The Art of The Flop

“BRIDGET” 06/13/2026

“I am confident. I am worthy. I am powerful.”

The words echoed through my headphones as women dressed in athleisure wear, silently laughed in slow motion on my phone screen. The yogic manifestation video had been sent to me by a friend the morning previous, followed by the words “You got this”.

It wasn’t helping.

Nor was the Superman-esque power stance I’d been advised to stand in; or the many pump-up tracks feat. Lil Jon I’d felt compelled to listen to; or even reminding myself how in such a heavily content saturated society, surely nobody would remember my work if it failed horrendously! Overwhelmed by nerves, and wishing I were in bed mindlessly absorbing an episode of “Love Island” instead, I found myself in a green room 30 minutes before debuting my one-night-only, one-woman-show. It would be my first time on stage in three years, my first play in nine, my first time doing an hour long solo act EVER—but I “got this”!

I’d been up since 6am, having awoken suddenly from a mildly confusing sex dream featuring Diane Keaton, which I’d decided to interpret as a positive omen from a fellow showbiz icon from above. I’d completed my morning yoga practice, consumed a hearty breakfast, and arrived at the theatre 10 hours ahead of showtime—everything was going perfectly. The first run through of the day was the best ever! As those around had been reassuring me, I knew my lines; I’d written them, lived many of them, and had been reviewing them non-stop for weeks. With every succeeding run however...I began to doubt myself more, grasping for words I’d spoken effortlessly not an hour before. The newly set lighting cues felt increasingly like a sheen of interrogation, on the face of a woman who had just done something very naughty. Imagining figures in the seats in front of me, or lack thereof, were both horrifying thoughts for completely different reasons, and I wasn’t yet sure which scenario unsettled me more.

After years of being encouraged to submit to my city’s Fringe festival by loved ones, this past fall I’d actually gone and done it! And been rejected, sure—but for the record their selection system is entirely lottery based, and has nothing to do with merit, so chill out! By the time their chosen artists were announced I’d already begun writing a script, and thought I might actually have something here...What if I just produced it myself?

Bridget was a character I’d been doing for years, evolved from Harry Potter impressions I’d do to make my friends laugh, deeply internalized Britpop albums my parents had played often while I was growing up, and my longstanding commitment to the fact that Cockney was the sexiest accent around. Bridget was adored by everyone who met her (she made her appearances often), and I frequently felt more comfortable in her signature leopard print spandex and thrift shop hair extensions than as myself. When brainstorming for Fringe, I wasn’t yet sure what I would write my show about, but the choice for protagonist seemed obvious.

When booking the theatre space, I remember guffawing at the total capacity—“It’ll never be enough!” And then the tickets started flying off the shelves slightlyyyy slower than we’d hoped...but everyone knows most leave these things until the last minute anyways! 24 hours before lights up, our sales were still low, and I began receiving messages from people I’d counted on attending communicating that they too wouldn’t be making it.

“I got called into work!”

“I have appendicitis!”

“There was a death in the family!”

People just didn’t care about live performance like they used to! I was facing the harsh reality that I could be performing to an empty room—or correction: I could be talking about things going up my bum to solely my squeamish father, and best friend’s 95-year-old grandma.

In the process of building a backstory for a character whose personality could have previously been summed up by “Souf London/Lip Liner”, I’d infused aspects of my own personal lore, and now the stakes felt immeasurably higher. My spirit was innately linked with a persona I’d formerly used as an escape from reality, and there was no abandoning myself at the door; if one of us went down, we were both sinking!

It occurred to me then how it might be an artist’s right to flop. Stories of unfilled rooms, and fumbled lines, were the ones you told while holding golden statues, were they not? Failure was a time honoured pit stop on one’s own journey to greatness! If for no other reason I should walk on that stage, shaking in my false eyelashes, for the plot alone!

Standing in the wings, minutes from my entry, I heard the chatter of what sounded like far more than two attendees...this was bad. While preparing myself for failure, I’d lost complete perspective of what success might be like, and hadn’t rehearsed for this version of events. How did that YouTube mantra go again? “I’m sexy? I’m hot?? I’m cute???” My curated “British Diva Pre-Show” playlist was coming to an end, Adele belted her final note, and I stumbled onto stage, met by applause that felt far too dramatic—even for me.

I was going through the motions, rigidly. When I began speaking the memorized script, an entirely different dialogue flooded my mind simultaneously.

”Oh god, oh god, oh god. There’s like actually a lot of people here. Don’t look at them, just stare at the back wall. I looked. Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn’t even about you, you’re in character, remember? You know Jenny Slate has really bad stage fright, I listened to this interview where she spoke about doing hypnosis for it...or was it EDMR? Shock therapy? God these jeggings give me really bad camel toe, do you think people are looking??”

Then it got really quiet. One of the voices had stopped, and it wasn’t the internal antagonist only I could hear. Just five minutes in and I had already blanked. Suddenly the voice in my head started doing double time.

”OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING! IT’S ACTUALLY HAPPENING! We’re gonna need to give these people their money back! SHUT IT DOWN!!!”

I could see the faces of those in the front row smiling expectantly up at me, could almost hear their internal voices asking “Is this part of the show?...”

“Aha...sorray, I fink I’ve misplaced my lip liner!”

Hoping to give myself a moment to think I strode over to the sole prop on stage, a chicken shaped handbag, and began digging around for my Rimmel lip liner—the only thing in there, so it didn’t take long to find. As if my body wasn’t already tense, now it was entirely petrified. Silently debating wether I should exit and start again from the top; if I even had the strength to carry on; or if anyone would actually stay to watch this train wreck play out—in my own disheartened voice I called for my line.

“Woo!” One voice cheered from the darkness, and suddenly the whole audience was applauding me on again.

I hurdled back into the script, a few lines along, back into Bridget’s voice and characteristic demeanour, and carried on. Though my life long note had always been to slowwww downnnn my delivery, I was now afraid any sort of pause would suggest another blanking, so was racing through the story. Despite it all, the crowd laughed enthusiastically at all the right parts, and quite a few unexpected ones too. I eventually found somewhat of a groove, and at last, finally, together—we reached the end.

I took my traditional (and very humbling) curtsy of appreciation, for what I interpreted then as everyone’s pitying support, and finally made eyes with the audience who I noticed now were all on their feet. They...loved it? Hollers were heard, and flowers were thrown on stage, before I scurried back to the green room, tempted to make a run for it through the emergency exit. Instead I ripped off my lashes, swapped my spandex for sweats, and reemerged to greet and thank those who had inconvenienced themselves to be there.

A group made up of friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers; I watched as people with no prior connection, all decked out in their best leopard print garb, talked and laughed with one another—they were having a good time! I felt an instinctive need to acknowledge my screw-up with each person I spoke to, so as to clear the tension, own my humiliation, but their reactions were all similar. Slightly confused, having to recall a moment that had apparently not stood out as the most memorable, and then brushing it off as nothing significant. Their only feedback on the flub was how I’d handled it well, the moment had been humanizing—charming even—and overall brought the audience closer together.

A reminder of the beauty of theatre; for one hour, you and a room full of strangers are part of something otherworldly and, to a degree, nobody knows what might happen. An actor blanking, a tech mishap, a sneeze—how thrilling! Now was this crowd just an exceedingly kind bunch? Definitely! And yet, while maybe it was an artist’s right to flop, perhaps we were also as worthy (powerful, and confident too) to succeed with the work we brought forth.

Bridget was never about perfection; she embodied smudged eyeliner, words that crashed into others, and not giving a bloody fuck. Come to think of it Chloe was never about perfection either, though my nature says I’ll probably keep trying. In conclusion, doing a one-night-only, one-woman-show as my return to the stage was absolute insanity—and also so fucking on brand.

Onwards and upwards, cheers!