Thirsty Page 5

  And then they followed it up with this.

  Dad was leaving the Swan Brewery because my parents were buying a McDonald’s store. That’s right. My parents were buying the single coolest thing on earth a two-, six- and ten-year-old kid could imagine. A fucking McDonald’s store! Can you imagine my head exploding when I heard that? The only thing that would have been cooler was for them to tell us we were going to get Xena the Warrior Princess as our live-in nanny. I mean, I was six years old; everyone I knew was having their birthday parties at McDonald’s. It was the best place ever to have a birthday party. And not only that, I’m sorry but Happy Meals? Fucking. Rock. And. Roll when you’re six years old. Who the fuck doesn’t want a collectible Snoopy figure dressed in traditional garb from every major continent?

  We had to keep the news pretty hush-hush, as we had to wait for my parents to find out if they were actually going to be successful in acquiring a franchise, and then the company had to find a McDonald’s store for them to buy.

  A few months later I was finally allowed to tell people. That day was also the day of the Christmas nativity play at school. I was one of the three kings (I wish it had been queens) and I was standing backstage, or as the teacher liked to call it ‘behind the pinboard covered in pictures to make it look like Bethlehem’, waiting to walk on to give baby Jesus/Ashleigh’s Cabbage Patch Kid his frankincense. By the way – what actually is frankincense? What a shit gift! If I was Jesus and someone gave me frankincense I would be pissed off – get me a David Jones voucher, or a cashmere scarf . . . something I can use! And what is a baby doing with frankincense? Get him a Bugaboo or something useful. How many newborns do you know rockin’ round with frankincense in their nappy bags?

  Anyway, I was waiting backstage next to a boy called Jeremy Cockran, who was playing one of the other kings. He was standing beside me with his myrrh, also eagerly waiting for our turn on stage. I decided that very moment was the perfect time to share my news so I turned to him and whispered, ‘Jeremy, my parents are going to buy a McDonald’s store!’

  And, look, it wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for, but Jeremy hissed, ‘You’re a liar!’ and walked onstage to deliver his myrrh. And that was it. Way to ruin my big moment, arsehole.

  My dad had to take a year of unpaid training before he was allowed to buy his first store. And then, all of a sudden, my parents were the proud owners of a brand new (well, new to us – the store had been there for some time) McDonald’s Family Restaurant: McDonald’s Myaree, Western Australia. I remember the first day we went there as the owners – it was so cool.

  The first thing my parents did was have a new playground installed. We’re talking state-of-the-art playground, complete with ball pit. The ball pit didn’t last very long – they ended up having to take the balls out because children kept shitting in there. An unexpected turd in a ball pit can really take the ‘happy’ out of a Happy Meal. At McDonald’s in Myaree there was an old train carriage beside the playground that was used as the official party room, so our McDonald’s was always known as the ‘train store’.

  It was so rock and roll for so many years. I’d have all my parties there in the train, I’d take in Macca’s vouchers for the kids at school, and sometimes Dad would even bring home promotional food from the store. Remember the veggie nuggets or the McAfrica burger? No? I do.

  I got my driver’s licence in the last few months of Grade 12. After school, I used to drive boys from my high school to my parents’ McDonald’s for a free meal. I really used it as a way to flirt with boys I had the hots for – you can imagine how many free feeds Patrick Henning was getting. Nothing cemented my crush more than seeing a boy deep-throat a french fry. I’ve got something you can McFeast on right here, I would think. I was so naive though, I was usually referring to an actual McFeast. I’d love to see that on The Bachelor: some chick wearing a low-cut dress and Witchery pumps taken for a McNugget meal and a whirl on the playground.

  Often I don’t tell people what my parents do, just because of the reactions. Some people are like ‘Er, gross!’ and ‘Your parents are making people fat!’ Well, no, they’re not. They’re not forcing it down your throat or suggesting you eat it every day. Chill out. Everything in moderation right? Macca’s is delicious. Have you ever been hungover? And no, it’s not pig fat in the ice creams or horse in the burgers.

  My parents have always been heavily involved with Ronald McDonald House Charities, and for ten years they ran the Ronald McDonald House Charities Ball in Perth, raising over two million dollars for families with sick kids. The ball was always in November and it meant we got to spend a weekend at Crown Resort while my parents staged the event. It was just an excuse for my sisters and me to swim and order room service and basically get in the way as much as possible. My parents have always been great at throwing a party and this really translated well to the ball. They had performers from John Paul Young to Guy Sebastian to Courtney Act perform.

  My parents have always run their McDonald’s store like they were originally intended – as a family restaurant. On the weekends, Mum would go in with little vases and put flowers on the tables. She and Dad would walk around with the coffee pot talking to customers and welcoming them. They also turned the store into the world’s first sporting-themed McDonald’s. They had sporting memorabilia on the walls, a genuine Olympic torch in a glass case and a 1st, 2nd and 3rd podium people could take photos on in the corner (and this was way before camera phones).

  Unfortunately, cockheads would go in and steal things, smash things, rip the memorabilia off the walls and throw it around the room. Even on a Saturday morning people would smash the vases. Not just the dickheads – families too. I would watch parents allow their kids to just throw the vases on the floor. I guess they think of McDonald’s as a giant, international, faceless (not counting Ronald McDonald) corporation. They didn’t realise that, at this McDonald’s, there was a person – my mum – who had been at home preparing all the little vases to be just right. My parents are invested in the relationships their business has created, to the point of even attending the funerals of regular customers and buying wedding cakes for employees who are getting married. Every time I’m on tour and walk into a truck stop and see the tacky plastic flowers glued to the wall, I think, You’ve got the right idea.

  My parents were among the first in Western Australia to install a McCafé. That was super cool and incredibly convenient because it was around that time that I started working there in my very first job; I was about fourteen. I was a barista and I thought I was beyond cool. I was the only boy working in the McCafé – I worked with a heap of older girls who I adored, Amy, Jillian, Kristen, all fabulous nineteen-year-old chicks, so I felt very sassy. (To be honest it was a little bit of a gay job, but you know, start as you mean to go on, I say.) My specialty was the Chocco Frappe, which was basically just Oreos, milk, ice and chocolate sauce. I don’t think I’m giving away any industry secrets there – it’s not like I’m giving you the recipe for the eleven secret herbs and spices. But, fuck, did I know how to frap that frappe.

  It was a great job working at McDonald’s, I doubt I’ll ever have a job as hard as that again. Eight-hour shifts on your feet, serving people non-stop. And the public are arseholes to people who work in McDonald’s. If you are reading this, please remember next time you go to McDonald’s: don’t be an arsehole to the people working there. Those people have been on their feet all day, they are hot and tired, and they probably smell of special sauce . . . They just want to serve you your burgers, so don’t be a dick. I feel like people walk into Macca’s (or any fast food chain for that matter) and lose all sense of decency, forgetting that the people behind the counter are people too. Also, you’re not paying enough to get to be a dick at McDonald’s. A fifty-cent cone is not currency enough to allow you to be a dick. If it was one of the nine-dollar Ben and Jerry’s numbers with the waffle cone and optional sprinkles, that’s fair enough, be a dick. But a fifty-cent cent cone does not come with di
ck tax. (Dick tax, by the way, would also be a great theme for an end-of-financial-year gay party, wouldn’t it? Remind me for next year.)

  McDonald’s was the only job I’ve ever had outside of the media industry. I worked there until the day I turned eighteen, and then I got a job at a radio station, Nova. I had started doing stand-up, and I’d already had my moment in the spotlight on Today Tonight. They did a feature on me as ‘Australia’s youngest comedian’ when I was seventeen, so clearly I had some serious industry pull.

  In all honesty, my job at Nova came about because my parents know Gary Roberts, who is a wonderful man and the general manager of Nova in Perth. I had grown up listening to Nathan, Nat and Shaun, the breakfast show on Nova Perth. They are brilliant and very funny, so I was so excited when my dad told me that Nova would employ me as a Casanova the day I turned eighteen, (Gary knew I was eager for a job in the ‘industry’. Maybe Dad convinced him I’d be a good employee when they were drunk on a holiday together.) A Casanova is one of those people who drive around in a Toyota Hilux branded with Nova signage and hand out free shit all day long. You may have even encountered a Casanova in your time, as they are all across Australia. For those reading this who aren’t based in Australia, you probably think I’ve lost my mind. Anyway, Casanovas most notably hand out ‘ice-cold cans of Coke’ and stickers. I mean, that was a cool job. I was eighteen, I had my P-plates and I was working for one of the top commercial radio stations in town. I was the youngest Casanova by a long way – normally you had to be off your P-plates, but they made an exception for me.

  But it was the other people I was working with that really blew eighteen-year-old Joel Creasey away. They were my first experience of people within the ‘biz’. Sort of – it was still Perth. But they were the coolest people I’d ever come across. I mean, they were in promotions, so like most people in promotions (read: Red Bull girls, Gold Coast meter maids) they were really hot and suave and cosmopolitan. Well, they were to me. At that age, I thought Vodka Cruisers were cosmopolitan.

  I went in on my first day and met Paul, the boss of the Casanovas, and totally walked past breakfast show hosts Nathan and Nat in the hallway and got completely star-struck. Paul explained to me how the job worked, gave me a red Nova shirt and then sent me off to hand out free shit. How hard was this job? Well, it wasn’t hard at all. It was an incredibly sweet gig. I didn’t even have to drive. Not because I didn’t want to, but it turned out I actually wasn’t allowed to drive the Hiluxes until I got off my P-plates. It was an insurance thing but I think this really shat the other Casanovas, because they had to drive my arse around for a year. I’d make up for it by navigating poorly and suggesting places we could stop for lunch.

  Our day would involve arriving at the office, seeing what we had to give away, splitting it up and then jumping in the cars. The cars had a huge sound systems and we’d pull up outside a Westfield or a train station or wherever we thought might have good foot traffic, and cross in to the radio station with a bit of ‘Hey! It’s Joel from the Casanovas! We’re down here at Westfield Carousel, we’re giving away chocolate milks and newspapers today, come down and say hi! We’d love to see you!’ Then we’d pop the boot, turn up the sound system and hand out our goods for half an hour. We’d do this four times a day. And that was it. We’d have two hours between crosses to get to our next location. We’re talking Perth, where nowhere takes more than twenty minutes to reach. So we’d often shop, have a manicure . . . Once I was so hungover I took a pillow and had a sleep on the beach.

  I was a Casanova for about two years, working there pretty much up until I moved to Melbourne and became a full-time stand-up comedian. I had my first real taste of how disgusting the media industry could be while I was working there. Most of the office staff were fantastic, but one programming director kept insisting I sounded ‘too gay’ on air and if I could sound ‘less gay that would be really great. Companies don’t want their product spruiked by a gay man.’ Shame we didn’t get sponsored to give out any ice-cold bottles of amyl. He left the station only a few months after I’d been there. I was so happy once he’d left. Not sure why he went, though. Hopefully he was so homophobic he decided he couldn’t be around me much longer.

  About a year after I started as a Casanova the sales department employed a new sales rep called Simon. A few of my fellow gays came rushing into the Casanova office to ask me if I’d checked out the new babe down the other end of the building. Straight away I found an excuse to go down to the sales department to check ‘what promotions were coming up’ and have a good perve. Simon was at least ten years older than me and had a long-term boyfriend, and I was immediately in love. I do adore a challenge. A few months later I said yes to buying a $150 ticket to the Fashion+Aid charity ball because I found out Simon had bought one too and we’d be on the same table. I bought a new suit and thought it was a good idea to streak my hair with bleach for the occasion. You’ve already got a boner, haven’t you? Bear in mind I’d never spoken more than two words to this guy. The night was a disaster – I got drunk and spilt wine on him. Not to mention my hair made me look like Ellen DeGeneres. I left Nova not long after this. Simon and I are totally still Facebook friends and I saw recently he is now engaged to the same partner. Yeah, yeah, good on ya . . .

  I made some best friends for life at Nova. One in particular being my gorgeous friend Janine Booth. I met Janine on my second day at Nova. She looked like Barbie and I instantly thought, Right, well, I bet she’s a total mole! but I could not have been more wrong. She was one of the warmest, most fabulous people I’d ever come across. Janine had gone to my sisters’ school, Penrhos College, and she was two years older than me, and we just hit it off right away. We used to ask for all our shifts to be together and, seemingly overnight, we became essential in each other’s lives.

  One day, when I’d been working at Nova for about a year, we went out on a miserable, rainy day. Janine and I had terrible shit to give away (like really shit – we were giving away a ‘stress brick’, which was a stress ball shaped like a brick because we were doing a promotion for a home building company), so nobody was coming down.

  We were standing in the rain, soaking wet. The only person who did come by abused us because we didn’t have any ‘chockie milk or a newspaper’. After about ten minutes we figured nobody back at the office would know if we threw in the towel early and we went to a café called Sienna’s in Victoria Park. Sitting there, we had one of those ‘Well, what do you want to do with your life?’ moments. Janine said, ‘I want to be a chef,’ and I said, ‘I want to be a stand-up comedian,’ and in unison we both said, ‘Let’s do it!’ And that was it. We just . . . well . . . did.

  Within a month, Janine had moved to Miami to start studying at Le Cordon Bleu, the most famous cooking school in the world. You may have heard of Le Cordon Bleu in the Meryl Streep movie Julie and Julia – and, really, if you haven’t seen the movie by now, you and I probably can’t be friends. Seeing Janine’s determination, a few months later I registered to take part in the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. Obviously we’ll be talking more about that later because it’s kinda a major plot point in my book, but Janine is doing so well now – she finished studying at Le Cordon Bleu, went on Top Chef America, made the finals, met one of the mentors on the show, fell in love with him and had a baby with him. Actually, writing it out, I think I’m a little jealous of her life. They’ve opened three restaurants in the States, one of which is consistently ranked as one of the top ten restaurants in Manhattan. She’s killing it and she’s still one of my dearest friends. I like to think that, in a way, Janine is still handing out ice-cold Cokes, just in really, really fancy glasses. And they’re certainly not free.

  I had done my first open mic gig about eight months before starting work at Nova, and the other Casanovas were really supportive, regularly attending my gigs and helping me fill the crowd. My rapidly growing experience behind the mic led to me MCing the half-time game at the NBL Basketball during Perth
Wildcats home games (Nova were the radio sponsor). I loved going out in front of five thousand people at those games. And I loved getting to sit backstage with the Wildcats cheerleaders – all called names like Jade, Crystal and Celeste – even more.

  I remember sitting backstage one night with my favourite cheerleader, Kourtney, who’d just finished a particularly fierce Janet Jackson routine. Curious as to where cheerleading might lead, I asked her, ‘So what do you want to do with your life?’

  She said, ‘I just want to be famous.’

  ‘Don’t we all, babe?’

  That’s when I knew I had to leave Perth and take my stand-up more seriously. I didn’t want to MC the half-time game forever. I wanted to be the game.

  5

  The Makings of a Monster

  I decided I was going to be a stand-up comedian about halfway through Grade 12. The academic life was just not for me, plus studying algebra wasn’t exactly going to help me as a stand-up comic . . . so, goodbye homework! Although I think the idea of becoming a comedian had been sitting in the back of my mind, dormant, for some time. As you’ve probably worked out, once I get an idea in my mind, I will usually execute it. The quality of execution has varied, however . . . like the time I decided I needed a fake tan before I went on my Grade 11 school camp. Think sassy Donald Trump on a budget . . . but with worse hair. But with stand-up I’ve been lucky that it’s, well, sorta worked out all right. My sheer insecurities stop me from saying, ‘Yep. I’m nailing it.’