Thirsty Read online

  I was so elated after the taping. People sent me champagne and flowers to celebrate. I was on a high. But soon after I came off stage, the guy I was dating cracked the shits and told me he was bored and hungry and that the night had been ‘too much about you’. I apologised to my management and said I was going to go home with him. I bought him McDonald’s (he had no money) and then stood in the rain, arms full of flowers and champagne, trying to hail a cab while he stood under the shelter eating his Macca’s. It was such a come down from the glamour of taping my first stand-up special. And I’m so annoyed with myself that, while I’m so confident and self-assured in the rest of my life, I used to be so weak with guys. I should’ve told him to shove a cheeseburger (that he’d paid for himself) up his arse and fuck off. Unfortunately, instead I apologised to him for it taking so long to hail a cab then sat in silence the entire way home. I didn’t even have the balls to tell him when we got home that the second cheeseburger was meant to be for me.

  By the middle of 2013 I was off and racing, making regular appearances on panel shows, radio shows and TV shows. I had a good year that year, gigging solidly. I backed it up with another well-received stand-up show the following year, The Drama Captain – all about my time as the führer of my high school drama department – and appeared at my first Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala. At the end of 2013 I was offered my first regular TV gig on the show A League of Their Own, which was an Australian version of a hit show hosted by James Corden that is still on air in the UK. It’s a comedy program where sports stars and comedians answer sports-themed quiz questions and compete in stunts. Our show was hosted by Tommy Little (who had moved up through the comedy ranks at the same time as me) and featured Pat Cash and Eamon Sullivan, whose team I was on. My job was to be the comic relief to the sports stars and to basically fuck up every challenge. As someone who had shunned sport in school (minus my early successes in the pool and on the tennis court) and was picked last in every PE class, it was quite hilarious that I was now working with Australian sporting legends on a daily basis.

  The show was filmed at Fox Studios in Sydney and it was my first experience of the glamour of television. I was being chauffeured around set, had my own ‘star trailer’ and felt fucking rock and roll. By the way, in reality, those ‘star trailers’ are not remotely sexy. They’re like being in your grandparents’ caravan: it’s hot, dingy, moves every time you move, and reeks of toilet detergent.

  On the show, I went from being plunged into ice baths and cycling around velodromes, to having the shit beaten out of me by two female wrestlers, all the while trying to make the audience laugh. I’m not sure if Eamon Sullivan got the memo that I was meant to be incompetent at all the games, as he was always furious with me when I was the reason our team lost – once he forced me to stay in the ice bath longer than I had to. I totally know what those people on the Titanic went through. At least they got to hear Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On’ uninterrupted (she was there, right?).

  Unfortunately the show ‘took it up the arse’ in the ratings, as we say in the biz (and occasionally other professions) – it completely flopped. But I seemed to come out of the show unscathed and it had still raised my profile and meant more offers came in.

  It also meant I started to get recognised on a more frequent basis, including my first time being recognised overseas! It happened in New York. And it was after I woke up next to a guy after an incredibly big (read: blotto/wasted/smashed/drunk) night. He rolled over and said, ‘Good morning! I thought you were really funny on that show A League of Their Own.’ I thought, Fuck, that’s creepy. Is this guy a stalker? So, trying to act calm, I said, ‘Oh . . . did it air on TV over here?’ And he said, ‘No. You made me watch two episodes before we went to bed last night.’

  Shit.

  In 2014 I was playing a venue at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival where I could make decent money. That year’s show was called Rock God and it was all about trying to desperately get famous and working with Joan Rivers (whom I had begun working with that year). My tour was now clocking up around sixty stops nationwide and we had such a successful season, I ended up adding shows everywhere we went. It was a simple show, but Janelle Koenig, my writing and business partner, and I had worked out a successful format for my stand-up shows: Just make them laugh and stick to what you know. So many comedians do beautiful shows about their life and their troubles. They tell stories that’ll really challenge the way you think about and view things. Some comedians do shows that are very politically minded and share a deep message. I know my limitations. I can’t do any of these things. I always say to my audience, ‘You’re not going to leave my shows having learned something. If anything, you’ll probably leave dumber . . . but we are going to have a laugh.’

  That year I also made my first appearance on The Great Debate, a comedy debate that aired on Channel Ten as part of the comedy festival and that I had adored growing up. I was teamed with Tom Gleeson and my now dear friend Fiona O’Loughlin. The topic was ‘It’s Good to Fake It’ and we were the affirmative team. I ended my debate with shirtless dancers and drag queens – obviously! That appearance also meant I was cementing my position in the industry. I used to watch all the comedy festival specials growing up – now I was on them!

  Off the back of my Rock God season I continued to film TV shows and tour. It also meant I had money to spend for the first time in my life. At the end of that year I signed on to appear on I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! – don’t worry, that shit is getting a chapter of its own – which led to me being asked to host the after-show, I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here Now! the following year, as you’ll read about too.

  When I returned from hosting the after-show, I went straight into a new tour titled The Crown Prince. I had launched the tour before I’d left for Africa, so I knew it worked. I really enjoyed the hour I had on stage each night with my audience because I was doing what I loved and controlling the outcome. I could be myself again.

  I began partying each night after the show. I never drink before a show because it’s the most important, sacred hour of my day, but, foolishly, I was going out each night post-show for the validation. I think I subconsciously wanted people to recognise me and praise me because I felt like my career had completely fallen apart after that second trip to Africa. Partying so hard also meant that by the time the Sunday show rolled around I was performing on autopilot, my brain completely fried.

  To be fair, a lot of comedians party after their shows, I just hadn’t up to that point. It’s such a trap – we’re already performing in bars and pubs. And truth be told, alcohol is an incredibly effective way to manage that adrenalin buzz that lingers long after you walk off stage. I don’t know many performers who can finish a gig and go straight to bed.

  I feel so privileged to get to do what I do. For a while I was stumbling through, accepting anything that came my way and rolling with the punches. Now that I’ve realised it’s a job, and it’s become my life, I can focus a lot more. Of course, the thrill of anybody actually wanting to buy a ticket to see me talk has never worn off and will never get old. Stand-up has been my therapy and my way of dealing with the shit life throws at me. Whether it’s a personal or professional problem, I’ve always managed to laugh through it and tell the story to my audience, no matter how frivolous. I hold nothing back. People who have been coming to my shows for years know everything about me. When people say to me, ‘I feel so silly saying this but I feel like I know you,’ I always say, ‘It’s not silly, you actually do!’

  And as I arrive to perform each night and see people lining up to see me, I genuinely beam and have to pinch myself. I remember chalking the pavement in Melbourne for my first show, praying that it might entice even one paying customer to come. It’s not lost on me that some people haven’t just paid for the ticket to my show; they’ve paid for parking, a babysitter, time off work, dinner beforehand and, in some cases, flights and accommodation. That
is why I strive to never phone in a performance or not give my best, because I have been that person in the audience so many times growing up, admiring the people on the stage and thinking, Fuck, I wish I could do that! They are so lucky! And now that I get to do it, I will never take it for granted. Even writing this just made me stop and think, Fuck, I can’t wait to get on stage tonight! Also, Must iron a shirt. If you’re going to pay me to tell you stories from my life, and about my silly little problems, and the different celebrities I’ve encountered – if you’re going to pay me to do that? – well, I am going to give you my all every single time.

  It truly is the weirdest job on the planet. People often ask me if it’s terrifying. I know that, after actual death, public speaking is most people’s greatest fear. I always say that stand-up for me is like going to an office job that I love. The stage is my office and that is where I work.

  On the flipside, there are people who say I have the easiest job in the world. Well, in some ways that’s true. I get to do what I love and make people laugh for a living. But often it’s because they think as comedians we only work sixty to ninety minutes a night. Or if we’re playing a comedy club, a mere twenty minutes. What people don’t see is the time and effort behind the curtains. I am constantly writing material and testing that material. Or I’m recording radio or TV interviews, or filming spots on TV shows, sometimes a year before they actually go to air, and filming pilots that never even make it to air. I’m forever going to auditions and often waiting for a phone call that never comes. I also do corporate gigs for companies at charity lunches and awards nights. I do private gigs for people and events. I maintain my own social media. I have endorsements and sponsorship deals.

  But I love it all. Every single last bit of it. It’s pretty fucking fabulous.

  6

  Coming Out

  People love to ask gay people ‘When did you come out?’ or ‘When did you know you were gay?’ or ‘Should I buy this dress?’ The answer to the latter is usually ‘No, Jessica, your mother should have told you about horizontal stripes in kindergarten.’

  I guess I’ve always known I was gay. There was never really any question. In my stand-up I say I knew when I was four years old, when my mum sang me ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’. I stopped her and said, ‘Do you know anything from Chicago?’ And also, ‘You’re a little bit pitchy.’ Or when I was three and I decided the Tellytubbies were a little too butch. Or when I was a baby and Mum tried breastfeeding me and I said, ‘Let’s just be friends.’

  Or perhaps it was when I was eight and would cry at the end of 101 Dalmatians. Not when the puppies were finally reunited with their owners – when Cruella de Vil didn’t win. I used to bawl my eyes out. I was so upset she wasn’t going to get the beautiful puppy coat. Eight-year-old Joel was like, ‘Fuck the puppies! Give Glenn Close the fur!’

  I also say on stage that I told my parents I was gay when I was eighteen: I sat them down and told them, and they said, ‘Cool. We’re having pasta for dinner.’

  To which I said, ‘I don’t think you heard me. I said I’m gay! I can’t eat fucking carbohydrates any more!’

  In reality, it’s far more complex than that. But that’s the general essence, and I was pretty lucky in that respect. But I do want you to know that not every coming out is a horror story. (Although admittedly it would’ve made for much juicier reading – fuck you for being so reasonable and cool, Mum and Dad!)

  I started questioning my sexuality when I was in primary school. While I had crushes on plenty of girls, they weren’t necessarily romantic crushes, they were more the early stages of my complete and utter adoration of women. As I write in Chapter 13, ‘Women Who Inspire Me’, I have always loved women. I’ve idolised them. And I think I confused early crushes on girls in primary school with just thinking women are fucking fabulous. It truly bugs me when people say, ‘Oh, you just love women because you’re gay. That’s a gay thing.’ I don’t think that’s necessarily true, I just think I’ve been lucky (or #blessed) to grow up with really positive female role models in my life, from my mum and my grandma, to my sisters, teachers and friends. And Sandra Sully, obviously.

  I knew I liked the fellas in primary school, but didn’t know the word for it till I was in about Grade 6. That’s when I started to hear the word ‘gay’ being used in a derogatory way. Up until then I’d only ever heard the word in Enid Blyton books. (By the way, what was Enid smoking when she wrote that shit? Saucepan Man? Dame Wash-a-lot? Girl, you’re smoking too much weed. I knew it was a magic faraway tree, I just didn’t know it was a marijuana tree.)

  The word ‘gay’ never really bugged me. When people said it, I started subconsciously connecting the dots and thought, ‘Oh, they’re talking about me.’ But I have always relished being different; I couldn’t think of a bigger snub than being considered ‘normal’ or ‘average’. I’ve always thought of being gay as being special, something that differentiates me from the pack. I get to be part of an exclusive club full of very cool people. I mean, come on – how many shit gay people have you met? Not many, right? Milo Yiannopoulos being a major exception.

  I was about thirteen when I first acknowledged to myself that I was gay. I remember thinking, Wow, that’s big – this time last week I was thinking about Mario Kart and Sara-Marie’s bum dance. And then I thought, I’m going to park that and come back to it in a few weeks. And sure enough, a few weeks later I tackled it again – and I more or less shrugged my shoulders and went, Well, that’s settled then. I’m gay.

  I’m incredibly lucky to never have had that internal struggle that so many gay men have. Some have it their whole life and can’t quite come to grips with it. It’s sadly not surprising that the suicide rate is four times higher in LGBTIQ people than in the general population.

  On my very first day of Grade 8 I met a boy called James Hodgins. I knew instantly that he was part of the club too. While we didn’t tell each other for a few years, it was an unspoken acknowledgement. I’ve never asked James, but I think he felt the same way about being gay as I did: it was never a problem, just something that we had to work out. It was just a fact, like being right handed, or figuring out what you want for dinner – you know you want something, but it’s not until your stomach is rumbling with anticipation and that particular something is rapidly approaching that you work it out. Gosh, what a metaphor.

  James was important in my life because we operated on the same wavelength. Like me, he loved women, and we laughed our entire way through high school, talking about all our female teachers. Making up fake storylines about their lives, discussing what they’d wear each day, what we thought they got up to in their private lives. To us, they were our own personal versions of the Real Housewives – the Real Teachers of Wesley College.

  At the same time I was exploring my sexuality online – thank God I’m Generation Y. I would google things about being gay. ‘What is gay?’ I’d type and up would pop images of Ellen and Elton John. I’m pretty sure if you google ‘What is gay?’ now, a selection of my headshots will appear. I had to resort to the internet back then because there was no education about it in school. None whatsoever. In fact, I don’t believe there is much more now.

  Even in sexual education we never learned anything about gay sex. I think that is abhorrent and that the education system has a lot to answer for. I can count at least twenty gay men in my year alone, many of whom I’ve kissed since leaving school . . . and that’s not even including the teachers. For a private boys’ school, that is insanity. But it is one of the many areas in which I think my very expensive high school let its community down.

  As well as googling, I would trawl the internet and start chatting to random gay men in chat rooms. Nothing seedy, just kinda getting a grasp on the situation. Are chat rooms even a thing any more? Actually, is chatting even a thing any more? It’s all been reduced to swiping left or right these days, hasn’t it?

  I don’t actually remember the first boy I kissed – it was all a bit of a blu
r. But I have no doubt James was the first boy I kissed that actually meant something more than ‘I’ve seen people do this in the movies so I guess that is what we’re supposed to do’. When I kissed James, it was the first time I thought, Wow, kissing boys is actually awesome.

  Outside of James, the first person I told I was gay wasn’t my best friend Ashleigh. It was my friend Dani Du Plessis. Some girls are just born fag hags. And I don’t mean the phrase ‘fag hag’ in a derogatory way. Some people take offence to being called it, but I mean it as a total compliment. If the terms ‘fruit fly’ or ‘queer peer’ make you feel more comfortable, well, you can use them instead. But some fag hags truly understand the plight of gay men. Something within them knows how hard coming out is and they provide an outlet for us to say those words that seem so hard to say out loud for the first time: ‘I’m gay’. I told Dani after too many Bacardi Breezers at a New Year’s Eve party in the summer holiday break between Grades 11 and 12. She said something really sensitive and compassionate along the lines of, ‘Duh, dickhead!’ Which seemed to be the most common reaction, truth be told.

  Why weren’t people shocked and outraged? I had glamorous dreams of running away for two weeks and when people found me, I’d be singing ‘It’s a Hard Knock Life’ in an orphanage run by Anthony Warlow and/or Irene from Home and Away!

  Speaking of musicals, it was no surprise that, in the year after we graduated, Dani and I would save up money to take trips to Melbourne and Sydney to see musicals like Chicago, The Rocky Horror Picture Show and the ultimate gay musical, Wicked, which we once saw twice in the same day. Dani would then happily wing-woman for me at gay bars, covering for me with our nosier friends while I kissed boys. We would go out and say I was a famous comedian. I had done maybe four stand-up gigs in my entire life by this point. Start as you mean to go on, eh?