What Would Beyoncé Do?! Page 8
For my profile Rachel wrote – and I would advise you not to copy and paste this, as it never worked; in fact it’s safe to say that Rachel sabotaged me, I want to say it’s payback for ‘finest comedian of our generation’ but she will deny it:
Luisa is a wolf who at midnight turns into a hairy beast.
I responded with what I thought was hilarious witty banter: ‘Owwwwwwwwww’ (as in a wolf crying).
Nothing, I got nothing, not even a smiley winky face. Moral of the tale, Rachel is a rubbish friend. She will say I didn’t get any responses because I didn’t write a normal reply, but I think we both know who is lying.
Anyway, back to the chat. So I finished Edinburgh and was back in Farnborough. Throughout the year there are industry showcases and new-act competitions, remember I told you about them? It’s where young comics (young to the game, age is but a number) compete with lots of other comedians with a three- or five-minute routine; eventually you might get into the final, and that’s where industry and agents will see you and show interest.
I entered the Laughing Horse new act of the year competition. As always, I was so nervous and just shrieked like an idiot, classic Luisa, I wasn’t funny at all, which is annoying because I swear it takes extra effort to not be funny. For some reason whenever there is a competition or people are judging my performance, I turn back into that kid who fronts it out at dance class. *Holds the mic and thinks, no, why don’t you make me laugh for a change before stamping off*
In hindsight I don’t know why I bother with competitions; it should be more about showcases. You can’t have the best act; you can have best-received person of the night, but comedy is so subjective, and when you start working in clubs, it’s not a competition, more a group effort to make an excellent night out. So I don’t know why competitions are necessary (FYI, if I was good at competitions, this line would be changed to ‘Comedy competitions are imperative to seek out the best person who is the best at comedy and they deserve everything in life.’). Like it’s comical how badly I can fuck up and not be funny when there is a need to prove something or there is pressure. The more natural and unstressed I am the better I am at being funny.
This love affair with comedy – am I good, am I awful? – is probably one of the reasons it is so addictive. Though most art funding and schools and colleges don’t agree, stand-up comedy is an art form, and one of the most intelligent, delicate, perfectly balanced, beautiful, human art forms anyone could ever hope to try and master. It is the most honest art form, because it’s immediate. Failing is absolutely a part of it, and there is failure at every level.
Now I don’t really do puns or wordplay, I tell stories. For a while I was nailing the whole neurotic woman scene, but then it annoyed me, because when it didn’t go well I just looked like some person coming off the street having a meltdown. That’s the worst bit, when you die on stage and you are embarrassed for yourself. There is no one there to scoop you off the stage, so you have to pep-talk your embarrassing self and be like ‘Come on Luisa, put your pants back on and let’s get out of here,’ it’s so humiliating.
Performing stand-up on the open mic circuit and at festivals gave me confidence and opened me up to a whole new network of people on the London comedy scene. Eventually Klaus encouraged me to take the plunge and move to the big city.
A friend I had met on the comedy circuit had a place in West Hampstead. The room was only £80 a week, which in West Hampstead is stupidly cheap! Thanks to Klaus, I took the leap of faith and moved in. I got a temp job working for the Rugby Football Union in the IT department where I could not have been more useless, but they were paying me £15 an hour so who is the real loser?
Klaus had just finished with his Swedish girlfriend and was having a dinner in town to celebrate his birthday. I was so pleased he had finished with her. It was my first week living in London and his parents had come over from Germany. He invited me to come and join them. I figured if this wasn’t a sign that the clogs were finally turning (nose tap, clogs, nose tap, German, nose tap, clogs aren’t actually German, nose tap, oops), I didn’t know what was. Hello? Parent meeting. Mate, it’s love.
It took me about three days to get ready. I picked the perfect outfit, nice black dress, fitted but below the knee, had that ‘hi, I would make a really good daughter-in-law’ look for the parents, but also a ‘wow, I want to have sex with you’ feel for Klaus. I picked out a present; it was a plastic microphone he could use to sing in the shower. I knew he was anal about microphones as he always made his acts buy a really good one. Plus he hated that in London he didn’t have a bath, only a shower. I thought this would be the perfect combination of hilarious yet stupid, playful enough to show I hadn’t spent that much money, but also thoughtful enough to show that I cared.
I arrived at the restaurant and to my surprise there were already four people sat there: Klaus, his mum, his dad and Paint Dry *sound the trumpets*. He brought the Swedish girlfriend, the Swedish-oh-I’m-sorry-I-thought-you-were-no-longer-going-to-be-a-problem-ex-girlfriend.
‘Hey, great to see you!’
She gave me the look of ‘Bitch I know why you are wearing that dress’ and I gave her one of ‘Don’t know what you are talking about, Paint Dry, I’m just a really good friend!’ I squeezed Klaus, trying to look extra pally, that’s me, friendly old Luisa! sat down smiling a lot more than I should at his bewildered parents. I knew they thought I was mental when they said, ‘You don’t act very British.’
I laughed it off heartily as a compliment, trying to hold myself together without feeling like a complete moron for arriving dressed to the nines for a dinner with Klaus, his parents and his not-so-ex-girlfriend. If I didn’t smile heartily, I would cry and I was not about to lose this one. No siree, not today. Today I smile politely and will nail this horrendously awkward dinner.
I got through the meal without being sick and went home and cried for approximately three hours. The next day Klaus called. I ignored him. He called again a few times over the next three weeks. It took everything I had not to pick up. I changed his name on my phone to ‘Do Not Answer’, but that didn’t really motivate me as I often do things I am told not to do, so instead I changed it to ‘The Gym’.
It got to Christmas and I got a text message on Christmas Day but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to reply, but I didn’t want to not reply, so I went with the classic Thanks x. That was my attempt at saying ‘I’m not ignoring you because I am not immature but also my one kiss should tell you that I am totally ignoring you, but actually I don’t care any more.’
I hated not talking to Klaus. I really missed him. But I liked him too much and he had a girlfriend, or at least he didn’t have one but he still invited her to dinner with his parents (who does that?). I felt bad, as I loved him and wanted to be a good friend, but at the same time, being a friend meant hiding how much I liked him and it was exhausting.
Roll on the new year and I am feeling a little bit less heartbroken over Klaus. I am living in West Hampstead and starting to gig more regularly. Then I got hit with really bad flu, and I had been in bed for about a week when the universe decided to test me and I got a call from ‘The Gym’.
I was ill and feeling super sorry for myself; it was only because I was weak that I answered. His first words were ‘Thank you for answering me, my darling beautiful friend, how are you? I have missed you, and before you speak, I know you are upset with me, but I do adore you so I just wanted to call to see how you were. We don’t have to talk, I just want to say hello.’
Now I had mentally prepared myself for this conversation and had planned many a time in my head what I would say in this situation if Klaus was to ever to call me. My articulate and prepared response was to be ‘Hey there, you! Old buddy, old pal! I’m great! Been so busy, in fact I better run as I have a really important gig tonight, yeah it’s 7 minutes in an old man’s pub in Finsbury Park but if it goes well he will give me ten minutes so I really can’t stop and chat, after all success
won’t wait for everybody! Haha! OK! Speak to you soon. Bye!!’
That was my plan. What I did not intend for was the following. Don’t judge me, I had been in bed for a week, in London with no mumma to comfort me, I hadn’t washed in two days and was ODing on Night Nurse and Lemsip.
‘Hi, thank you *starts crying*, I just, I’m fine, I just *crying gets louder*, I just really miss you and you invited me to meet your parents and I thought that meant *crying uncontrollably*, it’s just I’ve been sick and no one is here, flatmate’s away, completely on my own *starts snotting down phone* and I could be dead and no one would care *erratic now* and I was thinking I could die right now and no one would even find me, and even if people knew I was dying, and I had like a run-up, I still would be lonely and then I thought, well I would be OK with feeling like that If I knew you were around, because *hardcore can’t breathe crying* even if I had cancer and lost all my hair and my sight I would be OK as long as you are next to me and I could hear your voice.’ *Wails off inaudibly.*
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that was my killer line. Shakespeare’s sonnets eat your heart out. To the man of my dreams, a promoter from Germany, my great love letter was ‘If I had cancer and lost all my hair and my sight I would be OK as long as you are next to me and I could hear your voice.’
Now you wouldn’t necessarily think German dudes are the most emotionally on-it people, but actually Klaus was pretty brilliant. ‘Luisa, you are cold and lonely and wet’ – I mean I was, but that’s because his accent killed me, though he meant as in sweating, I know, I understand him, it’s one of the reasons we should be together – he continued, ‘Have some rest, don’t worry, we are good, I do love you, you are my friend, shall I come over and see you, would that be OK?’
It’s amazing how quickly you can snap out of flu when you need to. Roll on two days and there was a knock at my front door. I’d decided to wash, do my hair, do natural-looking make-up, which took me an hour. I got my nails shellacked the day before, wore skinny black jeans and a vest with no bra on. Had the window open to air the sickness and keep my nipples hard. I’d scrubbed the flat the night before but took out a mop to look like he had caught me in the middle of it.
Klaus ended up spending the whole day and the night.
10.
CRAZY IN LOVE
We dated for about five months and I could not have been happier. I called my brother to tell him about Klaus and me finally getting it on. He said, ‘Well done Luisa, just goes to show, if you wear a man down long enough, eventually he will just give in.’
I spent my nights following Klaus around comedy clubs and forgetting all my own gigs and my days daydreaming about seeing him again. We went all around London and up on the Millenium Wheel, it was so romantic. Well actually it was quite long and boring. But it didn’t matter – I was with Klaus!
I loved his voice, I loved his smell, I loved him calling me baby. He developed a nickname for me, ‘Badger’. I loved being his badger. I was a badger, I was as happy as a badger in badger land. I loved sucking his dick and being held by him. I loved how when we walked down the street he held my hand and our feet walked to the same step. I loved how our fingers interlinked easily. I loved how in sync we were. But with every moment of loving it, there was a small part of me that felt constantly on edge. Like maybe, on some level, I wasn’t good enough to be his girlfriend, like at any moment this magic and love that I was feeling was going to be stripped away from me. Self-fulfilling prophecy knocking.
I lost my job with the Rugby Football Union (they cottoned on to my uselessness, you can only play the ‘just turn it off and back on again’ card for so long) and had to move out of my friend’s place. It was at this moment that another comedian told me about this wonderful government scheme called ‘Housing Benefit’. Basically if you go to the job centre and say you can’t get a job but are looking, then the government will pay your rent for you. Why had I not heard of this wonderful initiative before?! So I skipped along to the job centre and sure enough, for a 27-year-old single person, they would cover up to £250 a week rent.
Now Noddy here, rather than finding somewhere I could afford once I got a job, went ‘Wahoo! £250 a week!’ And found a one-bed flat in West Hampstead. Johnny helped me with the deposit and I tied myself into a six-month contract. Now the only way I was going to be able to afford this new love nest was by either working every hour God sends and not make the rent or not work at all, keep signing on and have a nice flat to live in.
I chose the latter. Probably the most soul-destroying, negligent thing I could have done. My plan was to use this as an opportunity and really concentrate on comedy and go to the gym every day. But my plan was ambitious and flawed. Instead, with too much time on my hands and no sense of routine, I just allowed myself to get completely besotted with Klaus. My whole world became about him: seeing him, cooking for him, sexing him. I loved him; I had never felt more love.
He was earning more and more money and working with bigger comedians. I felt like an idiot because I wasn’t good enough to work with someone of his status yet. I didn’t mind too much though, as I felt I could make myself more invaluable as his support.
I would try and kiss him in public, which he didn’t like. At comedy gigs he didn’t want me to kiss him as it’s important to be professional at work events, but I really wanted to show off in front of all my friends that I was dating him. I used to get really frustrated. I remember one time a girl was eyeing him up. Unaware that we were dating, she whispered, ‘Klaus is looking sexy.’ I said, ‘Well of course he knows how to work it, he’s gay!’ ‘IS he?! Oh man, all the good ones are!’
A bit tipsy and feeling smug I walked past Klaus as he was chatting to another promoter and whispered, ‘Don’t worry darling, no one will know we are dating, I just told Claire you are gay.’
I thought he would find it funny, but he quickly ended his conversation with the promoter and told me we were leaving. We had a massive fight. He hated that I would publicly mock him like that and I hated that he didn’t want to kiss me in public. I felt like he was ashamed of me because I wasn’t big enough in comedy and because I couldn’t get an agent. In hindsight, these were all my insecurities for putting someone on a pedestal. Of course, from where I placed him, the only way he could see me was by looking down.
I had two months left of my lease in London and was looking forward to working without the constraints of signing on because of my stupid rent deal. Klaus had just moved into a new place in London and I came to help settle him in. I went round and cooked him dinner. He did some spreadsheets of tour budgets and I just watched him. He had been a bit quiet and distant, so instead of leaving him to it and giving him space, I deliberately missed the last tube home and stayed with him, all night. He complained that he was too busy to even unpack in his new place and was sorry he couldn’t give me more attention but he had to get work done. I didn’t mind, I just sat and watched him work. Like a weirdo.
The following morning he left early for Germany. I stayed and unpacked all his belongings and rearranged his room, set it up how he liked it.
When he got back on the Monday he called and said, ‘Oh my gosh, Luisa, thank you! I love you, that is so thoughtful of you, Badger! Can we meet tonight? I want to talk’.
I had found this T-shirt with a picture of a badger on it from New Look and wore it because I thought it would be cute. I meet him at Piccadilly Circus, he takes my hand and we go and sit on a fountain. Word to the wise, never trust a meeting with a lover at a fountain, you only get your hopes up. Boys can be so dumb.
Hey guys, here are my handy hints for places not to dump someone.
On a fountain
At a wedding
On/near/before their birthday
At a funeral
On the day of their big promotion
On a fucking fountain
He said he was sorry, but he just wasn’t ready for a relationship and he couldn’t give me all the things he felt I needed. I w
as upset but surprisingly I felt OK. I gave him a peck and left. You know sometimes when something bad happens and you feel sad but at the same time you are like ‘I am surprisingly OK about this, that’s weird.’ *cue snowstorm that will hit you when you least expect it*. I had one of those moments.
I threw myself into gigging. I decided to enter a funny women competition and do my best to step up. The owner, Lynne Parker, called me and said, ‘Luisa, I would love to put you through to the semi-finals, but looking like you do, you shouldn’t be talking about what you talk about, it’s not nice for young women to be so crass. Why don’t you send me your material and I will edit it for you and consider putting you through.’ I found myself saying thank you on the phone and feeling absolutely crushed. I never sent my material and she never put me through. Why do people keep wanting to change my voice?
I entered another competition and, for once, I got through to the final. The next day a review came out in Chortle, the online comedy bible; the head guy Steve Bennett said I would amount to ‘being the novelty nutter baffling the Britain’s Got Talent judges’. Scathing. I knew Klaus would read it; he loved and respected Steve.
And so here I am, dumped, in a flat I can’t afford, getting nowhere in comedy and my ex-boyfriend will see a review of how shit I am. I bet he is relieved he dumped me. I left my flat to go pick up some boxes to pack and bumped into a comedian called Juice. Juice was an open-mic’er and a bit of an idiot. He once tricked Sky TV into doing an interview with him by telling them he was in a bank when it got robbed. He was nowhere near. He’s either an idiot or a genius, seldom in between. His dad owns a chain of kebab shops in south London, so he sees himself as having working-class roots even though he lives with his mum in a three-storey house in central London.