was so excited getting listed in online events as a show to go and see. It was fun but I felt like ha! My audience already know it’s the show to go and see, my audiences were somehow finding me.

  Here is how shows work. When a performer puts on a show, they pay for everything through the ticket sales. A promoter will front the upfront cost and the good ones, someone like Mick, will swallow the debt if the ticket prices don’t cover the costs. This took a long time for me to get my head around. This whole time I thought agents or promoters would pay for things, but it’s always the artist. So out of my ticket sales I would pay for the venue hire, ticket printing, venue staff, insurance, music licensing, poster design, poster printing, advertising, PR, travel, sound equipment, etc. Once that was paid, I would give my agents their percentage and then after that I would get the rest. I always struggled with this, as pound for pound I made more money with the free shows.

  I was desperate to make more money. I’d seen guys come out of the fringe and get invited on Live at the Apollo or Jonathan Ross and then star in their own series. I had a better show but was making just enough to cover my rent and not much more, plus the whole sleeping in a coat thing was getting annoying. Going from earning cash from my workshops and knowing my monthly income to suddenly not earning anything for three months and then getting paid a lump sum of £2k.

  I begged Mick to let me tour. He kept advising against it as I didn’t have a TV profile. Who needs a TV profile? I said. Let’s just repeat what I’ve done with Edinburgh but in the major cities. I want to go to Manchester, Sheffield, Newcastle, Glasgow, let’s do it!! In the same way as when it comes to food my eyes are bigger than my belly, when it comes to my career, I want everything and hated that I couldn’t have it all at once. Eventually he caved in and got me a 12-date tour.

  I won’t lie. I hated it. It wasn’t like the fringe in the provinces. I would rock up in the middle of nowhere, in venues where the tech would stare at me and I would feel out of my depth and isolated. Once you’re a bigger name on tour you can afford a tour manager; they pick you up, get you to the venue and then do all your music cues for you so you don’t have to worry about it. But they come at a daily cost of around £300, fine if you are taking home a couple of grand per show, but not when you are playing small theatres.

  At the end of my tour, I received my budget breakdown. My show had generated £12k in ticket sales. Oh my goodness, I was over the moon. But I got paid £800. £800 for 12 shows. I had made more money at the free festival. This was why Mick didn’t want me to tour yet.

  I could see that my shows were successful and that people went crazy for them, but those ticket sales didn’t cover my heating. I came back off tour and caught pneumonia. I was sleeping in a coat and hat and shivering every night. It was horrendous. I tried every heating trick I could google, bought a cheap heater, but that made the bills extortionate. I just wanted to be paid well for the work I did and have a warm room to come home to.

  I was working my arse off; I felt like I had been working until I got sick and then working again. I was meeting with TV people who seemed really excited about the potential of a TV format based on my live show. I was meeting lots of people behind the scenes, some really talented and driven individuals, but there were a lot of dudes. In writing, in production, there isn’t much diversity. I kept finding myself sat around the table with the same old faces. These people were lovely, but they didn’t represent my audiences or the people buying tickets to my shows. Their suggestions were things like ‘Hey, maybe the TV show could open with you walking down the street in gold glittery hot pants and be like, bitch, I’m Beyoncé.’ It just didn’t sit right with me.

  August quickly came around again and I
went up to Edinburgh with ‘Beyoncé’ for ten nights. I ended up selling out all ten so added extra dates and ended up playing for the month. This year was different. I had a promoter behind me and I was in the Gilded Balloon, a paid-for venue run by Edinburgh legend Karen Koren. My tickets were £15 and I had people on the street working for me.

  Technically it should have been easier, but I didn’t enjoy it. I loved Karen and Mick Perrin but hated performing on the paid fringe. My show was cut to an hour time slot, even though it had become a fully fledged 75-minute show, Edinburgh is a long festival, venue staff would be tired and overworked, I felt rushed in and rushed out, and even though I was paying for the room, I had none of the control or freedom I had learnt to love in the free venues. I was missing being in charge of every detail of my show.

  I wanted to regain control and figure out what I wanted, so I decided to try it without a promoter – I left Mick shortly after finishing Edinburgh. I was heartbroken, cried for about a week and couldn’t sleep for about a month. I hate endings.

  One night in Edinburgh, I finish my show and go upstairs to one of the industry bars, where I see Aunt Hilda from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Holy shit I was excited. She looked at me and said, ‘You are amazing, I just watched your Beyoncé show, you speak to my girls. Come here, why is your shirt inside out?!’

  I look down and it is. Before I can say anything, Aunt Hilda is unbuttoning my shirt, turning it the right way and putting it back on for me. This is brilliant. She says, ‘Look at me, do you know who I am?’

  ‘Er yes, you are Caroline Rhea, Aunt Hilda from Sabrina the Teenage Wi—’

  ‘NO!’ she interrupts. ‘I am your Christmas Future, and what I’m looking at is my Christmas Past. I want to help you, you need to come to New York. Have you been to New York?’

  ‘Er no ma’am.’

  ‘What’s with the ma’am?! OK, have you got a producer? No? Do you know who would be great to produce your show? My friend Whoopi.’

  SHUT THE FRONT DOOR!! At this point, I lost my shit.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I told her. ‘I have to show you something.’ I went on my phone and desperately tried to upload my website page. Why oh why in your hour of need to show a website page does your stupid mobile service provider decide to go for a dump and work like it’s running on dial-up? I was so embarrassed, but it finally loaded and there on my website in black and bright blue was Hi. My name is Luisa Omielan and I want to be the white Whoopi Goldberg.

  Caroline laughed, took a screen grab and there and then typed an email to Whoopi Goldberg with my name in the subject box. Remember those moments I told you about where you feel like magic is happening? This was one of them.

  I slept with the biggest smile on my face and didn’t care about the shows after that. Let them tell me off, I was so happy.

  One show I was waiting outside to go in and 15 hens dressed up as nurses were outside and they ran and asked for a photo. Normally the sight of a hen party puts the fear of God into a comedian; for me, it means party time! They were the best audience ever and every time I said a song lyric, they would take over. Normally I did a bit about Klaus saying goodbye to me and saying ‘I hope life treats you kind.’ For the first time, someone from the party piped up ‘And I hope you have all you’ve dreamed of.’ A few more joined in with ‘And I wish you joy and happiness,’ and then the rest of them ‘But above all this I wish you looooove.’ I was giddy with excitement as the whole room launched into ‘AND I . . .’

  Magic. I love my audiences.

  So the next day I go back to the bar and Caroline sees me and calls me over, saying, ‘I have someone on the phone that wants to talk to you.’

  I take the phone, shaking. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello Luisa, it’s Whoopi.’

  ‘Oh my gosh, hello.’

  ‘Hi, how’s it going?’

  ‘Oh my gosh, I am literally your biggest fan, I can’t believe it, like you made me so happy growing up, I was just so happy . . .’ WTF, who says this shit?! Someone on the phone to their hero, that’s who.

  ‘Well for my friend to call me all the way from Edinburgh must mean you are pretty special, and she knows what’s good, so why don’t you bring your show to New York and maybe myself and Caroline could produce it for you?’

  ‘Oh my gosh, er yes, that would be fantastic.’

  ‘OK, great, let’s do it.’

  Caroline: ‘OK Luisa, get off the phone.’

  ‘OK, thank you so much, that’s so very kind, thank you, have a wonderful day.’

  I was screaming in delight. I just got off the phone to Whoopi fucking Goldberg. This really is my show of dreams. I couldn’t sleep that night. It was like a dream come true.

  It gets to my last night in Edinburgh, I have a ball with the show, it runs over and I don’t care. As I stand by the door and do my ritual of saying goodbye to my audience, this American dude comes over. ‘Hi, I’m Max, loved your show, I wanna talk to you but I gotta leave now.’ He gives me his card and walks off.

  That night was the infamous Mick Perrin party; it’s a pretty legendary party in Edinburgh with a free bar, but having only been part of the free festival and stealing drinks vouchers to get wasted, I’d never had a chance of getting in. This time I was on the guest list, no blagging required. I go to the bar and ‘Feel the Love’ comes on and I smile because that is my show song. I see Max again and he says, ‘Look, I don’t like a lot of people, but I like you!’ I laugh at his Americanness, keep his card and go and get drunk.

  Turns out Max is Eddie Izzard and Tim Minchin’s agent. So Edinburgh yet again is as magical as ever.

  When I got back to London, I decided now would be a good time to head to the States. I knew Max and I knew Caroline. That was all I needed!

  Caroline called and invited me to come and stay at hers, and said she would bring Whoopi to a show. I called up a few venues in New York, and with Caroline’s help got booked in at the UCB comedy club for 18 October. I sent off an application for a visa, so that I could legally perform the show; it cost £3k, but Debi leant me the money and I was now in a position to apply to be an extraordinary alien.

  That was at the beginning of September; by 10 October, still no visa. I went to the passport office and queued up for four hours, and they took my passport for fast-tracking, telling me it should be back with me in three to four days. Jesus, this was tight but it was worth it. I just wanted to do my show for Whoopi!

  It was getting closer to my flight date of the 16th, and still no passport. It got to the morning of my flight, still no passport. I rang the airline, who said I could change my ticket and would only have to pay a couple of hundred pounds. I was more worried about losing my show slot. It got to the 18th and still no passport. It finally arrived at 9 a.m. on the 19th. I could have cried,

  I had missed my show at the UCB and missed my chance to perform in front of Whoopi. All the stress, and the sleepless nights, and now the worst had happened and strangely I felt calm. Caroline suggested I come out anyway; I may as well since I had the flight voucher, so as soon as I picked up my passport, my friend dropped me off at the airport and I flew to New York.

  Caroline had confirmed the arrangement in an email, but on the day itself I couldn’t get through on the phone and I arrived in New York not totally sure of where I was going. Luckily I had her address in a previous email, so I just got in a taxi and asked to head to the Upper West Side.

  So I am in a yellow New York cab at 2 a.m., with some old Indian dude driving me to a place I don’t know. I have my bag, my passport and my show in my head, and all I can think about is the American dream, the story of how Madonna rocked up broke with $5 and made it in the city. OK, so I am rocking up with $200, about to stay for free in a famous woman’s apartment in one of the best areas of New York, and even though it’s all laid out for me, I still feel like I am taking a risk. I struggle with new environments, I always have done.

  When I go to a new place I lay my belongings out in the same way, s
o it feels more familiar. I read a story about a famous woman who unpacks candles and pictures and photographs in every hotel she goes to, so they all look and smell the same. I like that dedication to comfort and that sense of showing yourself love. Do what you can to be comfortable.

  I arrive at Caroline’s apartment building and the door guy sends me up in the lift. I have no idea if she will be expecting me. I knock.

  ‘Oh my Gawd, hello, come in, I’m asleep, take the couch, I was expecting you next week – get in here, I’ll take you for breakfast in the morning.’

  The next morning she did just that, eggs sunny side up! It was so lovely to see her, she said to not worry about a thing, she would help organise another show in a comedy club and still get Whoopi along at some point to come and see it.

  Caroline calls New York City Comedy Club and arranges a show for me that night.

  I rocked up to the club at 4 p.m. to do a sound check. As I walked in, I was so excited, the room looked great. That was when the manager came and told me, ‘Oh no, you’re upstairs’ and took me to a shoebox that would fit maybe 15 people. He said, ‘Sure, do a show tonight; I don’t know if you’ll get anyone, but Caroline will get some numbers in off the street, this is New York!’

  Three thousand pounds for a visa, £800 for a flight, sleepless nights for two weeks, to come and play a shoebox to 15 people, but this is a New YOORKK shoebox!!

  I performed that night to eight people. They liked it. They nodded and smiled and clapped at the end, and it was nice. As they came out I got ‘Great job! You should pursue that!’ Thank you, thank you so much, wow, I must have impressed them with my well-worn comedy show if their response was ‘You should keep going.’

  I had gone from selling out London dates, standing ovations, huge love and applause and accolades to eight people in a shoe cupboard saying ‘You should pursue that.’ Who said stand-up is stable?