Response to offended reader

Hello Offended,

I thought it best to write as my blog seems to have incensed you.

I write from the point of view of a professional actor and singer who paid to classically train. I have been to countless proper auditions. These auditions are NOTHING like the talent shows on TV.

I watch my friends, who are wonderfully talented, be constantly usurped by less talented people who sold their stories for fame.

These programs drive me wild as they capitalise on people’s hurt. And they give young, vulnerable people false hope. Not to mention, they encourage us all to laugh at people with special needs. You are right – I should stop watching them!

However, you are incorrect in assuming I don’t have my own story I could use. In fact I have a number of sob stories I could tell – I used the money my grandmother left me to pay my way through drama school, I used to nanny for £80 a week and live on baked beans, I have lost babies – I won’t go on, it’s depressing! But I’m proud to admit, I have never used this to get work. All of the work I get, I achieve through hard work and a strong spirit – usually vodka (inappropriate joke, sorry!)

I AM truly sorry if I offended you in anyway, I hate the thought that I’ve hurt someone’s feelings. I do tend to write in quite an ascerbic, sarcastic way, and my sense of humour is harsh and sometimes dark, which is why I warn people who might be offended not to read it.

I don’t know if you are in the arts yourself – if so, I wish you lots of love and luck to help you navigate your way through this crazy world.

And if not, congratulations on being much more sensible than me.

Kelly x
Sent from my iPhone

‘The Voice’ Needs a 5th Judge

1) 16 year old contestant: Music is my life.

Me: Thats because you aren’t old enough to drink yet.

2) Contestant: I’m doing this for my dead granddad.

Me: He’s dead. He won’t care.

3) 16 year old Contestant: This is all I’ve ever wanted.

Me: Come back in 10 or more years when you know what the verb ‘to want’ actually means and then we’ll talk.

4) Will: You’re only sixTEEN?!

Me: You learned to speak at 2. If you can’t sing a little bit by now, you aren’t a singer.

5) Will: That was dope. Kylie: You’re so cute. Ricky: I can’t breathe, that was so good. Tom: I want you on my team.

Me: Is anyone going to acknowledge that the entire song was in the wrong key?

6) Contestant: I’m doing this for my little girl.

Me: Go take her to Mcdonalds and buy her some Moshi Monsters on the way home. It’ll mean more to her.

7) Contestant playing the quirky card: I’m just not really suited to that 9 to 5 thing.

Me: None of us are. It’s barbaric. But until we’re way in the future, and people have raged against the machine, you need to get yourself a job and stop living in your parents’ attic.

8) Contestant’s Parent: He’s got raw talent. He can play 4 instruments.

Me: That’s not called raw. That’s called middle class.

9) Contestant’s Parent: He’s always up in his room playing with his guitar.

Me: Trust me. It’s not his guitar he’s playing with.

10) Will: I just loved the way you bounced around the stage.

Me: Have you ever heard of Lithium?

AUDITIONS!

How to navigate your way through the minefield of auditions for various shows (as always, my tongue is firmly in my cheek).

 

The Voice: To succeed, you must riff manically between chest voice and falsetto. Look unattractive. Twang if you want Jessie, chest belt if you want Tom, sing breathily if you want Danny, say how much you love your mam if you want Will.

 

Britains Got Talent: Be bendy, have a dog, or a special need. 

 

X factor: Tell them your granddad died (they don’t seem to understand that everyone’s granddad dies eventually and will put you through to boot camp immediately).

 

Les Miserable: Sing with a slack jaw, low larynx, and slow vibrato (think: someone experimenting with clutch control on a new car).  

 

Other classical musical theatre shows: Sing from your pharynx. Think Katherine Jenkins. But with more sincerity.

 

Mamma Mia – Get a spray tan.  Smile a lot. Hide the break between your chest voice and falsetto by ‘mixing.’ Don’t sing with any vibrato and don’t riff. Practise your back bend and your pirouette (both are in the audition choreography, despite it ‘not being a dancer’s show’). 

 

Function band: you need to be able to look like a girl but talk with the boys, have the legs for a little black dress but the arms to carry a Marshall amp. You’ll need to be able to sing 30 songs a night without double tracking. Don’t even bother auditioning if you don’t like Jackie Wilson’s ‘Higher and Higher’-you’ll spend your entire working life singing it.

 

Bill Kenwright Shows: Be graceful during your audition. If you’re clumsy you’ll knock the set over (and he’ll be needing that for his next show. Whatever it is). Do a cockney accent. Play an instrument. 

 

A ‘devised’ piece: You will have to do teddy bear rolls in this audition, and then nod convincingly while the panel spout pretentious shite about ‘the process.’ If you get the job, be prepared to spend lots of rehearsal time chatting and rolling around on a dirty floor.

 

Schools Tours: Before the audition, practise catching a ball – you will spend half the audition playing ball games. You will also need to do lots of different accents and show a full, clean driving license. This audition will last HOURS so take a packed lunch. If you get this job you will spend 70 per cent of your free time in travel lodges. The other 30 per cent you’ll be in a van. 

 

Cruise ship SINGING auditions: Throw the entire contents of your make up bag at your face. Wear a Lycra dress. Sing an Andrew Lloyd Webber number for your ballad and something by Aretha for your uptempo. In the audition, EVERYone else will be ‘warming up’ by doing scales & sirening. Take TWO packed lunches to this one. And possibly a sleeping bag.

 

Cruise ship DANCE auditions: Throw the entire contents of your make up bag at your face. Wear a bra and knickers. Intimidate everyone else by sitting in the splits for 3 hours in the waiting room. Once in the audition room, push your way to the front.

 

Adverts: Take THREE packed lunches to this one. You’ll wait for hours in a room full of people who are thinner, prettier versions of you. Then you’ll say your name to camera, turn to the right, turn to the left, show them your hands and leave. You will never hear from them again.

 

Pop band: Get a spray tan, stick some hair extensions in, wear false eyelashes. If you have the legs for it, wear hot pants. If you don’t, don’t bother auditioning. Also, if you look over 22, skip this one. If you’re still determined to go, sing like Pixie Lott – think ‘Les Mis’ slow vibrato but ‘We Will Rock You’ raspiness.

 

Wicked: Tilt your larynx and sing through your nose. You may want to paint yourself green to really improve your chances.

 

We Will Rock You: Customise a T-shirt with rips and safety pins, and sing like Bonnie Tyler. 

 

Independent Film: Read the script and tell the writer ‘how layered’ you think the piece is. You’ll then get the job, but be prepared to perform a nude scene and work for free. Plus, that copy of the film they promise you for your show reel? You ain’t never getting that. Every time someone tags you in a photo on facebook from then on, you will be filled with dread that it could be that freeze frame of you on all fours.

 

Hopefully, this has put a smile on some poor,  knowing actor’s face somewhere. If I’ve missed out any audition styles you’d like me to add, let me know….

 

Thank you,

 

Kelly xxxx

 

Copyright Kelly Rickard April 2013

 

 

 

 

2012: Work in a Nutshelll

2012 in a Nutshell:
a year in the work-life of a self-employed actor/singer/teacher. 

The gig with my laidback acoustic trio where a woman started begging for ‘Dancing Queen.’
(The same woman also mistook me for an Amy Winehouse tribute – despite the fact that we only do one Amy song).

The incident in work where I had to coach 5 year old Alfie through doing a poo. Who knew some children were scared of their own faeces? ‘Its peeping out of my bum, Kelly. Help me!’

The day we performed at the Whitby Dracula Festival. We turned up at a giant Pavillion with an audience of goths expecting something gory and sexy and we gave them our terribly quaint and prissy 1930’s radio show. 

The excitement of being offered a main part in a new play about the Titanic.

The shame when I found out that part was actually ‘The Iceberg.’

The mortification on the first day of rehearsal when I realised I’d read the character list wrong and I wasn’t even playing ‘The Iceberg.’ Just a chimney sweep, a lift steward and a little girl ghost.

The last gig before our wedding where I sang to Nick, much to his horror. (And everyone else’s probably, but it had to he done).

The numerous gigs where I sang with no voice due to serious vocal strain earlier in the year. I sounded like Bonnie Tyler. But with worse pitching.

My brief dalliance with a vocal harmony girl group which coincided with the vocal strain. Singing live on air with no voice is no fun. Cue lots of crying and stressy hair-falling-out moments.

Writing lyrics for the radio in my 20 minute lunch break. Changing ‘we found love in a hopeless place’ to ‘she squeezed you out of a tiny place’ was probably my proudest moment. (It was a song for Mother’s Day…).
The wedding where the groom was clearly off his face on coke. (Not the sugary kind).

The gig in a country pub where they put us directly in front of the toilet. I had to keep moving my mic stand to let people pass and my eyes were stinging from the smell of pee.

At the same gig a 15 year old girl gave me a cartoon sketch she had drawn of me.

The various days where I had no idea how I was going to get through it all, and the one day where I didn’t. I was supposed to be singing live on the radio at 8.00am, driving to a village school 80 miles away by 9.00 am to deliver 4 hours of voice workshops (with no voice) to 40 teenagers, followed by a 90 minute drama workshop at the theatre back in town, and then a 3 set gig due to end at 1.30am. Not particularly different to any other Friday but this day a panic attack ensued. Cue me sitting cross-legged on the floor of a school car park with mascara and snot streaming down my face, breathing into a paper bag and having my back rubbed by a kindly unknown teacher.

Performing alongside some of the North East’s best musicians in ‘Sunday for Sammy’ at the City Hall.
Being hit by a hammer in the face during a performance of ‘Frankenstein’ at the Theatre Royal.

Getting a spontaneous round of applause for my orgasmic death screams in ‘Dracula’ at Alnwick Playhouse.

The excitement of playing our very first wedding fayre.

The disappointment when no one showed up.

Standing on a freezing cold film set for six hours in a school uniform for a Britains Got Talent advert (Didn’t quite live up to the promise that we were to be their house band).

A lovely one week run of ‘Losing Lottie.’

The not so lovely day during the run where they had to have a bucket at the side of the stage for me because I’d been throwing up all morning.

Singing to our lovely friends Abi and Damon during their wedding ceremony.

The impromptu gig in a tiny bar in Santorini with Nick on guitar and a French man on the bongos. 

The garden party where we didn’t get to play our second set. The police had been called due to volume levels. 

The gig where they called us ‘Kelly and the Machine.’

The gig where they called us ‘Kelly and the Banshees.’

The gig where they called us ‘Rosie and the Sensations.’

The trio gig where Nick’s guitar didn’t work.

The trio gig where we sang to a gang of Squaddies, they filmed us as a ‘favour’ but the resulting video had obscenities about what they’d like to do to me underscoring it.

The gig where a woman tried it on with Nick. And then me.

The gig where two women wouldn’t let me use the toilet cubicle unless I proved to them that I was the singer. By singing ‘Rockin’ Robin.’

Managing to get lots of little 5 year olds into their pig onesies ready for the Sage Summer Show.

Managing to get them all to the side of the stage on time with no toilet accidents and no crying.

Not managing to actually get them ON stage however.
The day I almost accidentally exposed The Santa Myth to a Year 9 student.

The New Years Eve countdown where I gave Nick only 10 seconds to take his guitar off, run across the stage, set up Auld Lang’s what’s it on the laptop, switch us off and switch that on. A room full of drunk people with arms linked and expectant faces is rather intimidating. To fill the awkward tumble weedy silence I found myself saying things like, ‘um…right, ok…make sure your circle is nice and neat. Are you stood next to who you want to be stood next to?’ Luckily, no one took this as a cue to wife swap.

Surviving the industry: what drama school won’t teach you

1. Unless you reign yourself in you will finish your first tour with an extra stone in weight and liver damage.

2. Be careful what you say. It is likely that you are talking to the director’s son/the MD’s wife/the MD himself.

3. Don’t be ‘the funny one’ at auditions. The funny one is liked, the funny one gets remembered, the funny one does not get hired.

4. Do not become too involved in cast gossip.

5. Do not be so uninvolved in cast gossip that you appear to have a borderline personality disorder.

6. The casting couch definitely exists. Lie on it and it is quite possible that you will find your way in to the industry. But stay off it if you actually want to REMAIN in the industry.

7. Even Yoko and John couldn’t have survived if one of them had done a year long tour. Don’t kid yourselves. Break it off or don’t go.

8. 90 per cent of the men you will work with on tour will be up for, or indeed will be actively seeking, an affair. Even the ‘nice’ ‘sensitive’ ones who talk about their girlfriends a great deal. In fact, especially those ones. They are probably grooming you.

9. Don’t trust men who call you babe or hun.

10. Imagine the industry as a giant game of Chinese whispers. Kiss someone and within minutes your director who is 700 miles away will be hearing that you’ve had a drug fuelled orgy with the entire cast.

11. Be the girl with extra hair grips. She who holds the hairspray holds the power in the dressing room.

12. Be wary of casts who don’t have that one person to pick on. It is likely that you are that one person and that they are doing it behind your back.

13. Always have spare show tights.

14. The girls in the dressing room will look at you like you’re clinically insane if you admit to wearing anything other than capezio tights but M and S ones actually last longer.

15. A man with an opinion will go far. A woman with an opinion may never work again. Keep your thoughts to yourself.

16. If you are under 40 and under 5ft4 be prepared to spend the next however many years playing elves and pixies.

17. There is only one thing scarier than walking into an audition room – and that’s walking out, Nerves can do weird things to you, dont be surprised if you try and walk out backwards or end up curtseying.

18. A signed contract does not mean that you have the job. You can only know for sure that you have the job when you are actually on the job. And even then it can be taken from you.

19. If you are in the right industry then every failed audition and shitty part time job will feel completely worth it when you’re standing in the wings waiting to go on stage. If you aren’t cut out for it then you will give up after the first knock back, run home to your parents and bitch about every person you know that manages to hack it when you couldn’t.

20. If you get work, don’t moan. You are not on the front line, you are not a surgeon, you are a very lucky person who gets paid to pretend. Smile like you mean it.

Copyright Kelly Roberts.

Gig Blog, Installment no. 3

Installment no. 3

Gig: As You Like It. June 11th 2011.

THE EX FACTOR

As Nick and I both work Saturdays the time between work and the Saturday night gig is always a mad blur. One of us (Nick) will cook while the other one (me) jumps in the shower (I don’t literally jump up and down in there, you know what I mean…). After some frenzied eating, there’s lots of frantic running around in towels and shouts of, ‘Have you seen my..?’ and, ‘Where did you put the…?’. Picture a Les Dawson style farce – without any comedy – and you get the picture. Apparently, couples who have been together a while move with a certain similar rhythm. Well, our Saturday night rhythm would be something very fast and very staccato with lots of tense pauses.

We arrive at tonight’s venue, As You Like It, and it’s packed as usual. It’s a very pretty, somewhat glamorous venue, decked out in shabby chic style. It has a reputation for having good bands on during the weekend and on a Saturday night you can expect a few hundred people in here. We’ve been playing at AYLI for over a year now and even though they are a notoriously tough crowd we’re lucky enough to be received well. (incidentally, this venue is the reason why the burlesque style clothing I wear for gigs came about. The clientele are all middle class (no such thing: working class pretending to be middle class) and the women are all of marrying age so there is a desperately competitive WAG vibe. It reminds me of being back at university where the skinny boarding school-educated girls who’d been clawing their dorm walls until that point would saunter around the student union vying for the attention of The Rugby Boys. I got by by throwing myself into the role of ‘The Quirky Welsh One.’ The first time we had to do a gig here the thought of having to actually get up and entertain those people was so abhorrent to me that I came up with a character – a character who can handle herself, a character who sings at an old school, shabby chic, burlesque venue. Hence, me going to a scary Goth shop in town, buying the only dress that didn’t have skulls on it and putting a massive 50s petticoat underneath it. The dress was born!)

Tonight the game is set: the men and women stand in packs pretending not to eye each other up. There is even a dress code it would seem – big hair and little dresses (for the women, not the men). There are two hen parties near the stage. This is usually a really good sign as our set tends to appeal to that demographic ( ‘demographic’: I’ve been watching The Apprentice…). However, tonight the hen parties look like those scary, sober hen parties. There’s not a sparkly tiara, pink feather boa or willy in sight (it strikes me that at least one of the Bridezillas might be pregnant. Perhaps she’s banned all alcohol and, consequently, all fun from ‘her’ night.)

I stand on the little stage to set up my music stand and hand out set lists to the band. As I look out across the two floors of a few hundred people (women hoping to look beautiful, and men trying to look rich), it strikes me, not for the first time, that all performers are adrenalin junkies. Why else would anyone put themselves through feeling this nervous? This is the moment when I usually seek out the most difficult looking ‘customer’ and flash them my ‘see I’m harmless and nice, please love me’ smile. I spot her immediately. She’s sat on the table directly in front of the stage (great!). She’s big, very big, and bottle blond, with her arms folded underneath her sizeable breasts and is glaring at me as if I’ve stolen her first love. I haven’t. Well, as far as I know I haven’t. You can never be too sure though as Nick made some bad decisions when he was younger…I flash her The Smile and it fails. Spectacularly. She folds her arms a bit tighter around herself and arches her left eyebrow even more. Oh dear.

The first set (of 3) goes well, with everyone apart from the two lame hen parties out of their seats and cheering. A group of middle-aged men stand as close to the stage as possible. One of them is videoing me throughout – always a little bit disturbing…Fat Blonde Woman sits statue-still through the whole set, her two hen friends dancing around her, apparently oblivious to her misery. The other hen party have started to migrate toward Nick’s side of the stage. I could set my watch by this happening about this time every time we gig here. The last time we played here a married woman refused to leave until Nick had spoken to her at the end of the night. I smiled (only just) and suggested she went home and gave her husband a cwtch (that’s a cuddle, not an STD).

By the end of the first set I’m soaked in sweat (nice!): my eye make up is on my cheeks and my lipstick is on my chin giving the impression from a distance they I have a receding hair line. I’m grateful for the break between sets where I can hopefully encourage my make up to defy science and stay on my face for the next set.

But no, the man whose been videoing me grabs my arm and gives me the usual nonsense about how I ‘cant possibly be 30.’ This irritates me when men do this: 1) it’s a really lazy chat up line and 2) what’s wrong with 30? While he’s telling me how much he’d love it if I sang some Boney M his friend is standing behind him miming a big snog and mouthing, ‘he loves you’ at me. Meanwhile, a couple approach to see if we could play at their wedding. I’m trying to concentrate on what their asking me but there’s some commotion going on behind me. I turn around to see that Lame Hen Party No.2 (NOT Fatty and her friends) have mounted the stage. One of them is pretending to sing at my mic, another one is sitting behind Mike’s drums and the third is plonking away on Ashleigh’s keyboard like Gremlins that have been accidentally fed after midnight. I HATE it when people do this! I wouldn’t turn up at their office and spin around in their leather chair and pretend to type on their PC (well I might but not right in front of them I wouldn’t). I resist the urge to say, ‘Hello. You f@@kers have woken up then,’ and instead I ask them politely to step down. They completely ignore me. Nick asks and they move immediately. Cue lots of girly giggling aimed in Nick’s direction.

Set two is my favourite set, it has all our best songs, everyone is nicely merry (absolutely hammered) and there’s a great ‘Saturday Night’ atmosphere. I’m happy with all the songs – apart from the fact that Nick is STILL joining in with the girly backing vocals in ‘Its in his kiss’. It just isn’t right to look over and see him aSking, ‘is it in his eyes?’.

A couple of young boys (well, their in their early 20s!) who I recognise from other gigs are standing very close to the stage, singing loudly and dancing (badly). So Private- School -educated -Chino -wearing students are not the type of Groupie most bands have but still…

In the break between sets two and three I can’t find Nick anywhere. Actually, this is a bit of an exaggeration (exaggerate? Who, me?!). He’s standing about 3 metres away from me but because the place is so busy it takes me a while to spot him. When I do, I see he’s talking to someone. A female someone. There’s the usual heart leaping into my mouth panic that THIS will be the moment when be walks off into the sunset with someone else. Someone who can cook. I take a deep breath, put a huge smile on my face and approach them. As she turns I realise I’ve seen her before. It’s an ex – girlfriend (of his, not mine). His FIRST girlfriend. Bloody brilliant! If they’re not coming on holiday with us they’re turning up at gigs! I slip into my usual routine of inappropriate jokes to show how ‘comfortable’ I am with the situation, I make a fuss over her ‘lovely’ (it’s mumsy) dress and ask her if she’s having a good night. It transpires that she’s with Lame Hen Party No. 2 so I doubt it…after 5 minutes of enduring mild mental torture I surprise myself by being grown up enough to walk away and leave them to it. I am able to do this because of 3 reasons. 1) She is Ginger (she would probably call it strawberry blonde but she knows the truth). 2) she is a little teeny tiny bit round. 3) she is wearing a wedding ring. Still, this is Nick we’re talking about: wedding rings and knickers alike seem to magically slip off in his presence so I keep them in my peripheral vision all the same.

Set three is brilliant! Lame Hen Party no. 2 have left and been replaced by people who are really ready to have a good time. Unfortunately, Fat Blonde Woman is still sat, arms folded, glaring at me. It’s been two and a half hours and IVe had just about as much as I can take of her miserable face. I’m not quite brave enough to look directly at her so I aim the comment in her general direction: ‘Oh dear! It would seem as though it’s past bed time for some of you.’ She leaves very soon after…

It’s now 1am and the good thing about performing to really drunk people is that they are very much like children: if you speak to them in a commanding tone, they listen! ‘We’d like everyone that’s left in the building to make their way down to the stage.’ And, sure enough, they come. ‘Raise your hands in the air!’ They do. ‘Clap your hands!’ And they clap! I feel like we playing ‘Simon Says’ and I’m Simon.

The Chino Wearers are still enthusiastically bouncing around at the side of the stage. One of them is screaming, ‘Marry me!’ all the way through ‘Do you love me?’. My mother is always telling me horror stories of friends of hers who went through the menopause in their early 30s so I briefly contemplate saying yes, but decide against it.

The middle class masks have slipped off as surely as my make up and by the end of the set people are on tables and one rather large man is trying to swing on the trapeze (yes, there’s a trapeze swing there) until the bouncers come to pull him down.

Nick is not normally very demonstrative during gigs but he is suspiciously affectionate tonight. Perhaps the proposal has him worried…

By the time we get home and into bed the sun is coming up. It’s Sunday and in a few hours we will be doing it all over again at a Social club in Byker, so help us God.

Congrats! You got to the end!!! Love, Kelly xxx

Copyright Kelly Roberts June 16th 2011

Kats Gig Blog, Instalment No. 2

Gig: Friday 10th June 2011

The Station Pub in Killingworth

Experimented with a diffuser on my hair and remembered why I stopped using one in the early 90s: my hair is huge! Nick tries to appease my panic with, ‘Its class man pet (two terms of endearment which admittedly are rather ill-fitting together). Very Motown!’ I know exactly what he means – that phase Diana Ross went through when she sang ‘Chain Reaction’ and her hair was so big she had to walk sideways to get though doors…

The pub is busy, loud and full with a dis-proportionate amount of men ( I’m inwardly very glad I didn’t wear the tutu tonight). While the band are setting up I busy myself with crucially important decisions about the setlist, such as should ‘Do you love me?’ go before or after ‘9 to 5’… After a few minutes of deliberation the feeling that I get at least once at every gig starts seeping in: the utter conviction that I will NOT be able to do this tonight (hot feeling starts in the stomach, spreads up to chest and across face is accompanied by very itchy palms and the desire to run). I go to the toilet and apply even more make up to calm my nerves, it strikes me that this is the reason why I end up looking like a drag queen by the time we go on stage. Still, we’re getting a lovely gay following so every cloud…

Public toilets in Newcastle are much like the ones in Wales whereby the social etiquette is to chat to unknown women while standing at the sinks. Tonight is no different. Geordie Woman to me: ‘We’ve all come here after a funeral.’ Me (typical but inadequate response) : ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Geordie Woman: ‘Don’t be, pet! None of us are!’ Thats the thing about performing in front of Geordies: they can be brutally honest.

As always, as soon as I start singing, the red hot itchy feeling goes away. There is the customary ‘winning them over time’ at the beginning of the first set. This usually lasts two songs and involves lots of folded arms, who-the-f@@k-does-she-think-she-is faces and the odd mutter (from them, not me). It’s like singing to a room full of Simon Cowells. Slowly but surely half way through ‘Never Forget You’ arms start to unfold, nods of appreciation are exchanged and two women at the back are up and dancing. Please note: if you are the sort of person whose the first up to dance you make my life worth living, thank you!

The first set goes by without a hitch, apart from when we try out ‘Its in his kiss’ for the first time – amidst some confusion the backing vocals get missed out and I start singing them so that I end up asking myself, ‘Is it in his face?’ and also answering myself ‘oh no, that’s just his charm’ – slightly reminiscent of a schizophrenic patient.

After the first set (I’m never sure what to call this time by the way: ‘the interval’ is too theatrical, ‘half-time’ sounds like a football match and ‘break time’ reminds me of school) a nice man asks about booking us for a big Soul event at Christmas, which is nice, he says he heard of us months ago and has been trying to see us since, which is also nice, he has his own radio show on Magic FM and promises to mention us, again this is nice. His friend later calls me aside and tells me not to listen to him as he’s a compulsive liar. Not so nice. I’m going to sound so horrible and ungrateful now but people always want to talk to you in the Interval- Half-time- Break – thingy and I find it completely over-whelming so I go to the toilet to escape…only to be greeted by the two lovely women who were first up to dance. It seems they are a little tipsy. Dancing Geordie Woman to me: ‘Ah WOW! It’s YOU! We LOVE you! You’ve got the most GORGEOUS voice! How old are you?’. The manner in which she bends down to talk to me as though I were a small child suggests she is going to be shocked by the answer. ’30,’ I say. Her: ‘No WAY! you can’t be! You can’t be 32! I’M only 30!’ Me: ‘No, no, I’m only 30 – too!’ Her: ‘YESS! that’s what I said! 32! I can’t believe it!’ Aaarggh!

On the way back to do Set Two a man stops me to say how impressed he is, that his friend runs a live music venue and that he thinks we would go down really well there. He finishes by saying he doesn’t know how the boys in the band can concentrate playing behind me as he would ‘find it far too upsetting.’ I think this is meant as a compliment. Well, I hope it is. It is isn’t it?…

The second set starts brilliantly with most people out of their seats, singing along, dancing and clapping. ‘Twist and Shout’ through ‘Shake a Tailfeather’ to ‘My Girl’ is a high point until, following Mike the Drummer’s advice, I try to explain that even though I sing ‘My Girl’ I’m not actually a lesbian…I start saying how it must be lovely though to be able to swop clothes and make -up with your partner… I’m digging a hole for myself and it doesn’t go down too well (neither pun intended). After the second chorus in ‘Sex on Fire’ I notice a woman drinking my red wine! She notices me noticing, I’m completely distracted and forget to come in with my third and favourite verse – the sexy one about being ‘hot as a fever’ and being able to ‘taste it’! Nick is singing the lyrics to me loudly as if no one can see what he’s doing and I’ll be able to just subtly slip back in with the end of the verse without anyone noticing the slip-up! He knows I hate it when he tries to ‘help’ me during gigs, I give him The Look and he goes back to concentrating on his guitar until the end of the song.

After the gig Nick drives to Mcdonalds and we sit in the car park eating our chips, burgers and fantas like teenagers on an after-dark joyride. We decide to google the so-called compulsive liar and come across pictures of him with Rod Stewart, Rose Royce and various other famous singers. Nick nearly wets himself when we come across one of the man with Paul Carrack. So he wasn’t a liar after all?

Later I think I hear Nick talking in his sleep: something about ‘Of course Mr. Carrack. Kelly and the Sensations would love to support your reunion tour with ‘Mike and the Mechanics…’

Thanks for reading!

Love, Kelly xxx