What Would Beyoncé Do?! Read online

  Over the course of a career you have to give shows to people who don’t know or like you; that’s part of comedy, comedy is the house, you don’t get to win or lose, you just get to play. I put way too much pressure on myself to deliver and felt like because Caroline had supported me, I had to prove that I was as good as she said I was, when in actual fact I was kinda like a fish out of water. Just a giant flapping fish. I was relieved Whoopi didn’t see it.

  After a few nights, Caroline got a call. Whoopi had a film, and since she doesn’t fly, she had to get a bus to her next job and would be out of town for the rest of the week. Obviously it wasn’t meant to be.

  BTW, I have a feeling Whoopi rides a very different bus to the one I do. I can’t imagine her with an Oyster card in one hand and a kebab in the other, getting the night bus. I waved goodbye to Caroline, my fairy godmanager, got my flight back to London and caught the C10 home.

  19.

  BODY’S TOO BOOTYLICIOUS FOR YOU, MATE

  Back in England I organised myself a couple of tour dates up and down the country with the venues directly. The shows were nice enough, but nothing like my London crowds, I hadn’t had the chance to develop my relationship with the crowds like I had in London. My London audiences were in a league of their own. All girls, all colours, all backgrounds, all shapes, sizes and looks coming to my shows. I had women in hijabs, women in pencil skirts, tattooed lesbian bikers, African queens and jogger-wearing white women all whooping and hollering and ready to party from the off! They even started coming twice and bringing their mums. What a complete joy. I felt so lucky to have found this crowd, the atmosphere was like nothing I had ever experienced. The universe is really cool like that: whenever I have gone abroad and struggled with shows, even though I find them painful at the time I feel like I grow, because when I come back to London to play, I have the show of dreams. I believe this is what they call ‘learning’.

  It came around to Valentine’s Day. Now the best Valentine’s I had ever had was a few years ago with Pas when we met up in Sheffield, got blind drunk, ate a Subway, prank-called our exs from each other’s phones and spent the whole night congratulating ourselves on being fucking hilarious. The night ended with a sing-song and an improvised rap battle in bed. The perfect Valentine’s. Every Valentine’s Day after that was wack in comparison. I would just find myself moping around, depressed that I hadn’t got a boyfriend or depressed because I was missing a boy who wasn’t my boyfriend or depressed because I had no one to practice rap battling with. Either way I was pining.

  I wanted to make this Valentine’s special, for me, for my audiences. I had an idea. My show is a bit of a party anyway, so what if I hired a room and did my Beyoncé show, but afterwards, instead of everyone going home, I played music, and turned it into an event like a club night?

  I called my lovely Musical Bingo DJ Olly Stock, or Stockeroller as I liked to call him, and asked him if he would be up for it. He was well up for it! He would do my sound cues in my show and then afterwards play RnB all night! Perfect!

  I was looking after my own live work and I knew I didn’t want it in a theatre, so I called Concrete, a club basement in London, my Musical Bingo home, and they let me have the room for free as long as I could guarantee the audience would come and spend at the bar. I was hopeful they would, but was still unsure how many people would turn up. Wouldn’t they all be having sex on Valentine’s Day?

  I booked it and advertised it. It sold out within a week! 200 people at £10 a ticket, a room full of single women for Valentine’s. Pas and Katerina came down and joined me, and we decorated the venue, put Love Heart sweets in the toilets. I hired two door girls to help me with people coming in, and boom! The event was amazing! Everyone had so much fun! We all danced until three in the morning, I loved it; my Valentine’s party was a success!

  I paid the staff who helped me, paid my DJ and still managed to take home 50 percent of ticket sales. That was the first time I had ever taken home that kind of split and I liked it!

  My mum had just sold the family home and had moved up to the Midlands as she couldn’t afford to live down south any more. Five-beds in Farnborough were now really expensive, and as her mortgage was all tied up, she said she would have found it harder to stay in the area in a little flat, so instead we encouraged her to buy a gorgeous house in the Midlands.

  My sister is based in Birmingham, my brothers live in Manchester and with me being based in London, the Midlands were the centre of everyone. I wanted to help my mum somehow with the move.

  As I had been paid for my V-Day gig, I wanted to get her something as a thank-you for all her love and support plus a house-warming gift to help her with the change (as in the house change not the menopausal one, she went through that years ago lol, #SorryMum). So, I bought her a Smeg fridge.

  Yes babe, a Smeg fridge, she had always wanted one, I say she, I have always told her that she definitely needs one. So I bought her a gorgeous duck-egg blue Smeg fridge and it is stunning. I mean I couldn’t pay my own rent for the next two months (hello overdraft!), but she deserved it.

  I feel like me buying her a fridge is a bit of a parable. Because get this, my mum is Polish. She grew up on a farm and used to milk cows. Then she had me, I go on stage and go ‘moo’ and I get the money to buy my mum a fridge to put the milk in! It’s a modern-day Jesus and the five fish. It’s like the great circle of life, but the great circle of Smeg. One day I want to get her the whole collection, kettle, dishwasher, everything! (I say her, I think we all know, I still mean me).

  It was now the summer and I was going back to America again, this time to LA, and Debi came with me. We booked a theatre ourselves and put on a week-long run. Debi was amazing. She made a list of industry people to invite. We got Max down; I had kept in touch with him. I thought, I am OK, I have done this before, I know America will be quieter but I will get them!

  The venue was perfect, a black-box, red-velvet-chair space off Broadway in LA. The ideal place to cause a storm. Or a very British bit of drizzle. The first night I had 22 people buying tickets; this was totally doable.

  Eager to prove a point and not be discouraged if they were quiet, I decided to open the show the way I always did: get someone that looked shy up on stage to be my warm-up act. This whole skit is very universal; the idea is to set the tone with the audience, level the playing field and get them invested early on by supporting one of their comrades. I just needed to pick someone who looked a little bit timid or embarrassed and the humour would come in them being nervous introducing me.

  Word to the wise, never, I repeat never, expect an audience member to be shy and retiring in LA. I had only got as far as ‘I can’t introduce myself . . .’ when this woman jumped up, WITHOUT SEEKING PERMISSION. She had a shaved head and no arms, and opened with ‘I’m a performer, I got this, actually you guys, you wanna see my party trick?!’ Without a beat, she jumped up on stage, was addressing the audience like a pro and took a can of beer from her bag.

  Sorry, what? I am stood in shock, going what the fuck, Luisa, regain the status, regain the status, remember clowning, regain the status, this woman is on stage running shit, what the fuck are you going to do? I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what, so I thought, just be nice, she has no arms, let’s see what she is about to do. Now I don’t know how she did it as I was in too much pain watching this unfold, but this woman with no arms opened the can of beer and put it on her head, literally no idea how, then started to dance. With a can of beer on her head. Without spilling it.

  This took four and a half minutes. I could not believe this bitch; I wanted to punch her but didn’t want to be head-butted. And admittedly it was a pretty cool trick. However this completely threw me, I did not know how to start after that. She sat back down, WITHOUT INTRODUCING ME, and shouted out her email in case anyone wanted to get in touch.

  Her email. My opening night in LA and an armless beer woman is shouting out her email. These American bitches. This was no oh-I’m-dis
abled-give-me-a-free-pass shit, no, this bitch knew what she was doing, coming on to my stage, eating into my show time. But obviously I couldn’t be a dick, because I was trying my whole be-nice-to-people-and-act-more-grateful thing. FFS. I did the show and performed to silence. Afterwards I did my usual stand at the door, saying goodbye to people. The first person came out and said, ‘Hey Lucy, that beer can trick was amazing.’

  I ended up doing five shows in LA; after the third I knew I definitely wanted to kill myself. I would play an all-singing, all-dancing show, face, heart and soul on the floor, to people who would just look at me. They wouldn’t laugh, they wouldn’t engage or sing along when there was a clear chorus to join in, unless it was at the beginning of the show and they wanted a shot at performing their showreel. They would just look at me.

  Have you ever been crying on public transport and people either avoid eye contact or, if they do look at you, suck in their lips for a toothless smile and furrow their eyebrows in an ‘I’m sorry you’re sad’ way? Well that may be the correct and appropriate response when someone is crying, but not when I am doing my genius art form and sweating like a pig on stage. I felt like I was the emperor in ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ but going, ‘No, don’t you get it, I’m not the one that’s naked, you all are, honestly, it’s definitely you.’

  I would see women who were performers, all acne-scarred and lips pumped on stretched-out faces, wearing cheap clothes with designer shoes. And as I performed, they would lower their sunglasses and look me up and down and up again, and then reattach their sunglasses. I guess it is important to protect your eyes FROM THE LIGHT GLARING OFF YOUR PHONE!! (In other words, please turn your phone off when you are in a show, especially one with only 12 other people in the room.)

  They would sit and stare and after the show they would clap and come up to me at the door, where I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. It’s fun to wait at the door and say goodbye to the audience when you have just had a standing ovation. It’s not when you have just died on your hole, but I’ll be damned if I don’t do it. I have to stand by my work whether I smash or die. Just gotta take it on the chin. What Would Beyoncé Do?! She would stand by the bloody door. SO I stood at the door and smiled. And they would come out and be like ‘Oh my gosh, that was awesome, you are really brave’ and I would have to bite my tongue and graciously say thank you without punching them. And I would hold a clenched smile as they said ‘I really enjoyed it’ and try not to scream ‘YOU COULD HAVE TOLD YOUR FUCKING FACE THAT!!!!’

  I can’t remember who it was, but somebody said to me that if I am struggling in my show, don’t tell the audience, because they might actually be enjoying it. Just because they haven’t experienced the show when people run down the aisles and lose their tiny little minds doesn’t mean that the room of eight people who aren’t laughing aren’t enjoying it. It’s really hard to be gracious. I wonder what Beyoncé does in these situations. JOKES. Beyoncé’s never been in these situations.

  I saw it with Dolly Parton once. The whole crowd were sat down for the first half, except for me and my friend who were up on our feet dancing and cheering along, getting shouted at to sit down. I was like ‘What is wrong with you idiots? It’s Dolly frickin’ Parton.’ She must have known people were being reserved, but she just carried on singing and being amazing and then after about 45 minutes, the crowd finally stood up and joined in and she said, ‘I knew you had it in you! I was worried you might be too quiet but no, you were just waiting to join the party! Well now you have let’s get it started!’

  That’s how I should learn to behave, more like Dolly, although I still think I would want to punch everyone. Maybe I need anger therapy. What would Dolly do?!

  I was asked to meet an American manager who was interested in representing me. I was so excited, like oh my gosh, here I am in the Hollywood Hills, in Soho House, this private members’ bar, with a manager who potentially wants to look after my career in the States. This is amazing, look how my life has turned around. Only this time a year ago I was living at my mum’s house, having a nice lie-in after eating too much Chinese food the night before, when I went to have a cheeky little fart and it became clear that I had shat myself in a onesie. And now here I am in Hollywood, you guys! Reading The Secret really does work!

  The conversation with the manager went like this. (NB: Manager must be read in an American accent, without moving your lips and like you’re running out of air; also look surprised and no other facial expression.)

  Manager: OK, so here’s the thing Lisa.

  Me: Sorry, it’s Luisa, Luisa Omielan.

  Manager: OK, so here’s the thing Lucy, I really like you, like I really really like you and I think you could be amazing and do really well out here. I just have a couple of concerns. So how old are you?

  Me: I’m 31.

  Manager: Oh no, no, that needs to go, that’s too old.

  Me: Old? It’s taken me this long to get good enough at comedy to just be in the same room as you. I have been working towards this my entire life, like from the age of—

  Manager: OK, that’s great Lucy, but in Hollywood you need to be like 21 or 22, otherwise you’re dead.

  Me: OK.

  Manager: The only other thing that I could see that would stop you from doing really well in the States, Lucy—

  Me: It’s Luisa.

  Manager: OK Charlotte, stop talking. The only thing stopping you from doing really well in the States is this, this whole erm ‘figure’ *fake vomits* that you have. I’m sure in the UK it’s adorable *does a head tilt and a two-second hand clap* but here in Hollywood the women are really skinny and glamorous and that’s not really you, no. So all I need you to do is not eat for like a year. OK?

  Wow. I’d never had that before, so brazen, to my face, someone telling me, Luisa, you are too old and you are too fat.

  I felt so disheartened. What about my comedy, what about my beautifully crafted material that I have trekked across the United Kingdom, playing up and down the country to empty bars and full rooms? What about all the years that I have begged and dreamed and wished and prayed to work in comedy, all the nights of crying and talking to my mum, when will it happen, when will it happen? Then to finally craft a body of work where no breath is wasted and every line is carefully placed, that has its own beat and rhythm, my show, my baby, my soul laid bare on stage, my show that was the most successful debut solo show to come out of the Edinburgh festival, my money that I borrowed to pay for the flight to LA, the gamble of spending £3k on a visa and hiring a theatre to play and then to finally get a meeting with someone with power and for them to turn around and say, ‘Yeah, but you are too old and too fat.’ That’s really difficult to take on the chin, even if you do have two of them.

  It was my last show in LA and I was feeling deflated after my meeting. I spoke to Debi, my agent; I said I can’t do this, they don’t laugh, I am playing to silence, it’s so hard.

  ‘Look Luisa, I had Sarah Silverman’s old manager come in yesterday. She said you’re too fat and you haven’t got enough jokes, but I’ve got other managers in there tonight and they haven’t seen you and they are excited!’

  ‘Too fat? Another one? What? And not enough jokes?’ I started crying.

  ‘Do not do this to me Luisa, not now, you gotta go out there and prove ’em all wrong. Besides, you’re not Sarah Silverman, you’re Luisa fucking Omielan, it’s fine.’

  I went on stage and couldn’t be bothered to get anyone up to introduce me. Instead I opened with ‘Be clear, I don’t like you, I don’t want to be here. You know, every night I have come and performed and delivered my masterpiece and none of you bitches have shown me the appreciation I deserve. Normally I let someone introduce me, but I forgot we are in LA and you’re all fucking performers. Well I’m sorry LA but I paid for this theatre and you paid to come and see me – well you didn’t pay, you all got in free because I’m a nobody in America . . . So I have just been told that I am apparently too fat for you bitch
es. Too fat. You know what . . .’ Now I don’t know what came over me, but at this point I pulled my trousers down, grabbed my stomach and said, ‘Bite me.’

  And here is why the world and the universe are wonderful. And hilarious. And giving. And beautiful in every sweet way possible. For some reason, for some unknown reason, the second I pulled my trousers down, they all started laughing. Really LA?! Really?! That’s all I needed to do all week? All I could hear were cheers from Americans, from people from LA; with chants of ‘Oh my Gawd, I totally love her.’ I pulled up my trousers and got on with the show. That night I killed, and they laughed throughout.

  Fuck you LA, fuck you. But I did finally sleep like a baby.

  I didn’t realise, but that night I had a manager come to my show. She was this white chick with long hair, big booty and earrings and I liked her as soon as she walked in. We met up and went for a cocktail. She was called Tatiana Sarah and she worked for the same company that managed Tina Fey and Amy Poehler. Tatiana is awesome and we swapped numbers. Shit, America, maybe you ain’t so bad after all.

  I signed to Max who got me some gigs in New York. I went back out and stayed with Caroline. I ended up playing five nights in a venue called SubCulture on Bleecker Street. The first night I played to an old lady with a beard and a cat on her lap; the last night I played to 80 and they rocked out. America you are amazing; just when I think I hate you, you go ahead and make me love you again.

  20.

  FLAWLESS

  I wish more women liked themselves, especially naked. Nothing wrong with a naked selfie. You don’t have to post it online if you don’t want to, equally kudos to you if you want to, but I think it is important to look at yourself naked. I think a woman should know what she looks like. I know I look at myself and think I need to look fitter and eat healthier and be stronger. But I certainly don’t look in the mirror and hate myself. I love the female form, it is perfect.