I was effing peed off yesterday after making a call to a promoter who I am chasing for a gig booking. We played a successful show at the venue he manages a year ago so the gig's on the cards; I'd just like to finalise a date. I have called this guy numerous times and on each occasion he is too busy to deal with it. Fine, he's busy, and sounds just a little stressed, so I agree to call again each time.
Yesterday, I call and he answers:
"Who's this?"
"It's Toby from Pocket Rocket", I say
"Nice timing mate", he replies, "you just woke up my baby... I can't speak now, I shouldn't have answered the phone...
"I'm sorry", I say, "I'll give you a call another time".
Click.
Drone.
So effing rude. Too right you shouldn't have anwered the effing phone.
I was peed off at myself for being so apologetic. I hate that about me. I know dealing with a baby is stressful, I've been there. So why is it sleeping by the landline phone?
This testing and frustrating process of trying to get a gig, gives me day-mares me of the times, in the late-80s, that we had to go out to the telephone box at the end of the road in all weathers to call promoters. After having queued for ages to get into the phone box, naturally the line was engaged or he wasn't there or he had a pay-to-play policy (which we didn't agree with because we simply couldn't afford to do it) so all our efforts were in vein.
As my late-grandmother used to say, "Never give up". So I bloody won't.
No comments:
Post a Comment