Troll Hunting
Trigger warning to comedians and performers: I talk about Edinburgh Festival Fringe. I’m sorry, I don’t want to give you flashbacks.
Back in March, 2015 I was in the draft stages of my second solo comedy hour, Diary of a Dating Addict, (don’t look for other reviews, some slated me, some didn’t; reviewers at the Fringe are 80% disgruntled ex-comics, it really doesn’t matter). I’d grafted and secured a brand partnership deal to cover the entire cost of putting on the show for a month at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. I was pretty elated.
This meant that for the first time in my career I could afford a top PR. My PR was ruthless - the best are. That evening I had a preview show. For those who have done the Fringe before you’ll know that your ‘show’ in March holds very little semblance to the finished piece, it’s mainly you shouting on stage to an audience of a few people that got lost.
It was around 4pm, soon to be Golden Hour. I was feeling anxious as I ducked off a bustling Dean Street, Soho to find a quiet nook to go over my notes for that evening. My phone rang - it was my PR. The conversation went something like this:
PR: ‘Hi Maddy, I’ve got you an interview in The Guardian. They want to speak to a stand-up.’
Me: ‘Oh… Why do they want to speak to me then?’
PR: ‘It’s for the Careers section, about getting into the Arts, or something. What’s a good time for them to call?’
Me: ‘Oh. No I can’t do that. I’m- I’m not a stand-up.’
PR: ‘Well, comedian, whatever. Listen I’m headed to a meeting, what time can they call?’
Me: ‘No. I’m not a comedian. I’m not the person to speak to.’
I was sort of right. You see, I wasn’t a stand-up, not in the way you think of a stand-up. I didn’t tirelessly travel the country gigging, I hadn’t worked, re-worked and re-re-worked a five or ten minute spot, I wasn’t ‘on the circuit’. None of that. I didn’t tick those boxes. I’d trained as an actress and written a couple of hour comedy shows then taken them to the Fringe for a month. I previewed and gigged, but material that would later become an hour. I though that’s what you were ‘supposed’ to do.
My PR continued:
PR: ‘Maddy. You’re a comedian, you’re doing a comedy show. I’m your PR, I get you press. I’ll have them call you tomorrow at 3.’
And she hung up.
That’s how I got my first little write-up in a national. The journalist was kind and extracted what she needed to hear from my ‘apologising for my being there’ attitude. I told her there were ‘actual’ stand-ups she could have spoken to. I explained I was an actress doing comedy. A character comedian. I was working on my second comedy hour. But I wasn’t a comedian. She didn’t understand the difference. I don’t think I did, either.
I was scared to call myself a comedian because the world of comedy seemed cliquey and I wasn’t sure I was welcome to join. At Edinburgh Fringe it’s different. A comedian doesn’t always have to be a stand-up on stage with no set, telling jokes into a mic. There’s a great and varied dichotomy to comedy, not to over-trivialise it, but it’s true. ‘So maybe it’s ok I did that piece’, I reassured myself as I walked to my fifth job as a nanny the next day.
When the article came out I felt an unfamiliar wave of, what I later determined, was pride wash over me. I’d worked hard and it was ok for me to feel pleased with myself. I shared the article with my friends and family. That evening I had another preview show and I felt buoyed up and ready. I was on the 133 bus from Streatham to Brixton, costume in-bag, notebook in-lap, I pulled the article up to look at it again on my phone. Then I did something they tell you never to do.
I scrolled to the comments.
‘It’s The Guardian’, I thought. I’m sure it’'ll be lots of middle-class, lovely liberals patting me on the head. NOPE.
To save you the time, here’s a screenshot of a sprinkling of some of those comments:
Oh. No. No, no, no.
I just want to side-note here as I mention how funny the middle comment is. Can you imagine going to a job interview to be a bank clerk and the CEO peers down his nose at you:
“Well David, I can see you’ve some experience in the field but unfortunately we only have 11 mutual contacts on Facebook so I’m unable to give you the role.”
ANYWAY. I was devastated. ‘They were right’, I thought to myself. I wasn’t a comedian. I was ‘just an actress’. That night I bombed on stage. I didn’t want to do my show anymore. I felt exposed, embarrassed and humiliated. I even saw some comics sharing it, poking fun.
I couldn’t seem to swallow the noxious combination of self-pity and shame. Imposter Syndrome is a bitch. A few days later, I met up with a good friend of mine, the outstanding comedian and inspiration, Wendy Wason. I told her all about it. I remember looking at her as I glumly recounted the tale, her head was cocked to the side and a smile crept onto her lips. When I’d finished she said some words that would stick with me for many, many years to come:
“Maddy”, she said in her chocolatey Scottish accent, “we’re all fucking winging it. No one has a clue what they’re doing. No one. You are whatever you say you are.”
And she was right. No one has a clue what they’re doing. We are all fucking winging it. At that time, I was on my second solo hour, I’d hustled my way into an impenetrable industry, I’d put on shows, self-produced, secured funding, written scripts, performed, trained. If I wanted to call myself a comedian, that was up to me. I didn’t need to prove myself to anyone.
Those commenters, I guess were my first trolls. Aside from the playground bully that put my hand in a wasp nest at primary school, but I’ll save that story for another time. Now I’m faster to reach for the ‘block’ or ‘mute’ button than your ex is to scratch his balls. I’m quick to dissect constructive criticism from plain trolling. When in doubt, knock them out. By ‘knock them out’ I mean block them, I’m not condoning violence. 2m rule, anyway.
You can call yourself whatever you want. Multi-hyphenate the living shit out of yourself. Don’t worry about fitting into a box because it’s likely you were the joiner that created the damn box in the first place. People will always have something to say, so let them. Give up trying to please everyone, it’s the most thankless task going.
But, for Christ sakes, make sure you’ve got enough mutual friends on Facebook before you start. Otherwise there’s just no point.
P.s Here’s a great chat with Laura Whitmore talking about Imposter Syndrome and all sorts of other inspiring things on Blank Pod with Giles Paley-Phillips and Jim Daly.
P.P.s. Last week’s newsletter: ‘Why Don’t You Just Leave Him?’ warranted some emails from people saying they thought it was simple to leave, even that it was cowardly to stay, in a toxic relationship. Firstly, I’m glad this is starting a conversation - that’s what it’s supposed to do, secondly, I’d like to remind people that I speak as someone with a wealth of in-person experience on the matter of toxic relationships and trust me, it’s never as simple as ‘just leaving’. The only coward in this situation is the perpetrator. As an outsider, the damage being done by staying may be painfully apparent, but it’s a very different story when you’re inside it. That doesn’t negate the fact that, of course you should leave, but there are so, so, SO many reasons why you cannot ‘just leave’; including that your self-esteem has been battered, financially you may be trapped, it could be dangerous etc. etc. etc.
Watch your victim blaming, sweetie there ain’t no room for it here.
I welcome email comments on these newsletters, it’s healthy to talk about these issues and I’m ready and willing to do so. Just don’t send me a passive aggressive email and not be open to discuss it further. Peace out.
