Thirsty Page 19

  In October of 2014, before I went into the jungle on I’m a Celebrity . . . I had been told I would be hosting the Oxfam Gala the following year. I was of course elated and honoured. The offer put me in a very elite group of people who had hosted the show, ranging from Magda Szubanski to Dave Hughes. I remember calling my parents, knowing it would really mean something to them as well. They immediately booked flights.

  It was quite tricky to prepare for, however, as the gala was taped in mid-March and I was leaving for Africa in January. And before that people were on Christmas and New Year holidays. Let me tell you, there is no other group of people as good at stretching their summer holidays quite like the entertainment industry. So that meant the preparation we could do in November and December was minimal as by that point we weren’t even sure which comedians would be appearing on the line-up. We came up with a concept to do something with my mum as a co-host and that was really all the information that had been locked down before I was tossed into the jungle and cut off from the outside world. I just had to trust Andrew would know how to answer any production-related question that came up.

  I was voted out of the jungle on Wednesday, the 11th of March (it was a dark day, you probably remember), and landed back in Australia late on Friday. The gala was on the following Tuesday. Being voted out before the finale was a blessing in disguise because it at least gave me some time to prepare for the show. But we had a strategy in place in case I’d won the show: I would have landed in Australia twenty hours before show time; I was going to be taken straight to a hotel across the road from the Palais (instead of my apartment a whole twenty minutes up the road) and we were going to rehearse through the night. Even with the extra few days, we ended up rehearsing through the night before the gala. Sleep was certainly not an option.

  The concept that had been devised in my absence was the show would begin with me ‘running late’ to the gala courtesy of my African adventure (conveniently both shows were on the same network). The big screens in the theatre would show pre-recorded FaceTime conversations between me and my mum, who had arrived in time for the show, and was live on stage. The cute idea was that because I was running late my mum would cover for me until I arrived with a dance routine by her Zumba class. (I used to regularly tease my mum and her Zumba obsession in my stand-up shows.) The screens would then rise, revealing thirty dancers in lycra, and Jenny would lead a dance routine. Mid-dance I would come running into the theatre with Mum pulling me into the routine with her, finishing with confetti cannons, lasers, etc.

  From there I would do a quick change on stage into a suit and begin the show.

  This concept never really sat well with me. It wasn’t the idea I had quite envisioned for the show, but by the time I was out of the jungle and back in the real world it was too late to change it. Plus everyone had been working so hard on my behalf that I didn’t want to step on any toes.

  To choreograph such an opening number in only seventy-two hours was a huge undertaking. And there was so much room for error on the night. Not to mention I’d just arrived home from the first season of a highly rated reality show, with media following me everywhere. I was getting countless interview requests, which I wasn’t saying no to either because I was about to embark on a massive national tour.

  It’s only writing this now that I fully realise and appreciate what a trouper and a legend my mum was. She landed in Melbourne on Sunday evening to be greeted by her emaciated (but finally clean-shaven) African warrior son. She was immediately sent off to dance rehearsals while I went to interview after interview after interview. My schedule didn’t allow for me to come in for dance rehearsals until the night before the gala. My mum’s fake Zumba class was comprised of very fit twenty-year-old dancers, and it was quite funny walking in to see my 59-year-old (and to her credit, also very fit) mother trying to learn all the steps and keep up with them.

  Not to mention she was already nervous about the following evening. During our staged FaceTime calls she was going to be the only person on stage in front of three thousand people. Three thousand people! Not only that, she was going to be the first person to even be seen on stage at the 2015 Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala. To be honest, I don’t think anybody ever asked my mum if she was cool with it. Nobody said, ‘Hey, do you even want to do this?’ She was essentially just pressured into it by the producers. I, of course, had wanted to include my mum in the show, but I’d never envisioned sticking her out on that stage on her own to open the entire fucking thing. But in true Jenny Creasey fashion, she went along with it. To help out her son.

  The day of the Gala was insane. Not only did I have the opening dance to wrap my head around, I then had to actually host the show itself: perform stand-up and welcome people on stage. The dance was just one three-minute component of a three-hour show. I also had twenty interviews to get through, beginning with breakfast radio at 6 am, plus several photo shoots for different publications.

  If you can believe it, we were still rehearsing the dance fifteen minutes before the show was due to start. Doors were supposed to be opened forty-five minutes prior. I don’t think we ever ran it once smoothly before we did the dance itself, live in front of three thousand people – and then the rest of Australia.

  Luckily that day my writing partner, Janelle, had arrived in town to take some of the pressure off. She had helped write the script for the night while I was busy eating ostrich eyeballs and chatting to Marcia Brady in the African jungle. On big gigs I’ll always try to bring Janelle with me as she is such a calming presence and, as a brilliant performer herself, understands what you do and don’t need pre-gig. Sometimes you want to talk, sometimes you just want to sit and stare at the ceiling. Plus Janelle is always great for a gag if you need one. I swear I’ve thrown the words ‘paper clip’, ‘eggplant’ and ‘judicial law’ at her before and she’s come back a split second later with a joke.

  For such an iconic theatre, the backstage area at the Palais isn’t particularly glamorous and dressing room space is limited, with most comedians sharing a dressing room with four or five others. What was cool this night, however, is that they had given my mum her own dressing room with a bunch of flowers waiting in it.

  About fifteen minutes after the show was officially due to start they called places and my mum was led to the stage and I was taken down into the bowels of the theatre to the chroma-key they had constructed: a video booth and a green screen to relay back my ‘taxi trip’ to the Palais to the screens in the theatre.

  The curtain lifted and there was my mum, Jenny Creasey from Applecross, in her Zumba gear, standing alone on stage at the Palais Theatre in front of three thousand savvy comedy fans at the most prestigious comedy gig in Australia. I can’t even imagine how nervous she was. Not only was she worried about her own performance but she even had said to me pre-show, ‘I just don’t want to stuff it up for you.’

  She delivered her lines perfectly, of course. What else would I have expected from a former West End actress? I was actually having more trouble myself, I think, as it was hard to time my lines with the audience reaction from fifteen metres below the stage in the chroma-key. After my last phone call with Mum, the screen rose and all the dancers came out (something I’d imagine a lot of them had done before) and started the routine with her. Then I had thirty seconds to run through the bowels of the Palais Theatre into the orchestra pit where a ladder led up to the stage. I absolutely bolted there, flanked by half-a-dozen producers and stage managers, ripping bits of clothing off me and attaching microphones and ear pieces. I made it to the ladder just in time, raced up it and onto the stage, where I received a huge round of applause. It was very exciting to be setting foot on stage for the first time post-Africa. Mum and I completed the dance routine, finishing with us both being lifted into the air by dancers and confetti cannons exploding overhead. You know . . . subtle.

  The crowd applauded, my mum and the dancers exited the stage and five stage hands raced on to do a ‘staged�
� quick change into my suit. Then I had my next hurdle to overcome – the fucking show itself. I opened with some stand-up, completely out of breath, and welcomed to the stage the first comedian, Dave Hughes.

  For a large part of the show I stood in the wings with Janelle, working on the fly to produce different introductions for comedians and adapt to the show as it went on. At one point a producer came running up to me and handed me a script to learn about Oxfam that was half a page long to deliver on stage five minutes later. Being the whole point of the show, Oxfam isn’t something you can really stuff up or joke about, so let’s just say that segment wasn’t exactly smooth.

  At another point during the second half the producers decided the show needed a bit of padding between acts so I yelled at a runner to ‘Find Fiona O’Loughlin as quick as you can!’ Moments later Fiona and I were on stage doing a bit where Fiona made a donation to Oxfam if she could pash me on stage. We had a very over-the-top pash, rolling around on the stage, and it was very funny.

  I could not have been more relieved when the Gala was over. The most stressful gig of my life was done (though my first night in the Eurovision commentary booth in Ukraine may have usurped this – stay tuned). Once again, I debriefed with my parents and Ashleigh and Thomas over champagne. I hadn’t been completely happy with my performance as I was very conscious it hadn’t been nearly as slick as Eddie Perfect’s the year before – everything had felt extremely rushed. I was just hopeful it could be tightened and polished up in the edits before it went to air.

  After the Gala my schedule was packed all week. Plus, on the Monday of the Gala airing I had something like forty interviews lined up in the hope of attracting viewers and great ratings. We were going up against My Kitchen Rules on Channel Seven and The Block on Channel Nine so I knew we had a tough fight on our hands.

  On Sunday night, the night before the gala was to air, I went to bed at 9 pm as I was due up at 4.30 am to begin my press run. Mum was still in town, as she had been helping me get through all the administrative things that had built up while I was away as well as helping me get my head together. Optus had very kindly cut my phone and internet connection off while I was out of the country. Clearly my Optus account manager was not an I’m A Celebrity . . . fan. Mum was leaving Melbourne around midday to fly back to Perth, where she was throwing a soiree at home to watch the Gala on TV with Dad and some friends. She was opening the fucking Gala! I know she thought that was pretty cool. I did too.

  I’d been asleep for two hours when I woke up around midnight to go to the bathroom. I quickly checked my phone and saw a missed call from the head producer of the show and a message saying, ‘Call me please. No matter the time of day or night.’

  I called immediately of course and the sound of his voice when he answered was so solemn, I knew immediately what was up.

  ‘I don’t know how to say this, Joel. I am so sorry. I really am so, so sorry. This is truly one of the most awful things I’ve ever had to do. Your mum has been cut from the Gala.’

  I felt sick. I couldn’t even stand. I collapsed onto my bed.

  I simply said, ‘Okay,’ and immediately hung up. Then I raced to the bathroom to throw up.

  I sat in bed, shaking and crying. Fast asleep in the other room was my mum, a woman I would do absolutely anything for – if anybody ever hurt her I would hunt them down and exact the wrath of ten thousand Michelle Bridges – and she was thinking she was flying home to watch herself, Jenny Creasey, on the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala! It was to be her glamorous return to showbiz after all these years!

  The rage built up inside of me and I grabbed my phone. I’m not proud of myself, but I called Andrew and started yelling as loud as I could without waking my mum. Andrew had also been asleep and wasn’t aware what was going on. But I was furious, hissing down the phone, telling him to pass on every threat under the sun to whoever was responsible for this. I ended with: ‘I haven’t signed a contract for this yet so let them know they can cut me from the fucking broadcast too. They won’t even have a fucking show!’

  Andrew, to his credit, hung up and called the network and the festival. There was a back and forth for a few hours, including me firing off abusive texts with tears streaming down my face. The answer we received was that the network wanted the show to ‘begin with stand-up’ – something they could have told us when the dance routine idea was green-lit by them weeks and weeks earlier.

  I also felt I’d been tricked into everything. And I couldn’t believe they were only making the decision at 1 am the morning the Gala was due to air; I didn’t believe for a second they didn’t know earlier. I knew why they’d done it, though. If I had been told on Sunday, Andrew and I could have pulled out of the jam-packed press schedule the following day in protest. But instead I was up at 4.30 am to begin a press tour for a show I knew wasn’t my proudest work. A show my mother had just been cut from.

  For years I had entertained the idea of hosting the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala, the show that inspired me to begin stand-up. The show that I had to beg my parents to let me sit up all night and watch. The show that was an annual tradition in the Creasey household. For years I had imagined how I would do it when it was my turn to host, and all the tricks I’d pull out. Now my pizzazz had been removed and all the TV audience would see was me hosting the Gala like any other show. No unique opener or exciting way to begin, no way to put my own stamp on the whole production. Not even a fucking confetti cannon.

  I also knew I had to do one of the most revolting, heartbreaking things I would ever have to do: tell my beautiful mother she’d been cut from the show.

  I got up at 4.30 am and jumped into the car with a Channel Ten publicist I’d worked with before. I thought about getting haughty with her, then realised being an arsehole to her wasn’t going to help – she had nothing to do with it. So off we went from interview to interview, promoting the show. I was on autopilot, completely numb. Interviewers had been instructed to not ask about my mother being in the show as was written in the original press release. Luckily most places wanted to talk about Africa anyway.

  I got home at midday just in time to see my mother before she left for the airport. I had been dreading this moment all day. I was already in tears in the foyer of my building and by the time I was in my apartment in front of my mother I was in full sobbing, Clare Danes-crying-in-Homeland mode.

  I walked straight in and said, ‘Mum, I am so sorry. I don’t know how else to say this or what happened. But you’ve been cut from the Gala. You won’t be on TV tonight.’

  And Mum responded with the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Even typing this makes my stomach churn, it’s the moment I have always tried to block out. My gorgeous mother, who had been forced into doing this performance by multiple producers and network executives, something that would frighten the most famous comedians in the world, looked up at me and, in a quiet voice, said, ‘Oh. That’s okay. I’m sorry, Joel. Was it my fault?’

  And I’ve told her so many times that it wasn’t her fault. Because it wasn’t.

  I totally understand why the network cut the dance routine. And trust me, that Joel Creasey in bed crying and yelling down the phone the night before the Gala would’ve punched me for saying that. But the 8.30 pm timeslot on a Monday is competitive. Going up against two juggernaut shows on competing networks, you really don’t want to give the audience time to switch between the 7.30 program ending and the 8.30 program starting.

  What really makes me cringe, though, is the way the show had to be edited. With my mum and the dance routine being cut, the onstage costume change didn’t make sense too, so it also had to be cut. Therefore the first thing you see on the 2015 Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala is me walking out on stage sweaty, out of breath, shirt untucked and tie skewiff. The audience at home didn’t know I’d just done a dance routine, they must’ve just thought I was a messy slob who gets exhausted walking the distance from the wings to centre stage.

>   That night I did a live appearance on The Project to promote the Gala airing an hour later – smiling, cracking jokes and selling the shit out of it. Once that wrapped, I stormed out of the building and had dinner and margaritas with my friend Alex and turned my phone off till the next morning. I was too terrified to check social media.

  I never spoke about that Gala again. I still haven’t watched that show back. I never want to see it.

  12

  Totes Heartbroken

  I’m not going to lie to you – this chapter was really hard for me to write. Mostly because I titled it using the abbreviation ‘Totes’. But as any comedian will tell you, there’s no other job in the world where your sole objective is to make people laugh. And that task is almost impossible to face when all you want to do is cry. There isn’t much that’s funny about a newly broken heart. Though eventually there is . . . when your promoter asks you if you have a new stand-up show for them to tour and you say, ‘Holy fuck, yes! Do I have some fresh material for you!’

  Prior to heading into the jungle, at the end of 2014 I made a quick trip to LA to cash in on a voucher Jeffery and I received after complaining about bad service at a hotel (we had become those kind of gays). During the trip we had a ridiculous argument about something so insignificant I can’t even remember what it was (it wasn’t hotel related, I know that much). We’d also started to float the idea of an open relationship, given how far away we lived from each other.