Bye 2019
Due to absolutely zero request (and being stuck in a backstage dressing room at a regional entertainment centre deep in the West Country with no internet), I’ve written an end-of-2019 blog. Here it is, right here, on my lovely website which has equally received zero demand re. its existence. Sorry for starting off on a bleak and self-deprecating note but I just died onstage to the good residents of Yeovil and my confidence is irreparably shattered into sad little smithereens. Not really. They were quite a nice crowd, just a little confused at my references to Shazam and cunnilingus. I don’t think either exist here just yet.
It’s a classic move to feel reflective towards the end of the year, thinking back on what you’ve achieved/if you’ve achieved, ups and downs, wins and losses. Don’t forget to put it all in a sentimental, multi-paragraphed social media post so I can scroll past and judge your measure of success while I’m having my morning piss. Truthfully I am the kind of person who longs to join the sheeple and take part in these such pithy posts but my self-esteem is too fragile now that Instagram has reintroduced being able to see the number of ‘likes’. So instead I’ll flick through like a little bitch, wishing I had all of your bank balances, metabolisms and under eye skin.
I’m getting a bit too obsessed with under eye skin. I went home to Australia for work recently and upon catching up with some of my school friends, noticed that they all had noticeably more fine lines around their eyes than I do. For a moment I felt smug- if my last ten years living in the United Kingdom has given me nothing else, it’s given me untarnished skin due to lack of sun exposure. My smugness dissolved quickly once I realised that their mild (and beautiful) crows’ feet just meant that they’ve actually had more joy in their lives than I have. It’s a contradictory way of thinking to admire certain physical characteristics in others that you abhor in yourself. Weight, wrinkles, wear and tear. Once I worked with a girl who, after a series of bad sexual and relationship choices, had a picture of a shark tattooed on her vagina. She said she needed it as a reminder of those bad choices. I think about that a lot. It was a cartoon shark wearing a propeller hat.
I’m chugging into 2020 with my usual mix of apprehension and hope. There is a lot to look forward to and I am an incredibly lucky individual. If there was a final feeling I was left with once the miserable dust settled after the incredibly disappointing result of the UK general election, it was that I am wonderfully fortunate. Especially in comparison to the millions for whom the Tory reign means the truest of tragedy. I haven’t yet emerged feeling defiant and ready to fight but hopefully that punk, damn-the-man feeling is in the post. Meanwhile my beloved home country of Australia is literally burning while the government is denying the climate emergency and instead trying to pass a religious discrimination bill which will dramatically affect our public rights. Basically, it’s all fucked isn’t it? BUT I’ve switched from cling film to beeswax paper so I can sleep at night in the knowledge that I am now a true eco-warrior and will definitely be getting into heaven.
For anyone who happens to give a Dennis about my comedy, I have some exciting things coming up next year. I am appearing on the BBC World Service New Year International Comedy special, filming my ‘Handful’ show for Next Up Comedy, re-joining the wonderful Ardal O’Hanlon for a third time on the final leg of his UK tour and against my better judgement and internal screaming, returning to Edinburgh with a brand-new show. I am also getting married which is WILD. Fuck it, the world’s burning, let’s do it. Whatever ‘it’ is for you, I hope you do it too. I am wishing you a happy and hope-filled New Year from the bowels of South Somerset.
Peace, love and fuck the Tories,
Brodi xx