Tears of a Clown...

My introduction to the world of musical theatre had been at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane in about 1984, and the production was 42nd Street. I thought it was wonderful - people tap-dancing on coins, gorgeous dresses, handsome men and wonderful songs. One of the main concepts of 42nd Street as a musical, is the show within a show. In 42nd Street, during the show within the show, the character that the male lead is playing gets shot. Well, for me, at the age of six, this was devastating, mainly because I thought they had really killed him. It took many months of therapy to get over that one. They do say that most people’s fundamental traumas occur in the first seven years of their life (source: actually, I’ve made that up, but I bet it is probably true). But really, I should have seen what 42nd Street was trying to teach me: the show within a show. There I was trying to get onstage and I didn’t realise that I was doing very well creating a totally self-induced, idiotic drama of my own.

One summer a few years ago, I was scheduled to have an audition in Bromley, South London, for a nice little opera company, who were doing a production of The Marriage of Figaro. I had been asked to prepare Susannah’s aria Deh Vieni Non Tardar. For those of you who are not familiar with this piece, it is meant to be coquettish, flirtatious and alluring. I was about to show the audition panel how I was precisely none of the above.

For some reason I decided I was going to drive to the audition. I was at the time living in South Bucks, and it was a forty minute drive around the M25. My audition was at 4.30pm. I left with plenty of time and merrily began my journey. I had done a clear and succinct route planner and printed it off from the computer (this was also pre-sat-nav – not that I have that now either) and knew that I had to come off at junction 4 of the M25.

I suppose at this stage I should hold my hands up to something, and say that my sense of direction has never been quite what you might call, accurate. I am in fact the person who once got lost in their own village, ended up walking six miles in the wrong direction and had to get my sister to come out and find me and a terrified yellow Labrador, in the car. However, I do feel I have some defence in the events that followed.

Some of you may be aware that the at junction 5 of the M25, the motorway splits and if you go left, you carry on the M25 and if you bear right you go onto the M26 down towards Dover. Well, I stand firmly by the fact that this was not clearly indicated. When I got to junction, I got very confused. I didn’t know which way I was supposed to go, and suffice to say, I chose to go on the M26, rather than correctly remaining on the M25. A slight panic hit me, but then I thought, no matter, I’ve still got loads of time; I’ll just go to the next junction and then come back. Then I saw a sign Next junction 18 miles. Bugger.

This can still be done, I decided positively. I put my foot down slightly and carried on in my Renault 5 as fast as I could: not very. I finally got to the next junction, where I then had another eighteen miles to get back. Time was ticking on. I decided it was time to phone the audition panel. Was there any chance that I could be seen a little later as I was having a few traffic problems? Unfortunately not, as I was the final audition of the day. No problem, I said. I’ll be there.

I steamed back up the M26 and got back to the M25 junction. But now, the junctions were all different and I must admit, I got confused. I decided I had better just come off at the first junction I came to and Croydon was probably pretty near Bromley, and somehow I’d find my way. This was nothing short of a dreadful idea. I now had no route planner to follow and I was incapable of reading maps. The situation was getting a little desperate, and it was at this stage that I phoned my Dad. I got on the phone and instructed him to get on the internet and find where I was. This was in the days before Broadband, so as he struggled to get his computer connected, I just carried on driving in what I thought might be the right direction.

“OK,” said Dad, “I’m on. Where are you?”

“Dean Street,” I replied.

“OK. Hang on.”

A minute of two passed.

“Right,” said Dad, “I’ve got Dean Street.”

“Well, I’m not there anymore. I’m on Parsons Road now.”

“OK. Hang on.”

“Right. You need to turn left out of Parsons Road…”

“I’m not on Parsons Road any more.”

This carried on for about ten minutes, until Dad suggested that perhaps I stopped so that he could find my positioning for definite. It was at this stage that I decided the only thing left to do was to break down in tears.

“(amidst considerable sobbing) This… is… the… biggest… audition… of… my… life… and… I’m… not… going… to… make… it,” I spluttered.

Now my Father has never been the best at seeing his daughters upset and at this stage, he felt the only thing left was if he broke down too:

“Oh God Jessie, I love you!”

“I love you too, Dad.”

Anyone would have thought I was about to meet my Maker, rather than attend an audition for a minor English opera company. The crying carried on and I decided to get back on the road and phone the company. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that they were now waiting for me, and if I was not there in the next ten minutes, they were going to go home as it was getting near the end of the day and they were getting tired.

“I’ll be there! I’ll be there!” I assured them. “Please just hang on!”

I then got back on the phone to Dad.

“(More considerable sobbing) They… say… they’re… going… to…go… home… if… I… don’t… make… it…soon.”

“Get off the road Jessica. You’re hysterical.”

It was at that stage that the magic sign reading Bromley appeared before my eyes. I suddenly had a very dim recollection of where I was (shockingly, I had actually made this journey before for some reason – even more pathetically astounding, therefore, that I could not remember any of the route to get there). I picked up where I was on my route planner, and realised somehow I was only a mile or so away. It was 4.50pm. Maybe I could still make it. My stress levels were not in a good way and I was still crying, but I could show them that I was reliable and I would make it.

I arrived at the church where it was taking place and saw the pianist, who I happened to have worked with before.

“Hi,” I said, trying to look bright and breezy, and then promptly broke down in floods of tears again. The pianist suggested that I took a few minutes. I went to the bathroom. What little make-up was left on my eyes, was half-way down my face. I looked a total mess.

Finally, just before 5pm, I went in to sing my piece. They had waited an extra half an hour to hear me, so I had better be good.

“Hi,” I said, tears streaming down my face. “Thanks so much for waiting. I’d… like…to…sing… (sob, sob) Deh… Vieni… (sniff, sob) Non… Tardar from The…Marriage… Of… Figaro.”

The music started and I began my aria. Tears streamed down my face. God knows what was coming out of my nose and my ears were blocked. Flirtatious and sexy this was not. Catastrophic and humiliating – those boxes were definitely ticked. I didn’t even get to the end of the aria, when the director said those immortal words:

“Thank you very much Jess. I think that’s all we need to hear for now.”

I bet it was.

Note to self: If you have an audition and you are feeling a bit ill, or, as in this case, you’ve pretty much lost the plot, don’t go. They’ll think you’re an idiot. They don’t want to hear excuses, and they’ll probably never want to see you again.