Every now and again, I remember that I am going to Italy on Tuesday. I am rather looking forward to the warmer weather, the ice cream and the chance to see some art. I'm secretly rather excited about getting up at 2 a.m. to go to the airport with Katy Schutte. I am especially happy that someone else is paying for all my accommodation and travel. It feels like a holiday.
Then I remember that it's not a holiday. This is WORK. Terrifying, panic-inducing, WORK.
When I started impro in 2009, it was very much as a hobby. I had gone to a Hoopla show, loved it, got chatting to the performers and was told that they did workshops. I went to a workshop, loved that too, and discovered a world of yes. I have made so many wonderful friends, I get to arse around in rooms above pubs and occasionally I get to arse around on a stage. When I was invited to be a part of The Ministry, my first wee fledgling short-form group of four, I emphatically pronounced that as soon as this started feeling like work, I was off. No admin, no spreadsheets, no earnest discussions about what our USP might be. Knickers to that.
And now look at me. I have somehow ended up in the position of being paid to go and perform in a "Match d'Improvizazzione" in Italy, ergo, I am being employed to improvise. It has become work. Not only that, not just normal work, work in ITALIAN where I will hopefully be FUNNY IN ITALIAN in order to WIN.
When I am not arsing around in pubs, I am sitting at home (quite often in pyjamas) translating from French and Italian into English for my bread and butter. I can, in theory, speak Italian, so this impro lark should be fine. But there is an echo in my mind of when I was studying for my Masters in Translation, when one of my non-translator friends asked me what the French for 'toothpaste' was. I could have told him the French for 'bi-lateral trade agreement', 'non-governmental organisation' or 'improved fuel performance', but I could not for the life of me remember what 'toothpaste' was. Hence my intense worry about next week. What if there's a scene about toothpaste?
What if I dry up? What if I say an English, or even a French, word instead of Italian? What if I can't understand what my fellow improvisers are saying? (Whom, by the way, I have never met. Katy is there as a coach on the sidelines and will have an interpreter, lucky thing.) Quite simply, what if I make a total fool of myself?
I feel as though I am right back at the beginning again. It's like I've never been on stage before, or have never even done any impro before, all because it will not be in my native tongue. It feels as though it's going to be the real life version of the nightmare of being back at school, taking an exam that you haven't studied before.
People keep telling me that it's going to be fine. That I just need to relax, have a laugh and it'll happen. Which is precisely what I would tell anyone else, or indeed tell myself, to calm nerves before any other impro show. But here is the difference. This isn't any other impro show. Not only is it not above a pub, not only is the audience not going to be filled with friends, but I have been paid to do this. I owe it to my employers to do a good job. And knowing that impro is such an unquantifiable, unpredictable beast at the best of times, this feels like a type of pressure that has never been there before.
Oh yeah, and it's highly likely that it's going to be televised, to be broadcast on the Italian equivalent of BBC2.
I'll let you know how it goes.
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