Strictly Balls-up

I used to joke that one day I’d be doing TV commercials for incontinence pads but I didn’t expect to get the offer quite so soon.

Fortunately, this was one audition I was able to turn down without my agent disowning me. The money was very tempting but not enough to outweigh the humiliation of announcing my bladder problem on national television.

It was my first offer in ten months. I was beginning to wonder whether last year’s Coles Car Insurance ad and my face being plastered all over supermarkets across the country had ruined my career but happily I didn’t have to wait as long for the next call.

This audition is also for a chemist product, but nothing quite so embarrassing. In fact, it’s a fun scenario about a dancing competition. The audition involves some improvisation, lots of facial expressions and dashing out of shot. I’ve finally taught myself to make it snappy and strong; there is no time for subtlety or lingering looks in 30 second TV commercials. The brief tells me I’m up for one of three non-dancing, featured roles but I think to myself, I could do the lead. So when it’s over, I tell the casting director I can dance. The audition has gone well, she seems to like me, so what have I got to lose? She says she’ll make a note of it. I'm feeling pretty good. Then, after a quick visit to the Ladies, she catches me on the way out, and asks me to audition for the other role.  Another casting director, a dancer apparently, joins us. I do it all again, with some extra direction and then have to improvise a dance… to slow tango music. What have I got myself into? I think back to my ballroom days, trying to come up with some moves that will look good, but how do you tango on your own? How do you tango, full-stop? I can barely remember the steps. If only it was a rumba!

‘Just have fun with it,’ she says. ‘And maybe you could finish with a turn and a pose.’  I do my best to ham it up but my first turn is clumsy. In my second attempt, the sole of my shoe catches on the thick carpet. I try again but I know my grand finale looks like an amateur anti-climax. On the fourth take I finish with an ungraceful flourish and a huge smile. The room is silent. They are both looking at the screen. I know what they’re thinking. This woman said she can dance. Who is she trying to kid?

My anticipation of success evaporates on the drive back to work. An optimistic prognosis has become a regretful post mortem. I should have quit while I was ahead. Now their last impression of me is of a desperado with delusions of dancing grandeur. I’m pathetic. I’m an idiot. They probably won’t even consider me for the first role now.

Fingers crossed, though. Call backs next week.