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  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Chrissie Swan

  1 BJC (Before Joel Creasey)

  2 Scooters, Witches and Air Humping . . . Oh My!

  3 Not Your Typical Boy

  4 Burger Flipper in the Streets, Casanova in the Sheets

  5 The Makings of a Monster

  6 Coming Out

  7 When It All Goes Wrong

  8 Gaycrashers

  9 Hopeless Romantic

  10 I’m a Celebrity . . . Haven’t You Heard?

  11 A Proper Comedian

  12 Totes Heartbroken

  13 Women Who Inspire Me

  14 My Euro ‘Vision’ for the Future

  Photographs

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Joan Rivers, the greatest of all time

  FOREWORD

  BY CHRISSIE SWAN

  Let me tell you about my friend, international restaurant guide and muse, Joel Creasey. Around 2012 I’d started to hear whispers of this new ‘It’ boy. Just like frozen yoghurt bars, suddenly he seemed to be everywhere all at once. In fact, the first time I uttered his name he was the punchline in an ongoing joke I had with my colleagues at the radio station I was working at.

  Radio jobs are notoriously impermanent. And by that I mean you can get the arse with no warning, no reason and no chance to ask why. What a way to keep you on your toes! Around the time Joel was starting to make his mark and being Mr Everywhere, I’d done three years straight on a breakfast show, which in radio meant I was up for long service leave. Me and my on-air partner knew our time was almost up whenever we made a mistake, missed the mark or spoke over each other. We’d laugh and say, ‘Look out, it’ll be the Joel Creasey and Ricki-Lee Coulter show starting tomorrow, I’ll just clear out my things.’ Little did I know that Joel had grander plans . . . you know . . . like world domination. Or at least his own fragrance.

  The first time I met Joel was a few years later at a studio in Port Melbourne where we were filming a TV gameshow pilot that never saw the light of day. On a producer’s request for a segment, he was dressed as Cindy Brady and he was, of course, magnificent. He was obviously a very young person, but what struck me first about him was that he possessed the maturity, work ethic and comic timing of someone much, much older – but with the skin and glow of someone who had recently signed a skin care endorsement deal. I instantly adored him. Pretty soon after that we were thrown into the jungle together for the inaugural season of I’m a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here!, which he writes about in this book. Ironically, with another Brady sister – Marcia. I can’t read that particular chapter myself because I’m still in shock from the whole experience and I don’t want to trigger memories of face-crawling Wolf spiders and weeks of my hair smelling like decomposing offal. What I’m happy to remember, though, is that without Joel in there with me I would have gone totally mad.

  The first day was possibly the most brutal. We’d been flown into the jungle in chopper formation, thrown into an African river teeming with crocodiles and hiked sockless up a vertiginous mountain. At one stage I tripped and slid down a muddy rock face on my boobs while Joel clutched his stomach in hysterics, which depleted any remaining energy we had left. By the time we’d reached the perimeter of the camp, we’d been on the go for more than twelve hours and we were exhausted, mainly because we are both the sort of people who get upset if we have to get out of the car at the drive-through when there’s a problem with our lattes.

  Even so, on the edge of death and with bleeding feet and armpits reeking of souvlaki, we managed to make each other laugh with over the top impersonations of how we imagined Rhonda Burchmore might react to a Tucker Trial. Or which Real Housewife we’d most like to see parachuted into camp.

  I didn’t love much about my time on that show, but the fact that Joel and I became soulmates means I would do it all again tomorrow. He knows how much it means for me to say that!

  Sometimes I feel as if I’m Joel’s secret bit on the side. He leads an outrageously busy and glamorous life. If you imagine that he lives in a neat, inner-city high-rise apartment with a life-sized cut-out of himself and little more than a bottle of Bollinger and one solitary gyoza in the fridge, you’d be right. If you imagine that he parks his designer suitcase by the door and has to consult his iPhone to see not only if he is available on any given day, but if he’ll even be in the country, you’d also be right. He has a luxury car that he freely admits he can’t really drive, he slays red carpets like Valyrian steel, is never too busy to take a selfie with a fan (he has to hold the camera and choose the filter, though) and he has a rather embarrassing allergy to mangoes.

  But there is whole other side to Joel that I like to think is just for me. He is the friend who lets my kids empty an entire sticker book onto his face. He is the guy who drops over when he’s in my neighbourhood, toting a strong flat white without me even asking. He is the mother I never had, the sister everybody would want. He is the friend that everybody deserves. I don’t know a better person.

  Okay, okay, full disclosure – that last bit was Oprah talking about her best friend Gayle, but the bit about the stickers and coffee was all me and you knew what I meant.

  I’m sure Joel won’t mind me telling you that he is incredibly intelligent. In fact, he kind of told me to tell you that. But the truth is, he really is. You don’t get to where he is today on the world stage, while barely out of the womb, by being a vapid bystander. He’s a switched on human being, and he is also a wonderful friend and an exceptional son. He could probably be a better brother if he tried a bit harder, but we all have our works in progress. And now he is a writer. There aren’t too many people Joel’s age who could fill a book, but he has. And what’s more, just like last night’s Mystery Box challenge on Masterchef, this one is interesting, juicy and at times raw. Enjoy the world according to Joel. I know I certainly have.

  Chrissie Swan

  1

  BJC (Before Joel Creasey)

  Um, hi!

  So you’re reading my memoir . . . That’s pretty terrifying, right? For me, I mean. Not for you, I hope.

  But first, let’s clear this up right away – you might think it’s weird for a 27-year-old to write a memoir. ‘A memoir? At your age? Really?’ you might be asking.

  But yes, that’s right. I have written a memoir. I’m basically Michelle Obama.

  ‘What could you possibly have to tell me after 27 years on this earth?’ I hear you ask. Well, I do have some pretty good stories to tell, you know. I’ve performed stand-up on Broadway, eaten elephant shit in Africa, hosted a TV show in Ukraine and hit on Neil Patrick Harris in Montreal. Yep, you read that here first. I’ve also made frequent love, fallen in love, had that same heart broken . . . and also been covered head-to-toe in cow semen in a rural town in Australia. I bet you’ve never read those four things in a sentence before. Or maybe you have. What you get up to in your private time is completely up to you. No judgement here.

  Look, I guess it’s already pretty clear what kind of book you’re going to read. There’s lots of swearing, sex stories, celebrity scandal and far too frequent mentions of me drinking myself to oblivion (I’m guessing Michelle Obama’s book doesn’t open like this). So if that’s not for you, maybe it’s best you put this down . . . but f
or everyone else, pour yourself a wine, kick back and strap on . . . I mean . . . in!

  My parents, Terry and Jenny Creasey, are pretty fucking amazing. Inheritance = confirmed! My mum, Jennifer, is the daughter of Elsie and Jim Beamish and was born and grew up in Gloucester, England. Gloucester is kind of like the Adelaide of the United Kingdom: a little rough around the edges, famous for churches and murderers, but every now and then a Sia will come from there. In this analogy my mum is Sia. Except I know what her face looks like.

  Mum grew up just down the road from Gloucester Cathedral, which was used for part of the Hogwarts exterior shots in the Harry Potter movies. And as for the ‘murderer’ part? Well! Jenny was living in Gloucester while Fred and Rose West were busy murdering people in their house only a few blocks from her family home. Fred and Rose West were a sexually deranged couple who would lure young female victims to their home and perform monstrous acts on them, then kill them before burying them in the backyard.

  At fourteen – a common age for the Wests’ victims – my mum would jog past the house every day. Lucky she was a fast runner and never piqued the interest of the Wests. Fred West did once try to lure my Aunt Sally into a van. Terrifying. Also, not sure why I’ve brought this up. Especially not in the first few pages of my book. What a ride it’s gonna be, eh?

  Times were tough on my mother’s side of the family. Mum’s father – my grandfather – was orphaned at thirteen when he lost both his parents to tuberculosis. Both my maternal grandparents were working by the time they were fourteen. My grandmother Elsie started work in an American uniform factory. How very Fantine in Les Misérables, except for the eventual prostitution, of course (Fantine’s, not Elsie’s, although there’s not much Elsie wouldn’t do for a cream bun and a cup of tea by all reports). In this metaphor I’m obviously Cosette. And yes, the tigers do come at night, thankyouverymuch.

  My grandfather Jimbo contracted tuberculosis when he was twenty-six, resulting in a year in a sanitarium. (This is an old-fashioned word for a medical facility for those with a long-term illness. Which makes me wonder why people named their cracker and cereal product company after one. Long-term illness? Mmm, that makes me feel peckish!) Once a week, in any weather, my grandmother would cycle to visit him, a two-hour journey. My grandfather was also the local driving instructor (though he clearly never taught his wife – why the fuck was she on the pushie?), which is why my mum claims to be such a good driver. She is usually saying this on the phone as she speeds through a red light applying lippy, by the way. I, on the other hand, am a terrible driver. I don’t really understand what any of the knobs in my car mean, don’t know how to put air in a tyre and refuse to reverse park. One of my earliest pieces of stand-up was about my seriously questionable road skills and how I like to take street signs more as just a friendly suggestion than a rule. Give way? Nah, I’m very busy. But I might give way twice next time.

  Jenny was a champion athlete – running, long jump and hurdles – and represented her school at the All England Athletics Championships. Even writing this is putting me to shame – I was kicked off my Grade 3 egg-and-spoon race team. Neither me nor my sisters picked up our mother’s abilities in the track and field department. Although cross either of my sisters on a netball court and they will cut a bitch. (Side note – netball . . . what a silly sport. I’ve got the fucking ball, just let me run with it.)

  Mum also has an amazing soprano singing voice and performed in many of the Gloucester Operatic & Dramatic Society shows. After school, she attended the Rose Bruford College of Speech & Drama in Sidcup, Kent, for three years. And yes, saying the word Kent out loud is a great way to practise your New Zealand accent.

  After studying and performing in various shows, my mother joined CTC Cruises, a Russian cruise line, performing on board the MS Shota Rustaveli as a singer and ballroom dance instructor. She did two world cruises, and even visited Scandinavia and Russia. I used to love hearing stories of my mother’s time working on the ship – cruise ship life seemed like such a far-off, glamorous world. And her stories gave me an early thirst for the showbiz life. Essentially, Mum was Judy Garland to my Liza.

  Terry Creasey was a little less academic than Jenny. Naturally blessed with good looks and a shock of blond hair, Dad was more interested in surfing, ladies and getting into trouble. Although also born in England, he had moved to Merrylands in Sydney when he was four. Not on his own, obviously, that would be grossly irresponsible. My paternal grandfather was in the merchant navy and after falling in love with the Blue Mountains, he decided to relocate to Australia. Dad was an only child so, with my grandfather Ernie and grandmother Muriel, he jumped on a ship and headed to Sydney.

  Once again, in complete contrast to me, my father was a sports fanatic and played A-grade rugby league all through his high school years. After a broken jaw and fractured cheekbone, Dad decided to give up football, as his looks were far too precious (in this respect I am most certainly my father’s son). Dad had started modelling from an early age and couldn’t insure his body JLo style, so the football had to go.

  My parents met on the cruise ship. Mum was working on board when Dad and a mate were on what I can only imagine was a ‘lads’ trip’ (shudder). Dad always tells the story that he walked into the ship’s theatre while my mum was on stage singing ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’ as they crossed the Argentinian border. That was simultaneously the moment he first laid eyes on her and the moment he fell in love.

  In contrast, my ex and I met at the Mardi Gras after-party at 3 am. I’d drunk my body weight in vodka and we shared our first kiss as Samantha Jade sang ‘Firestarter’ and a drag queen overdosed on ketamine beside us. I drunkenly bring this story up with Samantha Jade every time I see her and I think she’s getting a little bit over it, to be honest.

  Mum and Dad had a torrid affair aboard the ship. Mum was seeing another man at the time, who proposed to her when she returned to England. She said yes and then immediately called it off the same weekend. Scandal! Plus I think having relations with a passenger was against the rules. What a rebel.

  Given they were both pursuing jobs in the arts, it was an easy decision for Dad to move back to the United Kingdom. They eventually moved in together in a tiny flat in London, living for a time above IRA members involved in the Canvey Island bombings. Mum likes to tell the story about how small the flat was: ‘I could stir a pot on the stove while leaning against the wall behind me.’ I also get my pot-stirring skills from my mother, socially and gastronomically. She normally reminds me of this when I complain about my spare bathroom taps leaking or something very #firstworldproblem. Note to self: Put advertisement on Airtasker tomorrow for someone to fix said taps.

  Mum and Dad went after many jobs. Mum appeared in several West End shows, including understudying Fiona Fullerton in Barnardo. She also had a starring role as the receptionist in the film Silver Dream Racer. Terry continued modelling as well as being the long-shot Flash Gordon in the sci-fi hit Flash Gordon. If you ever watch that film, if it’s not a close-up – that’s my dad! Oh, and be warned: if Terry ever invites you back to our place for drinks, you’ll be forced to sit through it. Jesus, the more I write, the more I realise I am my father.

  Although not their most prestigious or most artistic, arguably my parents’ most famous work (apart from the night they had sex to make me) was as extras in The Empire Strikes Back. They were members of the Rebel Alliance working to fight the Emperor on Echo Base on the planet Hoth. That’s the one with all the snow – think Thredbo but with more Wookiees and less Gucci. My mum only flashes by in the background of one scene but my dad is quite clearly featured in the historic scene where Princess Leia briefs the snowspeeder pilots, ultimately sending them to their death. Dad is the guy rocking the orange speeder suit and matching orange moustache. So I guess when I say they were rebels for hooking up on the cruise ship, well, they really were.

  I was naturally a massive Star Wars fan growing up and used to think it was the coolest thing ever
that my parents – my parents – were in Star Wars. I used to love Dad recounting the story of his snowspeeder to me. Apparently they had to stop filming several times as its roof kept malfunctioning and hitting him on the head. Eventually George Lucas himself came over to apologise. I still often suggest he should sue George Lucas for delayed-onset brain damage – we’d be minted!

  I think if I were to exist in the world of Star Wars, I’d probably be a commander on a Star Destroyer – ie, a bad guy. I just can’t go past their shiny polished ship floors, our shared love of the colour (sorry, shade) grey and their immaculately tailored uniforms. The Rebels were always messy, lacked organisation . . . and I just don’t think I’d look good in an X-wing. Plus those Star Destroyers were just heaving with male crew. Imagine the staff bar. Heaven!

  In 1981, Mum and Dad made the move back to Australia but after two years, Mum’s visa expired and she returned to England. There was a tense period of limbo when they were separated – until my mum called and proposed to my dad. Such a modern woman! And it wasn’t even a leap year! Terry claims he was going to call her and propose the following day but she beat him to it. Lucky, otherwise I would’ve been born a Brit. Anyway, in 1983 Terence Creasey and Jennifer Beamish got married in Gloucester before moving back to Australia.

  Dad continued working in the media a little in Australia. He was also notably the Solo Man in the famed seventies and eighties television commercials. That was a big deal, as he was the soft-drink answer to the Nutri-Grain Ironman – or the Cleo Bachelor of the Year. The ad he appeared in is quite homoerotic. It involves my dad and several other ripped men performing different ‘manly’ tasks: battling river rapids in a canoe; rock climbing; running up the side of a mountain. My dad was the mountain runner in the 1983 ad (you can find it on YouTube, just ask Terry). He races up the mountain in short shorts and a yellow singlet with a blue heeler in tow. I mean the dog breed blue heeler – I don’t mean, like, Lisa McCune. It’d be weird if she were chasing him up the mountain. When Dad and the dog get to the top of the mountain, Dad cracks open a Solo to quench his thirst. Because that’s exactly what I feel like drinking when I’m dehydrated: lemon-flavoured sugar syrup.