My yen to blog was nearly struck down in its infancy. Last Monday I curled up in front of my laptop, fingers poised. Ready to take down the words that had been milling around in my head as I had dragged myself home from Brixton Hill. Honestly, I even had a title 'Rainy Days and Mondays', cracking stuff*. And then came my undoing. Blogger asked me for my password...
Much racking of slightly befuddled, hungover brain produced no results. Further racking of the slightly less befuddled and hungover brain the following day produced more nothingness. Dammit. For some reason I couldn't seem to get blogger to let me change my password to something more memorable and had given up quite frankly, as I am wont to do with most things. My original post seemed destined to exsist as a manifesto for a campaign I would never follow, until today! I found my password scrawled across the cover of this month's Vogue. Excellent.
My mild excitement at getting back to blogging is dimmed somewhat when I read this back and realise I have just blogged about finding my blogger password. Not the most exciting of events all told. Eh, I 'll write something substantial tomorrow because I have a job application to fill in and I'll need something to help me procrastinate. Productive creative procrastion. Perfect.
*Probably. I'm not all that sure I remember what I was going to say if I'm honest. I had a monumental hangover because I'd stayed at my best friend's house and we had between us consumed 3 1/2 bottles of very cheap white wine and a few gin and tonics. So 'cracking stuff' is merely conjecture and probably only asserted because a) I quite like the phrase and b) I wanted to make myself look good. Sorry.
Tuesday, 29 January 2008
Thursday, 17 January 2008
Voted 'Most Likely To End Up As A Stripper' - Upton Hall Convent Yearbook: Class of 2000
One of the first questions that people ask upon finding out that I am a burlesque dancer is "How did you get into that?'
And the answer is, I tripped. Fell and landed in a heap of silk knickers and rhinestones and decided to run with it. Serendipity has always been a friend to me, and a chance encounter with a lovely young lady who wanted help choreographing her very first burlesque routine has somehow led to something vaguely approaching a career of my very own. Although, I do bandy the term 'career' around here very loosely...
But the seeds of burlesque were sewn a long time before I even knew who Tempest Storm and Sally Rand were (look it up burlesque neophites). When I was 16, while my contemporaries toiled away behind the tills of Tesco and Primark for a measly £2.22 an hour. I worked as a dancer at a gay club. For the princely sum of fifty pounds I was expected to wear all manner of spangly, camp, top-hat-and-tailed tomfoolery and dance as well as I was able in the world's tallest heels. As a first job, I fear it ruined me for life. Who wants to WORK for a living when it transpires that there are people who will pay you to dress up and run around their club doing exactly what you'd do anyway? AND, you get drinks vouchers. Woo and indeed hoo my (much thinner and cuter) 16 year old self thought. Ten (*cough*fuck fuck fuck*cough*) years later the venues have changed, I no longer have to get up for school in the mornings and the drinks vouchers go on decent rioja rather than smirnoff ice; but the essence of what I do remains the same. I get to play dress up and party like it's 1999. (Reading this back, it reminds me of the line in Anchorman where Ron Burgundy asserts that they've all been attending the same party for the past ten years and in 'NO WAY is that depressing' but fuck it, I'll review my chosen career path when my tits drop and not a second before.) I don't give a shit that my former classmates are buying houses and marrying the boys they snogged behind the bike sheds when we were 16. I live in the greatest city England; and very possibly the world has to offer, I have amazing friends, a wardrobe full of vintage tat and I burst balloons for a living. Sex, dugs and cab-ar-et my dears. What's not to love?
Don't get me wrong, this hasn't always been the plan. I coasted through university believing that a career as the next Hunter S. Thompson was beckoning. However, it turned out that my only marked similarity with Thompson was my exceptional capacity for the consumption of narcotics. A 'talent' that generally hampered (and continues to hamper) my ability to write anything sensible or hold down a job that requires me to be in an office during pre-prescribed times, five days a week. But I've missed writing. I have a yen to scribble down all the mundane and not so mundane shit that happens to me on a daily basis. So this is it. Until such a time as I get bored or buy the pug I keep threatening my housemates with and have to take it for walks and clean up shit in my spare time..
Hang on to your proverbial hats
And the answer is, I tripped. Fell and landed in a heap of silk knickers and rhinestones and decided to run with it. Serendipity has always been a friend to me, and a chance encounter with a lovely young lady who wanted help choreographing her very first burlesque routine has somehow led to something vaguely approaching a career of my very own. Although, I do bandy the term 'career' around here very loosely...
But the seeds of burlesque were sewn a long time before I even knew who Tempest Storm and Sally Rand were (look it up burlesque neophites). When I was 16, while my contemporaries toiled away behind the tills of Tesco and Primark for a measly £2.22 an hour. I worked as a dancer at a gay club. For the princely sum of fifty pounds I was expected to wear all manner of spangly, camp, top-hat-and-tailed tomfoolery and dance as well as I was able in the world's tallest heels. As a first job, I fear it ruined me for life. Who wants to WORK for a living when it transpires that there are people who will pay you to dress up and run around their club doing exactly what you'd do anyway? AND, you get drinks vouchers. Woo and indeed hoo my (much thinner and cuter) 16 year old self thought. Ten (*cough*fuck fuck fuck*cough*) years later the venues have changed, I no longer have to get up for school in the mornings and the drinks vouchers go on decent rioja rather than smirnoff ice; but the essence of what I do remains the same. I get to play dress up and party like it's 1999. (Reading this back, it reminds me of the line in Anchorman where Ron Burgundy asserts that they've all been attending the same party for the past ten years and in 'NO WAY is that depressing' but fuck it, I'll review my chosen career path when my tits drop and not a second before.) I don't give a shit that my former classmates are buying houses and marrying the boys they snogged behind the bike sheds when we were 16. I live in the greatest city England; and very possibly the world has to offer, I have amazing friends, a wardrobe full of vintage tat and I burst balloons for a living. Sex, dugs and cab-ar-et my dears. What's not to love?
Don't get me wrong, this hasn't always been the plan. I coasted through university believing that a career as the next Hunter S. Thompson was beckoning. However, it turned out that my only marked similarity with Thompson was my exceptional capacity for the consumption of narcotics. A 'talent' that generally hampered (and continues to hamper) my ability to write anything sensible or hold down a job that requires me to be in an office during pre-prescribed times, five days a week. But I've missed writing. I have a yen to scribble down all the mundane and not so mundane shit that happens to me on a daily basis. So this is it. Until such a time as I get bored or buy the pug I keep threatening my housemates with and have to take it for walks and clean up shit in my spare time..
Hang on to your proverbial hats
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