Ah, the glamour of showbiz! The feathers, the rhinestones, the lights, the applause, and, of course, the strong scent of bleach and Dettol wafting from a nearby urinal.

Wait, WHAT?!

Yes, dear reader. Behind the curtain of every glittering burlesque show, cabaret show, circus, comedy or music gig lies a deep, dark truth that every performer knows: the real drama often starts with the dressing room - or complete lack thereof.

Whether it’s a high-profile corporate event, a wedding in a huge marquee, a swanky Michelin Star restaurant, or a last-minute gig, us performers have all had our fair share of “changing room nightmares” that we still laugh, cry, and dry heave about to this day.

Here’s my homage to some of the most dreadful, ridiculous, and downright dangerous places we’ve been asked to get changed.

Strap yourselves in!

🚽 THE URINAL ODYSSEY:

Nothing says “you’re a star” like wrangling yourself into your fishnets while standing next to a urinal that’s still in use. We’ve pirouetted past dubious puddles, balanced on toilet lids, and contorted ourselves around questionable plumbing.

Glamour? We don’t know her - but we do know the trauma of a rogue automatic flush.

🚐 BACK OF A VAN - NOT IN THE FUN, ROCK ‘N’ ROLL WAY:

When someone cheerily says, “You can change in the van!”, they rarely mention that it’s filled with cables, old amplifiers, and that unmistakable scent of wet dog and man fart.

Bonus points if the van is moving and you’re shimmying into sequins during a three-point turn, or exiting the M25 at speed.

🍽️ THE WORKING RESTAURANT KITCHEN:

Hot plates, boiling pans, Chef shouting "SERVICE!" and you, in your safety-thong, trying not to catch fire on the gas hob. The aroma of garlic, sizzling onions, and existential dread hangs in the air as you dodge soup spills and try not to disrobe directly into someone's lasagne.

Five star restaurant on TripAdvisor - zero stars as a dressing room.

🚏 BUS STOP COUTURE:

Yes, really.

Changing in public at a bus stop, using a feather fan as a modesty shield, while shell-shocked pensioners wait for the 52a to the outskirts of Edinburgh.

Somewhere out there, someone still tells the tale of “that glitter-covered nudie woman” they saw one cold, wet Thursday night.

We’re all legends ... just not in the way we planned.

🌧️ THE DRENCHED ALLEYWAY OF BROKEN DREAMS:

“You can just pop round the back,” they said.

What they meant was: "Stand in this rubbish-strewn alley next to some overflowing bins, and pray it doesn’t rain."

It rained.

A lot.

Your heels sank into the gravel, your boa turned into a soggy spaghetti of sadness, and the local feral cats judged you silently from the shadows.

🛠️ UNDER THE VENUE’S STAIRS (AKA THE GOBLIN NOOK):

Crouched like Gollum among brooms and ancient, festering bar mats, you wriggle into your corset while trying not to inhale a decade’s worth of dust and damp. Every time someone walks across the floor above you, it sounds like a stampede of hippos in heels.

Magical.

🧯THE FIRE ESCAPE:

Not technically indoors.

Not technically outdoors.

Not remotely safe.

Breezy.

Great if you're performing in nothing but a rhinestoned thong and nipple tassels during a December cold snap ...!

Nothing says ‘artistic expression’ like freezing your t*ts off while a pigeon watches from a railing.

📦 A LITERAL CARDBOARD BOX FORT:

Constructed with venue signage, broken chairs, beer crates, and bar mats.

Held together with dreams, duct tape, and desperation.

Bonus level: someone accidentally throws a bin bag on top of you because they think you’re part of the recycling pile.

🚽 THE PORTA-LOO OF EXISTENTIAL DESPAIR:

A festival classic.

You’re given a glittery wristband and directions to a plastic cube of doom that definitely hasn’t been emptied since the Stone Age.

There’s no mirror, no light, and no hope.

The lock doesn’t work.

You’re balancing on six-inch heels, trying to avoid touching literally anything - your iPhone clenched between your teeth with the torch app on, while holding a feather fan between your knees, and gripping your corset under your chin

The smell? OH GOD!

If hell exists, it’s blue, plastic, and sloshing in p*ss.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS:

• Cupboard under the DJ booth (next to the vodka crates)
• Inside a two-man tent with no groundsheet (welcome to the jungle)
• Venue attic accessed by a broken ladder (hope you like acrobatics!)
• Behind the bar, next to the crisps and peanuts (we were the snack AND the show)

SO, WHY DO WE DO IT?

Because we love it.

No, not those changing rooms - HELL, NO!

We live for the applause, the sparkle, the thrill of live performance - even if it comes with a side of asbestos tiles and a suspicious blood stain.

So - next time you watch a show or gig, spare a thought for the possible backstage chaos.

And remember - as a performer - if you ever find yourself getting ready for a performance in a hotel service corridor - all the while, being eyed-up by a lecherous waiter having a quick, illicit vape - you're probably doing true cabaret correctly.

Want more backstage confessions, glitter-fuelled storytelling, and a peek behind the velvet curtain? Subscribe to our newsletter or follow us on our social media channels, and never miss a beat from Velvet Burlesque – where even our dressing room disasters are entertaining!

And, if you fancy coming along to see the glamour from the more fragrant side of a venue, check out where we are performing next via our SHOWS & EVENTS listings!

Here's to the glitter, the grit, and the unidentifiable stains on the wall - that's showbiz, baby!

Boss Lady - Lara Gothique

Founder, Curator, Choreographer, Swamp-Witch, and Slightly Feral Producer of The Velvet Burlesque™

© Lara Gothique - Velvet Burlesque™
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