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.

New Postcode, New Life?

It seems not everyone has heard, I still get confused messages asking if it's true or not. It has confused my friends back home, and perplexed those now local to me.
Yes, I have moved to the capital, the big smoke, South, "that there London", "London Town", all known as my new home, London.
I'm edging ever closer to 30, and in my seven years as a performer (my, how they've flown) I was forever up and down the country for various events and heard many stories of people moving to London to "make it" and wondered if I should do the same.
I led a comfortable life in Liverpool, family close by, the odd friend, my own show, and some mild fame of sorts but I longed for more excitement, more opportunity, to have little to no money, and to have something of a not so fresh start.
It has been nearly three months since I moved into "The Bearcave", and a month since I started a "proper" job to tide me over alongside shows, and I've been lucky enough to find a job that find my performing exciting and work around my shows, I've been very fortunate there.
I've even done a couple of shows and photoshoots, including a great fun shoot for Collectif Clothing (whose new collection is amazing by the way!) and hunger magazine for Rankin which was an experience in itself (ever got a coach with 20 drunk models..?!), Gogo dancing in Shoreditch House, had more show offers coming in once people realised I'm now just up the road, and met a lot of lovely new faces.
It'll take time, and I'm still settling in but so far I have no regrets for moving here.
Wanna see me in London? Show dates below, all UK and Europe dates will be on my website MillieDollar.com

Collectif Clothing