Goodbye Cruel World

Unfortunately, due to a series of the most unfortunate and catastrophic events smashing wildly and unexpectedly into each other- I have had to cancel the show.

The Greatest Show That Ever Died, remains dead.              

The universe has dealt some devastating blows in a whole variety of situations, and sadly this is one of them.

To be able to live as I do in London, I need to not be paying rent. I found a way to do this through house sitting. Sometimes you’re living the dream, other times it’s sofa surfing, squat life and tinder dates.

As well as my tempestuous sleeping arrangements, I have also been secretly struggling for a creative reason to live. For a while now, I have been slowly slipping into an uphill battle with a whirling pit of despair. Nothing was moving, everything was stuck. Most things felt lost.

The only real joy and sanctuary was my art studio, which was generously donated to me a few years ago by The Vaults. No matter what was going on, I could always go there and feel at some sort of reassuring peace. Secretly stored underground, It was another world, another place where nothing and no one could touch you.

In my despair I prayed to the universe for something to happen. Jesus, throw something at me god-dam.

And the universe did.
....

I was excited by an offer for a new show. It seemed to fit the bill of giving me a creative reason to live again. I saw a glimmer of light at the end of a dark dark tunnel….But as I got closer to the light, the more it looked like burning ££££ signs, and the warm glow was suddenly giving me 3^rd degree burns. I decided to put the show on independently and burst out of this creative black hole myself. 

Time to dust the jazz hands off and get them back into some dead animals.

Then I lost my art studio.

I lost my love.

I lost my beating heart.

My place of resolution and resolve. My lifeline had just be severed.

The only words that came out of my mouth were FUCK.

And for 5 hours, I had fuck tourettes. 

The task before me was insane. Heinous. My whole friggin life to be extradited. My only option was to dispose and sell as much of my soul as I could bear to part with., .

The word got out. Soon there was a daily invasion of vultures, and for 3 weeks they poked, prodded and purchased my most precious outpourings and possession. Fighting back the tears with every pound that was put in my purse, my suffering was obvious for all to see. Some people came with condolences, some came screaming and leaving in delight.

I hated them all whoever they were and regardless of how much they spent.

Strangely, the only thing I regret selling is this.

This sell off still didn’t touch the sides of my collection and the things I couldn’t part with now needed a new home…. and I needed a hero to help me get it there.

I needed a hero with guts of steel and a heart of gold.

Finally, the universe delivered something I've been searching for all my life.

Van Man Dan arrived like a knight on four wheels of armour. He rolled in with an attitude of ‘Yes to everything forever’, .  agreed with everything I said, and together, we moved a fuck ton of weird ass shit.

I have never experienced such service 

Every other van man in the history of my transport experience has given me grief. Every single one of the fuckers.  
The rule is; if you drive a van- you’re a dick. 

One refused to move me because he thought I was on drugs-crack apparently. One threatened to call the police after the freezer lid fell open bla bla the list is endless. So after gumtree consistently churning out weirdos, I decided to go pro. I wanted to make absolutely sure that the next guy would be VERY STRONG, CAPABLE and PROFESSIONAL. The bookings agent laughed and assured me I had “nothing to worry about. Ha ha ha.

The next morning two absolute douchbags from the arse crack of life crawled in. They saw the job and then declared that it was much more expensive and time consuming than previously imagined. 

I’ve been moving this stuff my entire life, if anyone knows how long that baby will take to pack, it’s me mother fucker-

So, after screaming down the phone at whoever sent them, they were left open mouthed as they watched me steam power pack a Luton Van in half a god-dam hour. 

They said they had never seen anything like it..

 No one will ever truly know the obstacles I have had to overcome and extraordinary acts of strength and static agility I have achieved through pure panic and adrenaline.

….So you can see why this Van Man experience was like nothing on earth:

 2 weeks later I was told to get myself and all the enormous amount of everything I’d just moved in, out.

Another devastating blow. This was especially especially bad because it was where I was planning to rehearse…. and also where my freezers full of beloved dead animals were being kept. Turns out no reputable storage firm takes freezers full of dead animals, even if you don’t tell them.

The company Safestorage can only be described as a prison for stuff, and once again, Van Man Dan was right by my side, transporting the pieces of my revolving cesspit of a life to prison. Now most of my stuff was safely banged up, there was still the problem of the defrosting freezers. . .

My friend was away in Disneyland and had a small (basically unused) unit under Haggerston arches…. I’d already hit it up with stuff a few weeks ago, thinking I could get it out before her return from Holiday…Which I did. …But then the frezzer problem reared it’s defrosting head and there was literally nowhere else to turn. It was only a matter of time before she found them.

Time went very quickly.

As soon as she returned, she announced she was going to start renovating the space…

The prospect of telling her and having to find a place to host my frozen tombs was the tip of this terrifying list:

No studio

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to rehearse

Nowhere to make set

Nowhere to store the frozen cast

No phone, obviously

And no Tinder to take any of the pain away.

The universe was really punching hard. Everywhere I went, everything I did, the universe would rear it’s universal head, forcing me to do the most physically and mentally challenging things at an utterly unbearable rate.

My body was bruised, my mind was bent and my heart was broken.  

Needless to say, my whirling pit of despair deepened, and trying to work creatively in this amplified state of emergency was just not happening.

Having a space to create is what keeps me sane and functioning as a human being.

It’s the equivalent of your garden shed, but in the most extreme way possible.

The ability to express myself in my own environment is what I absolutely live for, even when I have no reason to live, if I have the space to do it in, I have something.

This has broken me down, dismantled my life and forced me to reconsider how I want to be living.

Because right now really isn’t.

For the same price as my shitty stuff prison, I can have a massive frigging studio- with plug sockets.

That sounds like a life worth living to me!

London just isn't justifying itself in any way.

Apparently the universe wants me to have a whole new life. And I agree.

So I’m relocating to a place where grass is green and the hippies fly backwards.

As far as I'm concerned, Londons loss is Bristols gain.