Another Fucking Day
Today is another fucking day in the list of endless fucking days of this year. It’s another fucking day where my wife and I talk about whether we have to go outside to one of the same three outdoor spaces we’ve been going to every day since March, so we can spend an hour warding our 2 year old daughter away from anyone else whose trudging round the same three spaces with that dead behind the eyes stare we all have. It’s another fucking day where we discuss what to cook for dinner based on the only ingredients we have left before we have to get anxiety attacks at the supermarket again as someone who’s been living in a bunker for the last 6 months decides to physically push past you to fondle all the eggs individually with their bare, un-sanitised hands and you have to struggle not to fire off all the inventive swear words in your vocabulary because your daughter is far too good at mimicking now. It’s another day where we wonder if it’s worth tidying up knowing that the second we do, our toddler will mess it up again, and no one is coming round anyway for the foreseeable future so it’s not like anyone will care that we live in a fetid, swamp hole of a rented flat that our landlords won’t give us a rent break from. We are paying with money we don’t have, just to stare at the walls. It’s another fucking day where I say out loud that I need to be healthy while also wishing I could just eat crisps until I feel sick. Which would take an obscenely long time. It’s another fucking day where we wonder what to watch on telly at night when everything from pre-pandemic feels odd and uncomfortable, but everything about it is not wanted. It’s another fucking day where my wife and I juggle parenting with scrabbling for any work at all, as our daughter has a tantrum exclaiming that she doesn’t like us or whatever it is she’s currently eating, before continuing to eat it. It’s another fucking day where I promise to myself that I’ll spend the night writing and working but as soon as the kid is asleep I fall into a veritable exhaustion coma. It’s another fucking day where a reminder pops up to tell me about a show I was meant to be doing before live comedy stopped happened, and I say out aloud again that I need to wipe all future dates from the calendar but I don’t, to give some sense of hope that they might all come back. At some point.
In many ways, my career as a self-employed stand-up comedian has made me adapt to the coronavirus situation quicker than most. Since deciding to go full time many, many moons ago, I’ve never had job security. I’ve had work cancelled last minute for every reason from venues being flooded, to a new commissioner deciding they don’t want that TV show after all, to the people who hired me suddenly being uncontactable and disappearing and the only evidence I ever had work being an email and a gaping hole in my bank account. I’ve found myself so many times unable to withdraw cash, with bills bouncing, desperately scrounging for work. But I always had a weird faith that something would come through, or that come the apocalypse no one would check credit ratings anyway. My social life was killed off the second I prioritised pursuing a career of several shows a week on the nights and days when everyone else was off work, watching as they all got proper jobs, managed to buy homes and not spend every week wondering if they could pay their bills. I’d spent so many years turning down invites to weddings or parties as ‘oh sorry I’m in some other location that weekend’ that the invites dried up after a while from anyone other than close friends. I’ve always worked from home, except when doing the live gig part, and had fully worked out a routine that involved embracing the several hours of pissing about looking online at whatever people were upset about that day, single-handedly drinking the world’s supply of tea or walking around in circles saying words out loud, just to know that it’d eventually lead to an hour or two of actual writing.
And yet, this ‘new normal’ is not at all suited to me, or anyone who does what I do. Not least because, as I joke to people while trying not to wail into their face about the death of my industry, it turns out that shouting at people in a dark, windowless room, isn’t all that great for quelling a virus. Who knew that it wasn’t just laughter that was infectious? It’s several times a week now that I am halted in doing whatever it is I’m doing, likely the same handful of things we do every day, and realise that I have no idea if I have any work or any income at all anymore. No safety net at all. No guidance or reassurance on what to do next. No real clue on what I can use these skills for instead. I don’t really work in a team or know how to use Microsoft Excel except for my taxes. My experience of dealing with difficult customers usually involves me barraging them with witty, sweary put downs which I don’t think is particularly allowed in any other sector. Back when I had a proper job, I’d be endlessly reprimanded by bosses for finishing my work within hours of starting my day, then spending the rest of the time bothering colleagues with jokes and ideas, which then stopped them doing all their tasks and somehow that was my fault. I remember one of my former colleagues had been in the same office for 25 years doing exactly the same job, as every year she stayed on, she got an extra two days of paid holiday. She was at the point she’d spent nearly 3 months away, then come back and stare at a screen with a face of abject nihilism for the rest of the year. That’s 9 months of soul-destroying sameness, for just 3 of freedom. The official ratio of bleakness.
Before all this kicked off, I finally, for the second year in my career ever, knew all the work I had in for the entire rest of the year. I had 4 months of support work for a bigger act, I was writing and hosting a podcast series for a charity whose work I find exciting, I was touring a kids comedy show about politics, while the kids comedy club I co-run had shows booked in venues I’d been wanting to work in my whole life. I had just started doing bespoke gigs for companies who paid me really decently to write gags on a specific topic. It’s not TV or the things people think you have to have to be a successful comedian, but at nearly 40 years of age, I was finally on my way to be able to save up some money for the first time ever, which was a great and incredibly reassuring feeling. Then overnight, it all went. The gigs can’t happen, the companies I was doing work for have furloughed all their staff, the charity may or may not survive the lack of support it’s getting through this time, the theatres we were doing the kids shows in are likely to go bust.
There’s so much I miss already. Comedians would regularly talk about feeling rusty onstage after the short time away from shows that you get over that little period between Christmas and New Year’s. You’ll hear many say on regular occasion that we do this stupid job because we have to. It’s almost like an addiction to immediate gratification. It’s now been four months since my last live show. Online gigs just can’t quell that need to feel the laughs bounce off the walls around you, a reward from the crowd for something you’ve written and said out loud. The buzzing afterwards from the adrenaline, before heading backstage to join in the chorus of other acts as we all agree which audience member we wish had stayed at home and which one we wish was at every show. I am longing for the change of scenery every day, the different venue and people you’d always meet. The bits of knowledge, history or just tit bits of information you’d find out from wherever you were that day. I do often reminisce about the exceptional moments — the gig in Selfoss, Iceland where driving home we pulled over to look at the sky as the Northern Lights erupted swirling green, reflecting on the snow around us. The bar in Hong Kong that towered over the city as we celebrated a run of incredible gigs. But more so, I just miss being on the road, listening to podcasts I enjoy, giving other acts a lift as we catch up with each other and swap music tips or bounce gig ideas off each other.
I’m missing having headspace to be creative. As the lockdown started, people were being urged to be creative. The internet’s unnecessary content tripled within days. I scrambled to work out what I could do that was still my job but online, recorded or in audio or writing or just something. Just something to not make my feel completely redundant. But I live in a small flat with my wife and a very noisy toddler. There are no more cafes to find a corner to hide in and get brain space together to ruminate on ideas. There’s no more getting to a gig early, hiding backstage to go through your jokes with a pen and pad and scribble ad libs that have magicked onto the page. More importantly, I am screaming inside to be creative, but I am also dying to curl up into a ball and be woken up when it’s all done and it’s safe to come out and the entire world of work that I’ve focused my life on working towards has returned.
I don’t know if it will though. I’ve seen comedians in New Zealand posting pictures of them doing live gigs again and felt such jealousy. We’ll be lucky if in the UK we get that before next Spring. The government are giving so little support to the creative industries or the people that work within them. The lack of self-employed support after August, for those who were covered by it, means that many acts, like me, who aren’t lucky enough to have heaps of inheritance or huge careers already, will likely have to change careers to survive. Venues will close. The recession will mean people can’t afford tickets to shows like they used to. Audiences may not feel comfortable sitting near each other in the same big crowds. On top of all that, there will already be 600 other acts joking about this time that we’re now in, making the same observations about the same experience we’ve all shared. Who exactly will want to hear that again and again and again? I wish I knew the answers to any of that, but for the first time ever, it’s a lot harder to handle the uncertainty and tell myself that something will come through.
Today is another fucking day where I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing anymore. I really hope that it’s not too long before I can look back and laugh about it.
