Tattoo Generalizations....

I've written about tattoos before, even had an article published on the subject of performers with tattoos but this time it's about something that really pisses me off....stereotyping people with tattoos.
People are sadly infiltrated by idiots with opinions, these idiots do their best to shout the loudest despite the offence they may cause or that they don't really know what they are talking about at all in fact.
I find women who have tattoos to be strong women with minds of their own and although we all know the looks we may receive, the comments which actually are rather offensive, the club wanker who will use them as an excuse to paw all over us we still feel that we have the right to express ourselves in whatever way we have chosen. With beautiful works that vary completely from person to person.
I'm not saying all women or people with tattoos are like this or feel that way as I do not generalise people based on how they look, the decisions they have made in their lives yet others do.

For example, this post made by someone I do not know, who also doesn't know me yet would probably throw me into the category that he has decided upon.
Tattoos and other easy way to ruin your body

In it he has labelled every woman with tattoos as an easy slut, and one who has allowed other men to mark us. My usual tattooist is the very lovely talented mother of two and a long time friend, Julie McCay of Sacred Fortune Tattoos who has worked hard and now owns her own studio in Liverpool. I've allowed her to "mark" me as I love her work, and her as a person. While in her studio her kids came in while I was laid out getting my beautiful thigh piece and they are well mannered adorable children so if anyone has made their mark upon me it has mostly been by a wonderful independent business woman who has raised two amazing children with her husband. And yes, she has tattoos too.

My mother even has a tattoo now, one I paid for at a convention which is a small heart with the words "Tom Forever", Tom being my father and they have been married for 32 years. So my mother who is well known as an advocate for the arts, a strong christian with three children is now branded a slut because of one small piece of body modification? No I think not.

There are so many examples I could use to make my point, but as so many people I know have some manner of body modification or knows many people who do they know themselves why this is absolute tripe. Generalising in any form is wrong and ignorant which anyone who was bought up in a correct manner knows, whatever you stereotype it will still just be your opinion that no one wants to hear.

The commute, an outsiders view...

The morning commute is a routine task, one us London based people do regularly even daily but as a routine for a city full of people who don’t connect, who like their personal space, and hate those who get in their way it is one of little sense.

I start with the usual cigarette to calm my nerves before boarding my train, full of dread for the inevitable. I find a perch not a chair, a perch behind a man with a rather large backpack and spend the first train ride having my right breast crushed by his lack of spacial awareness of the object he has used to extend his own body mass. I worry during this as my right boob is my favourite of the two, being only slightly bigger than the other it’s safety is of upmost importance to me.

Once at the underground I literally wrestle my way onto the smaller metal cylinder so I can be hurtled towards my destination, and try to make sure I have enough room to actually put both feet onto the floor and not spend the time balancing like a flamingo grasping an oyster card and metro.
Standing very close to me, very near to my face is a slightly shorter girl who had obviously used a very powerful mouthwash that she is breathing directly up my nostrils throughout the journey. I often make accidental eye contact with strangers but look away quickly as the mistake I made the day before of smiling led to a glaring death stare.

Occasionally the announcer takes the time to tell off a mystery commuter, with the singsongy voice of a primary school teacher to keep all items out of the way of the doors and to not lean on them, at every stop, leading to accusing looks from fellow passengers at anyone remotely near to the door.
When not glaring at the shamed near the door we glare at the people victorious in their seats, sitting smugly with a distinct lack of armpits near to their face.

Eventually I emerge, like a broken stressed phoenix into the outside world, only to see previous commuters walking by with their pathetic cardboard coffee cups like trophies to show they too survived.
And so I walk, realising that I missed the ability to move my feet and also that my sinuses have been strangely cleared by the mouthwash, maybe too clear. That was some damn strong mouthwash.

The curse of performers....

There is a curse that hangs over the head of many a performer, if they be burlesque, comedy, singer etc it is something that seems to affect alot who take to the stage.

What I’m talking about, hinting at, tip toeing around, is the curse of depression in its many forms.

I’m not writing this for sympathy, for people to look at me differently or to use in the fuel of gossip but to open people’s eyes to the fact that despite how a performer may sparkle onstage, how the comedian was so funny, the singers lyrics so meaningful there can be an element of darkness where you least expect it.

Comical genius Spike Milligan was well known to be battling with mental health throughout his life, Stephen Fry is very open about his Bi-polar, but us here in the burlesque scene have kept hush about it, although I've come across a few performers who battle the same.

Myself, I remember the creeping feeling that seemed to pull me down into a place I felt uncomfortable in my own skin, a place that made me self destructive and surrounded me with no hope from the age of twelve. It’s a thing I have battled, medicated, ignored, and unwillingly returned to for most of my life.
But we’ve all seen the promise that burlesque can boost your confidence, body image etc, but not for me. For me it has given me more self awareness, it’s helped me to thicken my skin (but as they say, I’m no rhino), it’s helped me to wise up in some easy and some not so easy life lessons.
Although performing has led me to travel the world, meeting people and making dear friends I would have otherwise ever met, it is not a cure, or a solution.

In fact has it done the opposite?  Every performer knows the feeling of rejection, felt the sting of bad reviews, been attacked by anon internet users with unthought through opinions and the belief that it needs to be shared with everyone.
The many lovely compliments i have received vastly outweigh the bad, so why are these the only ones I can recall?

It is a common belief that as performers are out there in the open they are fair game for those who decide to dislike them, that they aren't real people with real feelings and problems of their own, how very dare they plaster positive reviews about themselves on the like of twitter like a virtual fridge? But these are the comments we are proud of, a reaching out to say “good job” “we are appreciating your hard work” even if its “great tits” we appreciate it.

We've all felt the burlesque blues at one point or another, usually the day after a show when the excitement of getting ready, the camaraderie of the backstage, the adrenaline onstage is all over and done with, when you return to an empty home and unpack your belongings, the feeling of emptiness suddenly takes over, the satisfaction of the night before gone and forgotten but you push it aside, remembering there’s other shows to come and those feelings will return.
But still the darkness may loom, uncured by the temporary thrill of lights and glamour, it can strike when least expected, but know this, you are never alone.