Tonight Ladies and Gentlemen, I am going on my first EVER
blind date. All previous dates have involved all of the five senses in varying
degrees of intensity, smell being one of them... (but the less said about stinky
Joe the better). Yet I am going into this one blind. With not a Cilla in sight.
My friend Yorkshire Ben -the Paddy McGuinness of this story-
text me a week ago saying, ‘Alright Laur, are you single? How would you like to
go on a date with a charming, handsome friend of mine?’ It probably took less
than 2 seconds for me to reply with a ‘Yes! Why not?!’
The speed of my reply was not an act of desperation, for I
am a happily single independent young woman. THROW YOUR HANDS UP BLACK MEN! (A
Beyonce quote… Obviously not just me requesting the entire Black male
population of London to raise their upper limbs in aid of my single status and
independent nature… Although, if they wish to, I won’t stop them.)
The speed of my reply was simply because in a city like
London, in opposition to the fact that it has a population of 8,174,100 and is
still growing (thank you Wikipedia) it is actually pretty hard to meet new
people.
I’m not ready or willing to delve into the unexplored world
of internet dating just yet, that’s a treat I'm saving for my thirties;
therefore, this seemed the perfect opportunity to meet someone new and have a
chinwag and a giggle. Worst comes to the worst, we hate each other and you guys
get to read aaaaall about it the next day!
Now, onto the next problem… Me. I am not exactly the most
alluring or subtlest person on the planet... In fact, the words ‘inappropriate’ and ‘pottymouth’
are never too far away from my name/aura/general vicinity. All in all, I am
possibly the least enigmatic human being known to man.
What you see is what you get. But not in a straight talking
Tulisa kind of way, more in a flatulent/TMI/crap joke kind of way.
But that’s
alright isn’t it? ISN’T IT?!?!?!?
When I asked a dear friend of mine how I should create a
little mystery for myself on this date she said, ‘The only hope for you Laur,
is if you wear a veil. That’s the only way you’ll ever be mysterious.’
Right. So it looks like I’ll be wearing a Burkini tonight
then! London, you are welcome.
Much to my disgrace and chagrin nothing horrifically humiliating
or engrossingly embarrassing has occurred over the past two weeks since
audition-gate. (Unless of course you count the time I was fishing in my bag for
my oyster card and accidentally catapulted three sanitary towels at the bus
driver on the pull out…)
So to remedy this situation I have decided to throw myself
out of a plane. That’s right. Me. Plane. 10,000ft. Jump.
You may think this is crazy and that if I wanted cheap
thrills then I should have just chosen a different cereal brand during my
weekly shop; however, I can assure you that it is all for a very, very good
cause.
Prospect Hospice is the wonderful organisation that helped
care for my best friend’s Dad. They are kind, caring and offer comfort and
confidence to both patients and their families to help them get through the crap
that life has thrown at them. They work in a down to earth manner and, from
what my friend has told me, are a lifeline of support.
It is for them, my best friend and her dad’s memory that I
will be hurtling towards the earth strapped to a (please be a hunky man) professional
sky diver on June 16th 2013.
I will of course be pestering you all for sponsorship nearer
to the time, but before you get irritated at my continual Facebook updates and
pleas, take a moment to think that some poor sod on the ground is going to have
to witness my arse speeding towards him from a stratospheric height. For
his/her sake please sponsor me when the time comes.
Of course, since signing up to do this deed my eye has of
course been drawn to any story in the paper concerning sky-diving, parachutes
not opening and death from a great height in general. Because don’t get me
wrong, I may be writing in a cool, aloofly whimsical manner but I am in actual
fact… cacking it.
The fact I have no choice in the matter as I will be
strapped to the aforesaid (SERIOUSLY PLEASE BE A HUNKY MAN) professional is a
comfort as the option of chickening out, not that I would ever do such a thing,
is out of my hands. My shaky, cold and sweaty hands.
On a serious note (a rare occasion for me I know) I don’t
think I could ever chicken out of this, in the same vain that I sprinted the
last section of the Race for Life even though my lungs were on FIRE, because if
these cherished family members can go through such pain and such trauma then,
at the end of the day, we really have no excuse.
So June 16th 2013. Me and the sky have a date.
And if you don’t hear from me again I haven’t been flattened like a pancake
over Swindon… I have run off with the (I’M NOT EVEN JOKING BE A HUNKY MAN)
professional.
Sometimes our most humiliating
situations are the ones that need sharing the most. They are the stories to be
given to the world as a sacrifice, to be spread to the four corners of this
earth to bring joy to the listener and mirth to the storyteller.
Tales of the most mortifying
experiences should always be placed in the hands of cherished friends who will
then pass them on to their friends, who will then tell their friends and so on,
until someone’s friend of a friend tells you, the victim, and completes the sacrificial
anecdotal circle.
This is what happened to me, my
most humiliating story to date. I am writing this for the good of all mankind
and to purge myself of the most horrific audition experience I have ever
encountered. I’m laughing as I type… and crying on the inside.
Due to the classic lull in the
theatrical world over summer, it has been a considerable amount of time since I
have attended an audition and a much longer time since I have been asked to
sing at one. Now, I am not giving myself any excuses for what occurred; I am
merely painting a sympathetic background upon which you are to judge me.
Last Thursday, my agent called
with an audition for a comedy sketch show, “Brilliant!” I thought, “I’m
averagely funny and if all else fails I know I can tell a good fart joke, this
will be grand!”
I was then told that it was in
fact a musical comedy sketch show and that I was to prepare a short comedy
song, in order to “show off my vocal range”.
Okay… Pause for thought… Vocal
range… I am an alright singer at best, more confident in a group than flying
solo but am always willing to give it a shot. So, fine. I’ll have a week to
prepare, maybe get a few lessons to boost up the old confidence and crack on.
“It’s tomorrow.” She said.
“Ah.” I said.
My song of choice- ‘London
Underground’ that wicked parody of the Jam’s song involving various satirical
remarks about our public transport service and a plethora of profanities thrown
in for good measure.
Just in case, I also decided to
prepare a back-up song, (to the tune of My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean)
My one skin lies over my two skin,
My two skin lies over my three,
My three skin lies over my foreskin,
So pull back my foreskin for me.
Hilarious. I spent all night
practicing and woke up early to do ye olde warm up (my housemates must LOVE me)
and headed into town for the audition.
I got there fifteen minutes early
like any sensible actor would and was quickly asked into the room. I walked
into a big, black, empty space with a stage and five people on the panel. FIVE.
I instantly shat myself.
“Hi Laura, we’re going to start
with your song, okay?”
“Okaaaay”, I trembled with the
voice of a prepubescent boy. I took a deep breath and began…
“Some people like to get a train to work, or drive in a beamer…
lalalala…”
My mind goes blank…
“I’m so sorry I've completely forgotten the words!”
“That’s okay”, they say… I know it’s not okay.
“Why don’t you start again?”
“Sure… Some people like to lalalala… I’m so sorry it’s completely gone!”
This has NEVER happened to me in
an audition before; I experienced the kind of panic fueled blank which I have
only ever witnessed on ITV on a Saturday evening being judged by the nation… Except
mine was worse.
“Okay”, they smile.
(I know it is
still DEFINITELY not okay)
“Have you got another song?”
“Yes!” I grin with relief,
thinking about the hilarity of my circumcision centred song and knowing that I
could win them back with this sure fire hit.
What actually happened was this…
“Yes, I've got another song. It’s
called ‘My One String’. I begin…
My one string lies over my two string,
My two string lies over my three,
My three string lies over my four string… FORESKIN!!!” I shout, “I meant to sing skin! FORESKIN! Because
that’s the joke! FORESKIN IS FUNNY! Four strings are just four strings!”
A silence.
The panel look down
simultaneously all furiously studying their notebooks before one brave soul
pipes up, “Okay Laura, can you just sing us Happy
Birthday, please.”
I look down at the ground, I look
up, I mumble an answer in the affirmative and begin.
“Happy Birthday to youuuu,
Happy Birthday to yoouuuu,
Happy Birthday to… YOU GUYS?!
(Hopeful grin, slight wink and
finger point… I'm dying.)
Happy Birthday to yoooooooooou.”
Another silence.
“Okay.”
(IT IS SO NOT EVEN
ANYWHERE NEAR OKAY! ‘OKAY’ IS A MILD SPECK ON THE HORIZON ON WHICH I HAVE
TRAMPLED, PEED AND POSITIVELY DEFECATED ALL OVER.)
“That’s all we’re going to need
from you right now.”
I nod. “It’s for the best.”
I leave, having forgotten my words,
forgotten my punch line and been asked to sing a nursery rhyme.
I’m pretty sure
my realisational shout of “FORESKIN!” still echoes round that room to this day.
But anyway, it all worked out
fine because… I GOT THE JOB!
I’m joking. I did not get the job.
I did not even get near the job. The job was an unattainable carrot on my asses
stick. Ass being the operative word.
But ANYWAY, I survived. I have my
health and all my limbs are intact. The only thing in tatters is my dignity.
And who needs that eh?!?! WHO NEEDS DIGNITY?!?
‘Not I’ said the Little Red Hen.
‘Not I’ said Laura Darrall.
Charlotte Bronte says, “I would
always rather be happy than dignified.”
And on this occasion and every
other in my life Charlotte, “I concur.”
Honestly? I really don’t feel like writing anything today.
My
best friend has just lost her father to cancer so silly words and a blog about embarrassing
stories really don’t seem that appropriate at the moment.
I will get back to it next week but for now what I want to write is this:
Life is for living. It is too short, too hard, too now not
to. So live it. Say what you mean, be what you are and don’t waste time
because it’s precious.
