Am I too old for this shit?
I keep saying it lately. Sometimes under my breath, sometimes out loud in the car, sometimes straight into the void: I’m too old for this shit.
The “shit” in question usually involves a five-hour drive to perform for 20 minutes, then another five-hour drive back, usually in the dark, past three closed motorways and at least one existential crisis.
The other week, I was driving back from a gig in Portsmouth. Part of the motorway was closed. Fine. I followed the diversion signs like a good girl, ended up right back where I started. Thought, “Ah, OK. That’s me. That’s my fault. I must’ve taken a wrong turn.” Did the whole five-mile diversion again—exact same result. Turns out the diversion signs were just randomly scattered like confetti at a wedding nobody wanted to go to. And I ended up at some anonymous service station, crying over Waze and Google, sobbing, “I used to have a proper job.”
Eventually I just threw myself onto the M4 (I was in the car—things hadn’t got that bad) in the hope that Maps would have the decency to step in like a helpful parent. (It did. It got me home. But bloody hell, it was horrible.)
And I know—yes, I know—I’m lucky. I’m doing what I love. But God, it’s tiring. It’s expensive. And it’s relentless. I constantly wish for stupid things: I wish I’d started 30 years before I did; I wish I had endless funds so I could do it more for love than money; I wish I was better at it so agents and TV people would be begging for my attention. Stupid.
I’m starting to rein it in, just a little bit. “Work smarter, not harder,” maybe? Because I cannot keep doing these 10–hour round trips that feel like they’re leading nowhere. You tell yourself, “This person hasn’t seen me before so I’ll do it. You never know… it might lead to something.” And it goes well. And they really like you. So they offer you more work… on the exact same basis again. And you do it. Because if you don’t, someone else will.
And then there’s the other layer that I constantly worry about. The one that makes me sound like a broken record: ageism. There are certain promoters I don’t even bother approaching now because I know I won’t be considered. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman. Maybe it’s because I’m not 23 and Inst-famous. Maybe it’s both. Maybe I’m just shit. (I don’t think I am. But who knows?!)
There’s one particular promoter who refuses to even look twice at me. I mentioned it to another booker once and he just went, “Oh, yeah, he’s misogynist,” like you’d say, “Oh, yeah, he’s allergic to shellfish.” And then just carried on talking.
I’m not asking for much: just someone to guide me through every little bit of this journey, step by step; endless cash, and a time machine.
I really hope I’m not too old for this shit.
Listen to my Avoid Excessive Cleavage podcasts.
Find out where I’m going to be performing soon.