Thirsty Page 4

  I’ll never forget having a conversation with football legend Barry Hall a few years back when we were both contestants on I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out Of Here! He had the balls to say on national television that he believes homophobia in the league is disgusting and he won’t stand for it. Gosh, I love that man.

  It always makes me laugh when conservatives say, ‘There aren’t any gay players in the AFL.’ As I mentioned, I live near Etihad Stadium. I can assure you there are – I slept with one. I’m not in the business of outing people, though. That was very much Barbara Walters’ domain in the 90s (remember when she outed Ricky Martin?). And we only slept together a couple of times. But I always did love the juxtaposition of him coming over after a game to me lying on the couch watching The Devil Wears Prada. He had a great sense of humour and would understand the ridiculousness of the situation too. And he’d always laugh when I asked him, ‘How did your football concert go tonight? Did you get an audience?’

  The one sport that did work out for me, though, was tennis. Obviously it didn’t work out in the sense that I won Wimbledon. At least, I don’t think I did. I’m terribly forgetful so I could be wrong. But it worked out in the sense that I certainly played tennis longer than I did Joeys or football. Or Taekwondo. I did that for a year and threw in the towel when I realised black belt wasn’t the belt immediately following white. I just couldn’t cope with a yellow belt. It’s an aesthetic thing. Also, was it a coincidence I signed up to Taekwondo the same year Charlie’s Angels with Cameron, Drew and Lucy came out? I think not.

  I played tennis till I was about sixteen. I started around age nine. I trained twice a week after school at the tennis club down on the Applecross foreshore with my coaches Diego and Adriano. I know, right? They sound like characters in a Dreamworks film. I loved tennis, as opposed to other sports, because it was a performance. When I think about it, I’ve never been great at team sports. I guess it’s weird to admit, but I’m not a team player. I’m stubborn, I like to call the shots and, to be completely honest, I get jealous very easily. (I guess there’s a reason I’m a solo stand-up comic and not a member of a sketch group.) Tennis suited me perfectly. I also wasn’t half bad at mixed doubles because my mixed doubles partner, Holly Brindle, had something in her arsenal that I never quite mastered – an ace-delivering serve. In tennis it’s usually more common for the male to serve first. The roles were very much reversed between Holly Brindle and me.

  I also love how tennis is about the fashions. I always enjoy seeing what Serena or Venus wear to a tournament; I recently saw Venus wearing more jewellery than the trophy she was competing to win. I was completely obsessed with Serena’s black Puma catsuit in 2002 and regularly imagined myself in it whenever reaching for a tough forehand. And I even remember adoring Jennifer Capriati’s American flag dress when she won the US Open in 2000 and totally credit the dress for helping her win. I think there’s a place for fashion in every aspect of life, but tennis is one of the few sports that seems to have incorporated it well. Take note, Applecross Hawks.

  During my early teens, on top of my twice weekly after-school training, I’d also play Junior Club on Saturday mornings, which is basically social tennis for juniors. It would involve me going down to the tennis club, playing a few games and asking everybody to compliment me on my new tennis shoes. I also once rocked up in head-to-toe New Balance gear and convinced everybody that New Balance were now sponsoring me and I was the new face of their brand. I was eleven. Oh, and Dad knew someone who worked in the marketing department at New Balance.

  Then on Sundays I would play pennants. I was in a team with three other boys – the Applecross team. We’d play against other suburbs and it was quite competitive. Not just between the boys on the court but also between the mums. Because, let’s be honest, posh parents make their kids play tennis. The mums would rock up in their BMW X5s and set up their Louis Vuitton folding chairs courtside to watch their sons play tennis in the scorching summer heat, attempting to cheer the teams on without blowing their botox or spilling their travel coffee mugs full of vodka.

  True to form, Jenny Creasey would be there every Sunday morning, cheering me on. In fact, she used to drive our entire team to most games. She wouldn’t get too involved or be too overbearing and would normally just shoot the other mums an icy glance when they were getting too over the top.

  Mum always made me feel good, regardless of the result. However, I do remember having a particularly bad match one day and seeing her whisper under her breath, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  The other boys on my team were Richard, who would screech like Sharapova and had a very aggressive forehand; Christian, who was the best player of the four of us but who would lose his temper on the court; and another boy whose name I can’t remember. What’s weird is I’ve met this other boy since. A few years ago I was home in Perth and kissed a guy on the dance floor of Connections Nightclub. We pulled away for a few seconds and I said, ‘Don’t I know you?’

  And he said, ‘Yeah, we used to play tennis together.’

  I said, ‘Oh. Cool,’ kissed him again and left. Admittedly I’d had eighty-three shots of Jäger so this could all have been in my head and I was in fact kissing a drag queen. Or a wall. But if it is true and you’re reading this, sorry I forgot your name. Again. Are you still playing tennis? Do you tell people you’ve kissed a D-list celebrity?

  I wasn’t a naturally gifted tennis player like I was a swimmer, but I loved it. In my spare time I’d find any wall I could hit a tennis ball against and at night I’d sit in bed flicking through tennis books, looking up player statistics, or fashioning that Jennifer Capriati dress out of my doona.

  One of my biggest heroes was the Belgian tennis player Kim Clijsters. When I was eleven years old, my parents took me to see Belgium versus Italy in the Hopman Cup – the Hopman Cup is the Perth tennis tournament and it’s a big deal . . . tens of people go. The day we went also happened to be one of Kim Clijsters’ first tournaments. She was ranked about 150 in the world. I remember saying to Dad, ‘She is going to be a star one day.’ Who did I think I was? Simon Cowell? Anyway, turns out I was right and only a couple of years later she was World Number 1.

  I followed her career intently. I’d stay up watching any match she played, bought the same racquet she played with and had it strung and gripped identically to hers. I was so obsessed I was even a member of the Kim Clijsters online fan forum. Yes, how cool am I? Most fifteen-year-old boys run home from school to watch porn. Not me. I would run home every day from school to jump online and chat about Kim. (I was also a member of the Better Homes and Gardens fan forum but let’s not go into that.)

  I met a guy on the forum called Alex. I didn’t know much else about him, just that his name was Alex and he was a major Kim Clijsters fan too. After a few months we decided we had outgrown the forum so we swapped email addresses and emailed each other directly about our goddess and saviour. We eventually got bored of that and kicked things up a gear by giving each other our home addresses. As I said, I didn’t even know what this guy looked like. What we would do, though, was cut out any articles from the paper about Kim and post them to each other. I wasn’t ‘out’ at this stage as I was only fifteen, but I’m fairly sure that arrangement must’ve been a pretty big red flag for Mum: ‘Mum, I’m leaving for school. Please don’t throw out the paper! I need to cut out that article about Kim’s latest eating plan for Alex. He’ll love that. Actually, that reminds me. Can you make risotto for dinner? Kim says risotto is really good for you. Use brown rice though, I’m watching my carbs. What’s that? A girlfriend? All right, I’ll look into that next week, I am flat out at the moment, thankyouverymuch.’

  I got to meet Kim Clijsters too. I don’t want to blow you away with my celebriTAY this early in the book but I was a ball boy at the Hopman Cup in Perth when I was fourteen and fifteen. Yep, I was that good they asked me back. It’s actually quite hard to get a gig as a ball boy, but Mum and Dad had family friends who helped me get
the position.

  I was so excited to see all these tennis players up close, but I was probably the most passive-aggressive ball boy they ever had. First of all, I had to wear a legionnaires hat – you know, one of those hats with a flap at the back that screams ‘No hat no play’. I’m fairly sure I’d rather get actual Legionnaires than have to wear one of those fugly hats ever again. Not to mention if the player hit the ball too far away, I’d roll my eyes and mutter under my breath, ‘I guess you want me to get that for you,’ or ‘Yeah, no, don’t worry I’ll do it . . . you just stand there,’ or ‘I hope you know I’m not getting paid for this. I’m volunteering my time.’ Marat Safin, the Russian player who was infamous for his tantrums and throwing his racquet, probably thought I was a little shit. He once asked me to hand him his towel for wiping sweat and I said, ‘Absolutely not. It’s drenched. I don’t care how famous you are, I don’t want to touch your sweat. Thanks.’ I didn’t get to be ball boy for him again. Or at all, in fact. That was my last ever match.

  The highlight of my ball boy career (can you call it a career?) was carrying the Belgian flag for Kim Clijsters. At the start of each game the player walks out behind their country flag while their national anthem plays. Therefore the ball boy carrying out the flag was top dog. Naturally, I was chosen. Leave it to me to turn this into a Prisoner-style Bea Smith-type scenario. Don’t worry, I didn’t shank any of the other ball kids. I did call one a ‘bloody bugger’ though. I’m also a very sassy flag waver, which wasn’t required but I’d always throw it in to spice things up a little for the crowd.

  I couldn’t believe that not only was I going to get to carry a flag out (meaning at least fifty seconds of air time on the TV broadcast) but I was carrying it for Kim Clijsters. The Kim Clijsters. My Kim Clijsters. Not only that, but this was when Kim Clijsters was at the top of her game. She was the World Number 1, the favourite to win this tournament and, at the time, engaged to Lleyton Hewitt. I was never a fan of Lleyton Hewitt. He seemed grumpy, I hated his choices in sunglasses and he was male. Nil interest in all of these things. (The ‘male’ thing changed over the years, but bad sunnies are still a no-no.) I was also furiously jealous that he was engaged to the love of my life, Kim. I loved her so much, however, that I forgave her for her poor choice in fiancé. Soon she’d be wowed by my sassy flag-waving and be swept off her feet by my bald-pitted, teenage self.

  So there I was at fourteen years old, standing in the wings of the Burswood Dome at the Hopman Cup waiting for Kim Clijsters to join me to walk out onto the court. Standing beside me was another ball boy holding the Slovak Republic flag. He was walking out the Slovakian player Daniela Hantuchová. Very beautiful player. Had honestly never seen her win a match. Sucked to be him.

  Then I heard a procession of people coming down the corridor behind me. I could see coaches, publicists, Hopman Cup officials and then, bringing up the rear, Daniela Hantuchová followed by Kim Clijsters. Kim looked beautiful. White singlet, white skirt, white shoes and a brand new Babolat tennis bag on her back. Shit, I didn’t have that one. I made a mental note to get Jenny Creasey on to the case the second I finished.

  Kim and Danielle stood behind me and my colleague (let’s call him that). I couldn’t believe it. My hero was standing behind me. I couldn’t wait to write to Alex about this. I was so nervous I was paralysed. I couldn’t turn to look at her. All I could do was try to keep hold of the heavy Belgian flag while my hands got sweatier and sweatier.

  The voiceover was booming through the packed fifteen-thousand-seat stadium (theatre): ‘Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the Hopman Cup and today’s match . . . the Slovak Republic versus Belgium! First up, from the Slovak Republic. Please welcome the World Number 9 . . . Daniela Hantuchová!’

  Off went the other ball boy and Daniela, onto the court to huge cheers and screams muffled by the Slovak Republik national anthem. Not a great tune, by the way, in case you were thinking about hitting the iTunes store later. Daniela and ball boy stood centre court for the anthem, and when it finished they moved to stand beside the umpire at the side of court where Daniela’s rest station was.

  Then it was our turn.

  ‘Next up, please welcome to the court the World Number 1 from Belgium . . . Kim Clijsters.’

  The crowd erupted. Kim Clijsters was a fan favourite all over the world, but particularly in Australia. ‘Aussie Kim’ the media would call her.

  Kim bent down, gave me a hug, shot me a huge smile and whispered, ‘Good luck.’

  My brain basically exploded. What?! Why was she wishing me good luck? I wasn’t playing! Oh my God, she hugged me! Shit, does she think I’m Lleyton? We are both blond, I guess . . . I couldn’t believe it. I honestly couldn’t process it. In fact, I was so busy taking it all in I forgot to walk out until some stressed stage manager hissed at me from across the corridor, ‘Walk, idiot!’

  My heart was racing, and my palms were so sweaty the flag was starting to slip, but out we went, onto the court, where the crowd got even louder at the sight of Kim. Why wouldn’t they? She was fucking perfect. I somehow navigated us to centre court all the while thinking, Respond to Kim, Joel. She spoke to you! This is your opportunity! At the same time I was thinking, Of course you can’t say anything, you’re on the court, you’re on TV! She’s listening to her national anthem. It’s not very good, they really need to remix this.

  I didn’t know what to do. I was shaking, I was so excited, she was standing next to me. For those few minutes we were a team. Kim Clijsters and Joel Creasey.

  And then, well, I don’t know what came over me. I knew this would probably be my only opportunity with this woman I had adored and admired for so many years. I knew this was my only opportunity to say something to her and I’d regret it forever if I didn’t. Just like that time I sat next to Kim Cattrall on a plane . . . (But that’s for another book.) So I snapped. The national anthem hadn’t even ended and I turned around to Kim Clijsters and words just started tumbling out of my mouth.

  ‘Kim Clijsters, I love you, I’ve loved you forever. I love everything about you. I think you’re so beautiful. The most beautiful woman on earth, in fact. I play tennis because of you. I’ve even made my tennis racquet look exactly like yours. I don’t know if you ever check the Kim Clijsters fan forum but I post on there every day. I love you so, so, so, so much. And . . . I think . . . um . . . well . . . I think you’re too good for Lleyton Hewitt.’

  What? What was I thinking? ‘You’re too good for Lleyton Hewitt’? He was her fiancé! Who did I think I was? I was wearing a legionnaires cap, for fuck’s sake!

  I’ll never forget that moment. Kim Clijsters knelt down next to me, smiled and . . . said something in Flemish. Not. A. Clue as to what she said. No idea. Don’t speak Flemish. But it definitely sounded like it involved chocolate and beer, although I could be stereotyping there.

  She stood up, walked over to her side of the court, and I exited stage left (yes, I know, not correct) and was berated by Hopman Cup management while Kim went on to win her match. Obviously – she was playing Hantuchová.

  I’ve never met Kim Clijsters again to ask her what she said. I’d love to. I still adore her. Just saying, though, I do think my words might have gotten through to her – Leyton and Kim called off their engagement a few weeks later! Perhaps she knew she had other options, like sassy, flag-waving, sweaty-palmed fifteen-year-olds from fan forums.

  My tennis career lasted a few more years into high school. But by late high school, tennis lessons meant time to flirt with boys, so I started to get distracted.

  Plus, as I crept into my teen years, I quickly started to realise that it wasn’t tennis I loved. It was the stage. The performance. And what better stage is there, than, well . . . an actual fucking stage?

  4

  Burger Flipper in the Streets, Casanova in the Sheets

  Something which I have not really spoken about publicly – or at all really – is what my parents do for a living. Apart from riding my coattails, I mean. Obviously
I’ve spoken about my parents’ time on the stage as models and actors and ballroom dance instructors on cruise ships, all those kinds of things all regular parents do. (I mean really – did they think they were going to get a straight son with resumés like that?)

  When my parents had children they selflessly left their quest for fame behind (ugh, can you imagine?) and entered the corporate world. Sounds like an area of Disneyland: Jurassic World, Old West World, Corporate World. I reckon the rides in Corporate World would suck. Look, in all honesty, I don’t think anybody actually calls it the ‘corporate world’ any more, but this was the 90s when pinstripe suits, PalmPilots (a terrible name for a little hand-held device – sounds like wristies for aircraft operators) and briefcases were a thing. Honestly, if someone rocked up to a meeting in a pinstripe suit and a briefcase these days I’d assume they were about to kidnap me. Either that or I’m having lunch with Diane Keaton.

  In the 90s we were a very traditional family unit. Mum was a full-time mum (the best mum ever, in fact), and Dad worked at the Swan Brewery selling beer, so it’s fair to say the love of alcohol runs deep in my family, or is possibly hereditary. Dad had other corporate-y type jobs too but they were nowhere near as cool as what I’m about to tell you. That said, he did run a sports management business for a hot second. Not sure who he managed, but based on my extensive knowledge of sports management, I’m pretty sure that Cuba Gooding Jr yelled, ‘Show me the money!’ at him at some stage.

  We’d moved to Perth for Dad’s job with the Swan Brewery and really weren’t expecting what came next. One night Terry came home as we were all sitting down for dinner. We were big on family dinner – we ate together and there was strictly no TV. (Which always annoyed my dad – as an avid Home and Away fan, the ‘no TV’ rule really only ever applied to him.) This particular night we were having dinner in the formal dining room. I’ve always hated the term ‘formal dining room’ – it insinuates that somewhere in the house is an informal dining room, which I suppose there was in our house . . . if you count my bed. Obviously something big was afoot – the formal dining room was only ever reserved for special occasions or birthdays. Once we were all at the table my parents delivered the news. Dad was leaving the Swan Brewery. I’m sure in my already bitchy seven-year-old mind I thought, Yawn. Who cares.