Thirsty Page 3

  But, surprisingly, it wasn’t me who said that beautiful, handy, versatile word first. It was Ashleigh. And she didn’t waste the occasion.

  It happened one lunchtime.

  In primary school, our lunchtime activity changed from week to week. And being the social butterfly/desperate-to-be-universally-loved person that I am, I always had a packed schedule. One week it might have been Animorphs, the next week it might have been Pokémon cards, the next week soccer. Ugh, I hated it whenever the activity involved sport. I hated the school oval because I don’t like grass. Actually, I’m allergic to grass. I remember having desensitisation treatment in primary school for my grass and dust allergies. We went through a big Xena: Warrior Princess phase at lunch time. For a few weeks a bunch of us would re-enact scenes from Xena in the playground. Naturally I’d always be Xena and the less gender-secure eight-year-old boys would be Hercules. Ashleigh would often be Gabrielle as it gave her an excuse to go around whacking people with a big stick. This isn’t the first time Xena will be discussed in the book, just so you know.

  We would also play tennis on the quadrangle. We had no net, we’d just smack the ball back and forth in a bit of a round-robin scenario. Tennis was super popular so there was always a queue of kids waiting to play. On this particular day I was standing in line. Ashleigh was standing behind me, waiting eagerly. She was one of those people without grass allergies who could play every sport. She was a champion cross-country runner too, and I always loved watching her beat the boys in our year. Standing behind Ashleigh was our friend Daniel. Daniel was one of my best friends in primary school. We were so close before we ended up going to separate high schools and I haven’t really seen him much since, even though he still doesn’t live far from my parents. I think.

  Daniel used to come over to my house every day after school to play dress-ups. My mum always had a very well-stocked wardrobe (or the dressing-up box, as I called it) and performing was always encouraged. I had a vast variety of characters. I was like Meryl Streep in that way. Who knew which character I’d become after school? Daniel really only had one. Every afternoon without fail he’d go rifling through the dress-up box and pull out one of my mum’s old, black, fitted cocktail dresses. And while most boys would put the dress on and muck around saying, ‘Oooh, look at me! I’m a girl,’ Daniel would just put it on and get on with his afternoon. Like throwing on a pair of track pants, Daniel would pop on the dress and go about eating his afternoon tea or playing Lego. He was extremely fabulous and, according to Facebook, has grown up to be rather handsome. Haven’t seen any recent pics of him in a cocktail frock, though.

  Admittedly, he could also be quite hyperactive (that’s adult talk for ‘annoying’). So this one lunch time in Grade 5 we were standing in line to play tennis and Daniel was behind Ashleigh and he kept bopping her on the head over and over with his tennis racquet. Ashleigh kept politely saying, ‘Daniel, stop that. Daniel, please stop that. Daniel, can you stop?’ Daniel ignored her and kept going and giggling like a maniac while Ashleigh continued patiently asking him to ‘Please stop, Daniel, it’s annoying!’

  It went on for about two minutes before Ashleigh lost it. Completely and utterly lost it.

  ‘Daniel, stop that . . . Daniel, please stop . . . Daniel, stop it . . .’ And then at the top of her lungs, ten-year-old Ashleigh snapped. ‘DANIEL! WOULD YOU JUST FUCK OFF?’

  I was stepping up to play but I stopped immediately. I couldn’t believe it. Ashleigh had just said that word. Everybody stopped, in fact. The whole school stopped. The tennis ball stopped mid-air. Kids playing on the playground stopped. People running on the oval stopped. Teachers in the staff room stopped drinking their Nescafé Blend 43 and wallowing in their self-loathing.

  It felt like an eternity passed. All eyes went from Ashleigh to Daniel, where those words had definitely had their desired effect. Daniel had stopped hitting her and stood, mouth open, staring at her. And I will never forget his response. It was perfect. It was equal parts the campest, lamest and freakin’ coolest thing I have ever seen. He timed it to perfection.

  It was as if a spotlight appeared on Daniel from nowhere. He was centre stage. He shut his mouth slowly and composed himself, a glimmer appearing in his eye. Then he said, ‘Okay Ashleigh, I will fuck off then,’ and proceeded to air-hump his way the entire four hundred metres to the canteen, buy himself a Calippo and lie in the sun for the rest of lunch time.

  Incidentally, I was given a Calippo on a domestic flight recently. I don’t think Calippo-licking techniques are something you want to experience from a group of strangers in a confined space. However, that said, to the gentleman in 23C – impressive work.

  That day, Ashleigh taught me the world-stopping power of a well-chosen swear word. But more importantly, Daniel taught me that no matter the situation, no matter the time of day, no matter who was around, and no matter how old you are, there is always an opportunity to steal the spotlight. And if worst comes to worst and a joke doesn’t land, a bout of air-humping will always get a laugh.

  So that’s what I’m doing right now with this book, Daniel. Stealing the spotlight back all these years later. This is my story now!

  3

  Not Your Typical Boy

  Holly, Alice and I were kept extremely busy with co-curricular activities when we were younger. The money and time my parents invested in us is astounding when I think about it. That said, I think they’re getting a bit of return-on-investment now that I’m writing a book about it.

  Holly was a state-level swimmer, training every morning as part of the Belmont Aquajets swimming club. This would involve my mum driving Holly to training at 6 am, waiting there and bringing her home before she had time to even think about things like lunches, Alice and me, Dad, the rest of the day or, y’know . . . herself. And remember – this was waaay before smartphones. What did she do all that time? She would have had to actually watch her child! How boring!

  Alice was more arts-based and was a ballerina and ballroom and Irish dancer. Mum spent hours on the sewing machine creating elaborate beaded costumes or putting Alice’s hair up in various Irish-dance-appropriate hairstyles. (The Irish, like Emma Bunton, love a crimper.) We weren’t even Irish, but Alice learnt Irish dancing because she used to involuntarily do it before she was even properly taught. Like Irish dancing Tourettes. Every Christmas Eve we’d have our family friends the Mellors around for drinks and we’d all put on a talent show, parents and children alike. Mr Mellor would usually be Santa Claus, Terry Creasey would tell a politically incorrect joke or do his famous Kermit the Frog impression and Alice would dance. I remember she was probably about only four or five when she had found a tartan flat cap in a dress-up box somewhere and decided to do Irish dancing for her talent. Her commitment to her act was so cute that Mum signed her up for lessons soon after.

  Both the girls were also Girl Guides. Or Brownies. I never know the difference. All I know is one sounds incredibly stuffy and boring and like a compass would be involved . . . and the other goes great with ice cream. My mum enrolled me in Joeys for a short period but I didn’t last long. Joeys is the junior version of Scouts. Or is that Cubs? I can’t be quite sure. All I know is that in the gay world, a ‘cub’ is something very different.

  I’ve never been good at anything too male-dominated, unless it’s an orgy with a couple of my mates. Then I’m right at home.

  Even though I didn’t ever quite hit it off with the lads at Joeys, I was quite lucky to discover who I was in my early teens and become supremely confident in my own skin – prior to this discovery I was always very insecure. I knew I wasn’t like the other boys and I knew I wasn’t stereotypically ‘masculine’. Being in situations like Joeys or sports clubs never sat well with me because they only highlighted what I perceived to be my inadequacies. Also, who needs to learn to cook damper in a camp oven? I grew up in the age of the Thermomix – throw it all in, hit go, and a couple of hours later you’re Bush Tucker Man without having to deal with the whole
‘bush’ part.

  Like Holly, I was into swimming from a young age and was naturally pretty good, one of the few sports I had any success in. Unfortunately, I was lazy when it came to training. The early morning starts didn’t go well with my sleep schedule and beauty regime so Mum would take me for training after school, which meant another trip to the aquatic centre for poor Jenny Creasey. If you didn’t know she had kids you’d think she was having an affair with the swim coach.

  Till the age of about twelve I swam with a swim club and in the odd competitive event, being pretty good at backstroke. I was also the Applecross Primary School champion each year. That was until Grade 7, when Patrick Henning arrived at the school and beat me. I gave up swimming pretty much instantly. Also all the boys’ bodies were starting to develop and since I was particularly skinny, I didn’t feel comfortable being shirtless around them any more. (Also, I didn’t grow any armpit hair till about Grade 10. Up till that point I was giving off serious greyhound vibes.)

  Not only was Patrick Henning a great swimmer, it turned out he was good at everything else too. And was very good looking. I was furious, but of course I fell madly in love with him at the same time. I think I still am in love with him. What better way for him to find out, eh? Hi Patrick!

  Like Joeys, another activity that really didn’t click for me at all was football. No surprises there. I was ten when my parents signed me up to play for the local football team, the Applecross Hawks. They trained on Wednesdays around the corner from our house at Gairloch Oval, which is where everything in the local area takes place: football, soccer, dog walking, drug deals, wristies behind the footy club. It’s an extremely versatile patch of grass. I’m not sure why I was signed up to play – the rest of my family have always been mad AFL fans but I’ve never particularly gotten into it. They are all huge Fremantle Dockers fans. And I mean tears-when-they-don’t-win fans. I guess you can’t blame my parents for at least seeing if I was interested or hoping that I might be unexpectedly good.

  Turns out I was neither. I went to three training sessions or, as I kept calling them, ‘rehearsals’. I have very little coordination and as I’ve always been tall and lanky, I couldn’t quite get the ball to connect with my foot. As my parents love telling people, they’d come to watch me play and I’d spend most of the time up the back of the field, hand on hip, gossiping with Daniel, who also wasn’t particularly interested in the game either. Meanwhile Ashleigh was probably down the other end of the field kicking goals and running rings around the boys.

  I do remember at the end of one of the training sessions (rehearsals), the coach (director) was giving us our uniforms (costumes). All the boys were standing there beside their fathers as it’s a bit of a ceremony when you receive your first football guernsey. I knew full well I wouldn’t be playing in the actual game on the coming Saturday. I knew I would be on the bench (oh my God – understudy!) and, frankly, by this point I was over football altogether.

  The uniform for the local team was the traditional Hawthorn Football Club colours – we were called the Applecross Hawks after all – a chocolate brown and mustard yellow stripe. Although I’m not sure if many Hawthorn fans go into the detail of the shade of brown. But it’s chocolate if we’re getting specific. Well, a coffee kinda chocolate. Tiramisu-esque you could say.

  As the coach handed me my costume I stared at it, mortified. Brown and yellow? Were they kidding?

  Without even thinking, a few seconds after staring at my chocolate-and-mustard atrocity with disgust, I turned to my dad and said loudly in front of everyone, ‘Oh, Dad. I don’t think I can play football any more. There is no way I can wear this. I will look like a giant diarrhoea.’

  And my dad, to his credit, turned to me and said, in front of all the other dads (many of whom were his mates), ‘That’s fine. Those colours don’t go with your eyes anyway.’

  Ever the metrosexual, Terry Creasey.

  When I was twenty I had a run-in with a football team. And ‘run-in’ isn’t code. I’m not talking a St Kilda football club–style, banged-the-whole-team scandal. I am open to the idea, though. The run-in was with the Sydney Swans, a team name I’ve always thought was better suited to a ballet troupe.

  It took place one Saturday morning at the Qantas Club at Melbourne Airport. It turns out, the Sydney Swans had won their game the night before and they were flying home to Sydney.

  I was on the same flight and feeling cocky because the night before I had made one of my first ever TV appearances on a 20 to 1 – one of those countdown, clip-recap TV shows. It was on late at night and I was only on for two seconds but I was walking around the lounge assuming everybody was staring at me thinking, That’s that guy on the TV! He’s even more handsome in real life!

  For my first few years on television I was completely like that – I loved it. All I wanted was for somebody to recognise me from TV so I could talk about it. I truly thought nothing was cooler. So many celebrities play this down. They pretend that getting recognised is such a pain in the arse. But they only do that because that’s apparently how we’re ‘meant’ to act. We’re supposed to act all cool and nonchalant and ‘Yep, I’ll take this photo with you but please leave me alone the split second it’s been taken’.

  Get fucked.

  For someone like Taylor Swift or Beyoncé, okay, sure. It must get exhausting. But Australian celebrities have nothing to complain about. No Australian celebrity gets bothered relentlessly and therefore they have no excuse to act like an arsehole. They should be thrilled. Sadly I’ve seen so many Australian celebrities (sometimes friends of mine even) be rude to fans and it blows my mind.

  I’m also always shocked when someone stops me on the street and says, ‘Sorry for bothering you but I think you’re great,’ or ‘Sorry for bothering you but can I get a photo?’ It makes me wonder who they’ve stopped in the past who’s been rude to them. Or not given them the time of day.

  I always like to remind people that it doesn’t bother me. At all. The twenty-year-old strutting around the Qantas Club after his first appearance on 20 to 1 is fucking stoked to get a photo with you. If I’ve got the time, I’m more than happy to stop and chat. These people are stopping me to talk about me. To compliment me. I am my specialty topic. You wanna talk about how hilarious you think I am? Sure! Sit down, I’ll buy you a coffee!

  In Australia, another good measure is that if a celebrity is whingeing on Twitter or Instagram about being harassed or recognised everywhere, it’s because they aren’t being harassed or recognised. And they usually spawn from shows that don’t require any talent like Big Brother and The Bachelor.

  Anyway, it was 6 am Saturday morning and I was swanning (ironic) around the Qantas Club hoping somebody – anybody – might recognise me and validate my existence. All I needed was for one person to stop for a photo so I could announce loudly: ‘OH, WHAT’S THAT? YOU WANT A PHOTO WITH ME BECAUSE YOU SAW ME ON THE TELEVISION?’

  Look it wasn’t going well, so I ended up getting in line for a coffee, behind what seemed about half the Sydney Swans football team. Obviously I had no idea who these players were – I read the team name on the back of their tracksuit jackets. As if I know who plays for the Sydney Swans. For all I knew these guys could’ve been Wayne Carey, Gary Ablett and Warwick Capper . . . I’ve got no idea . . . Also, I totally just googled ‘famous AFL players’ to get that reference.

  As I joined the back of the queue, though, the footballer standing immediately in front of me turned around and very dismissively said, ‘Nah, mate, no thanks . . . We aren’t signing autographs this morning.’ Like a slap to the face.

  How dare he! Did he not realise that for at least fifteen seconds last night I was the star of 20 to 1?

  I knew I had to respond so I channelled my bitchiest David Jones make-up department counter assistant voice and said, ‘Um . . . I’m just waiting for a double-shot flat white, mate. Not after an autograph.’

  He wasn’t expecting that and turned back around quite abruptly. H
e was shocked, like I’d thrown glitter in his face Spiderman style, and his football mates in the queue sniggered at him. I was pretty happy with myself.

  And it got better.

  I truly could not have timed this better if I had tried.

  I hadn’t noticed earlier, but as well as the Sydney Swans, a bunch of Sydney Swans fans who must fly around the country each weekend to watch their team play was also sitting in the lounge. Not my thing personally, but all power to ya, girlfriend. One of them was a young guy about twenty years old, decked out in full Sydney Swans gear: jacket, beanie and scarf. About thirty seconds after I’d shut my football player mate down, the football fan approached me from where he’d been sitting, tapped me on the shoulder and in front of the entire queue – still silent from my deadly zinger moments prior – asked, ‘Excuse me, are you Joel Creasey? I saw you on 20 to 1 last night and I think you’re really funny.’

  I can’t be sure, but I think I may have open-mouthed kissed this man before running a victory lap of the lounge and thanking the Academy.

  This was six years ago now, so I assume most of the players have moved on, swapped teams, gone on to nuclear science . . . whatever it is they do in the AFL. But I did get to see the Sydney Swans again recently when I was honoured with the privilege of MCing the first ever Pride Round of AFL at Etihad Stadium – Sydney Swans versus St Kilda Football Club.

  It’s no secret that homophobia is rife in the AFL among both players and fans. I live near Etihad Stadium and have on many occasions heard the word ‘faggot’ being sniggered as a group of footy fans walk past me. I often think, I wish these guys would come to my show, what an easy crowd. All I’ve got to do is stand there and breathe.

  I know there’s been a push for years for an AFL player to come out of the closet, too. A dear friend and ex-flame of mine, in fact, is the (what league does he play for again?) footballer Jason Ball who has very much led the push for equality in footy. Jason, like me, would agree that a player coming out would certainly help counter the stigma, but I don’t think anyone should be forced into it.