by Joel Creasey
The time between Jeffery leaving Melbourne and me going to Asia was excruciating. But I knew once I had left Australia it would get easier as I would at least feel like I was on my way to him.
In this time I was quite busy filming It’s a Date, written by Peter Helliar, in which I played my friend Tom Ballard’s boyfriend, as well as continuing to tour my stand-up show. However, Jeffery and I still FaceTimed every second we had free. Never in public, though. I often see people FaceTiming in the lounge at the airport. Please don’t. We don’t want to listen to your conversation, let alone see and hear the person on the other end of the line.
In early July I headed off to tour Asia as part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Roadshow and I had struck gold with a pretty epic cast of amazing comedians who also happened to be good friends – Anne Edmonds, Harley Breen, Luke McGregor and Ronny Chieng.
We began the tour in Kuala Lumpur, which was the Comedy Festival’s first time touring there. We stayed across the road from the local karaoke bar and we spent every moment we weren’t on stage there, drinking outrageously potent Long Island iced teas. Harley and I also took a comedy workshop with some of the local comics, culminating in a performance that afternoon that they could invite their friends along to, plus the rest of our cast came. I’ve always remembered that as one of the cooler things I’ve had the opportunity to do in my career: giving advice to aspiring comedians in another country. And they were fantastic. Our own shows each night were awesome, too.
Then we headed to Singapore, which I was nervous about, given their strict laws concerning homosexuality. Plus I’d heard they’d been a bit strange when gay comedians had been there before. Not the audience, but the administration of the Arts Theatre. On our first day we were given a briefing by the head of the theatre, who was this very severe Singaporean woman: tall, sky-high heels and hot pink nails (obviously knew some gays).
She sat opposite me and went through everything we weren’t allowed to talk about. When she got to ‘permissive lifestyles’, she eyeballed me. I eye-rolled back at her. Well, I did on the inside. She was fucking terrifying, and probably knew a martial art.
I was only twenty-three and a bit overwhelmed. The meeting finished and I held it together until I got to my room, where I burst into tears. How the fuck was I going to do the show? Gideon, our tour manager (also gay and very fabulous), was great and just told me to ‘do what I do’. So I thought, Fuck it, and went out and delivered the gayest set you’ve ever seen. Full gay-man-on-ketamine-on-the-dancefloor-when-Kylie-Minogue-comes-on-at-Mardi-Gras style. To be honest, I’ve never considered my material as being specific to a ‘gay comedian’. I just discuss relationships and my life on stage. If a straight comic were to do it you wouldn’t describe them as a ‘heterosexual comedian’. But for some reason the second a gay man references their sexuality, a partner or a sexual experience on stage, we become ‘gay comedians’. It’s a total double standard.
However, the gigs went so well in Singapore that I ended up getting to close the show for the final leg of the tour in Hong Kong. In the industry, that’s a big deal. And Hong Kong was great. We were doing shows at the Arts Theatre and they were going off. Plus I didn’t realise Hong Kong had such a great gay scene. One of the big gay clubs got wind that I was in town and invited us to come along and judge their karaoke competition. I ran it past the other comedians and we decided to make a night of it. There were only three spots for judges so Anne, Luke and I took those spots.
We didn’t realise quite how seriously the locals took their karaoke competition. We were there to get drunk, and suddenly we had people begging us to keep them in the competition. We loved the power trip. Anne ended up doing five numbers herself and getting in a fight with the drag queen who was hosting the show when she asked for the microphone back. I’ll never forget the sight of them, each with a hand on the mic, yanking it back and forth, with Mariah Carey playing in the background all the while (which was to be Anne’s sixth number). It’s truly one of the best nights I’ve ever had on tour. And the most hilarious.
I was also getting excited because the Asian tour was coming to an end and that meant I had only one week until seeing Jeffery. On the night of our final show I went straight to the airport to head up to Montreal while most of the other comics were going to Edinburgh the next day.
Landing in Montreal was exciting. Not only was I now finally on the same continent as my boyfriend, I was also at the biggest comedy festival in the world for the first time. And I had also been booked for one of their televised galas, which an invite to Montreal doesn’t necessarily guarantee you, and is particularly rare in your first year. The galas in Montreal are filmed at the Place des Arts Theatre (that’s French for ‘Place of Arts’, by the way. I’m very multilingual, I’m basically Shakira), this ginormous theatre housing close to four thousand seats. And I was to be on the gala hosted by the legendary Chevy Chase.
I had an amazing debut performance, playing it safe and going with material about Perth and shark attacks, which I’d been doing for years and could count on. I was named a highlight by the Montreal Gazette. Chevy Chase didn’t review so favourably. Not particularly surprising given I’d heard him walk past my dressing room on his way to the stage and grumble to his minder, ‘I am not in the mood for this shit.’
I was also part of the all-Australian show. The line-up consisted of me, Dave Hughes, Adam Hills, Wil Anderson and Felicity Ward. It was really a pinch-myself moment, being part of this legendary group of Australian comedians. Having watched all these performers growing up, I was honoured to be performing alongside them. But I also wanted to hold my own and – in my typical selfless, charitable style – potentially outshine them if I could. We were performing in an eighty-seat theatre called the Montreal Improv. It was warehouse style and really run down. But it was quite funny, because there were nearly more performers than audience members some nights. Little did the audience know that any of these comedians back in Australia (or the UK, for that matter) pack out giant theatres. The backstage was about two metres by two metres and the five of us squished in there while chowing down on the backstage rider (potato chips and coffee – glam) and listening to each other’s sets. I fucking loved it.
Suddenly Montreal was over and my manager Andrew and I went out for a celebratory dinner. He took me to a restaurant that Celine Dion supposedly loves, so naturally I did too. Magnifique! (Side note: As I’ve mentioned before I love Celine Dion. But I also find it hilarious how she’s lived in America pretty much her entire life now and still has that thick French–Canadian accent. Get les grip, Celine!)
The next morning I jumped out of bed and basically ran to the airport to board my flight for New York, where Jeffery was staying at his friend’s gorgeous house in the West Village. I reckon I could’ve run all the way from Montreal.
Seeing him after all this time – three whole months apart – was incredible. The first night I was in town he was booked on Andy Cohen’s Watch What Happens Live. It was really cool, but also an unusual experience for me to be the one in the audience. I felt a bit overwhelmed. I also questioned if my ego could take it if this ended up being a regular occurrence. What if I were permanently the one in the audience? It was only a fleeting thought, however, as I topped myself up from the open bar. Another of the guests that night was one of The Real Housewives of OC. I sat next to her stylist in the audience, who had also been helping himself to the free booze. He was about sixty-five years old, had peroxided hair, black and white pinstripe pants, white shoes and a lime green blouse-type shirt. Halfway through the show I found his hand on my thigh. That was a . . . nice . . . welcome to New York. Turns out the Real Stylists of OC are a little bit handsy.
Jeffery and I had a few weeks of seeing shows, eating at great restaurants and being disgustingly in love before Thomas arrived. As Jeffery had previously lived in New York there was never a search for where to eat or where we should go – he has great taste and knew exactly what we would both
like. We drank Negronis at probably every bar in New York, laughed till our cheeks hurt, walked through the streets holding hands and telling each other how in love we were (controlling our boners this time) and Jeffery even introduced me to meatloaf – the food, not the singer.
I was loving it. I was infatuated and living a dream. But I couldn’t work out what I was doing. I wasn’t being myself. I mean, I wasn’t doing a Lindsay Lohan–style German accent or anything crazy like that, but I couldn’t relax completely when we were around his friends. I could only let my guard down when it was just Jeffery and me. I couldn’t quite understand why. Maybe it was sheer insecurity I’d never discovered I had: I was suddenly nobody in the most powerful country in the world standing beside my boyfriend, who seemed to know everybody. Not to mention that he was always the loudest one at the party; always in control and always with something funny to say. That was normally me. And I’m not saying I was standing there fuming in silent, unfunny jealousy – I would laugh too. But I couldn’t quite get my comedy timing calibrated in social settings. It was so odd, and happened every time we were with people I didn’t know. I kept imagining them thinking to themselves, I thought Jeffery said his new boyfriend was a comedian . . .
I felt like a competent tennis player who kept getting knocked out in the third round of a grand slam. Essentially I was Samantha Stosur, sans those weird wrap-around sunnies she always plays in. Even during night games. Samantha, what you doing, girl? You better not have a Velcro wallet.
Soon Thomas arrived and we all moved into a fun Airbnb in the East Village. I was stoked to have Thomas in town because it felt like I had an ally. Not that I needed one, but it was nice to have someone who could be as confused as I was when Jeffery and his friends were talking about a casting executive from LA I had no idea about. But I was also so smitten with my relationship I probably didn’t give Thomas a lot of attention.
Jeffery and I took Thomas around to every gay bar in town to find him a husband and had a particularly awesome night seeing Cabaret starring Alan Cumming and Michelle Williams. We ended up backstage at a private party with Alan and the cast in his swanky dressing room called Club Cumming, which was actually sponsored by Campari. I’m dying to have a dressing room sponsored by an alcohol company. That’s when I’ll know I’ve made it. It can even be VB or Midori Illusion, I’ll take anything.
Around the same time, my manager, Andrew, and my parents arrived in New York. My show opened at the Fringe Festival at a theatre in the West Village called the Players Theatre. I’d never heard of any other comics performing at the New York Fringe Festival before, and probably for good reason: the Fringe is a pretty poorly run festival. It felt shoddily put together and the line-up basically consisted of myself and two Norwegian contortionists who’d had the same idea as me, thinking they’d be ahead of the curve if they signed up.
The Players Theatre were shocked that I required a microphone for my first sound check. The theatre manager (who admittedly was a volunteer from the festival) could not have hated us more. And although they had a theatre technician on hand, we had to supply our own technical support. We at least knew this part in advance so came up with an idea. We’d decided Thomas would be my support act. In drag. We came up with a character called ‘Tracy from Toowoomba’ – Toowoomba’s local theatre technician who had been sent with me by the Australian Government. Tracy would open my show by doing ten minutes of very Australian-centric gags and then literally walk up through the audience, get into the theatre technician’s box and begin the show. So . . . theatre technician sorted!
Tracy wore head-to-toe khaki and boots and a tool belt, from which an unnecessary number of keys, mini toy kangaroos and Australian flags hung. Thomas decided Tracy was a distant relation of the Irwins and he told stories of growing up in Northern Queensland with Steve, and all of the supposed productions Tracy has ‘teched’ in Australia prior to mine. (Phantom of the Opera starring Deborra-lee Furness as the Phantom, apparently.) It was so hilarious watching people in the heavily American audience believe him, completely wide-eyed and in awe. I am laughing even just writing this, remembering the night we rolled around my lounge room in Melbourne dreaming Tracy up, never predicting she would be on stage in America, let alone having some in the audience thinking she was a real woman and not my best mate Thomas in drag.
We also decided that, although quite a rough-looking woman (Thomas would do full prosthetic sunburn and peeling all across his face for the character), she would have an amazing pair of breasts that were simply never referenced. So Thomas bought a $1500 professional drag breast plate.
As I said, it really confused the audience some nights. Some in the audience truly believed she was a real Australian theatre technician with an extraordinary pair of boobs who had come across to America with me. But, my God, sitting in the wings of that theatre listening to Thomas interacting with the audience, I would laugh.
Our New York Fringe run truly could not have gone better. Aside from the nightmare staff and the disorganisation of the festival, we received a five-star review from Time Out New York. I woke up on my birthday to see the review sitting in my email inbox from my US manager, Jodi.
I rolled over to Jeffery and said, ‘Hey . . . is this a big deal?’
He said, ‘Fuck, yes. Congratulations, babe.’
I was stoked. My boyfriend, best friend, family and friends were in New York while I performed my show, which was now getting some proper buzz and actually selling tickets thanks to this great review. On my birthday. And that night I was opening for my hero Joan Rivers. Not to mention I had Tracy and her (gravity defying) bosom of support.
As I’ll write about later on, that night with Joan Rivers was so special because it was her last performance in New York. Well, special for me. Not so much for her as she sorta, kinda . . . died afterwards. By the way, how’s the suspense I’m building? I’ve totally learned that from my years of watching Masterchef. If this were a TV show we’d go to an ad break right about now.
What happened that evening was strange. After Joan Rivers’ show, Jeffery, Thomas and I said goodbye to my parents and decided to go to some of the gay bars in midtown. We were all in odd moods. Jeffery was acting strange and Thomas was acting strange, purely because Jeffery was acting strange. And, as a result, I was acting strange.
Things were tense and we decided to go home. Then Jeffery and I had a blow up in our bedroom as Thomas, in his room, tried to drown out the noise with Netflix cranked up to full volume. On second thoughts, it was probably porn. Anyway, he was trying to distract himself.
I was drunk and going for a ‘movie moment’ so I started to put my shoes back on as if to storm out of the apartment.
Jeffery said, ‘Seriously? What are you doing?’
I said, ‘Going for a walk. I can’t be here right now.’
He said, ‘Don’t be an idiot. Come here.’
I got back into bed and he put his arm around me, apologised and said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m just not used to being the one in the audience.’
(Look, he said it way cooler than that . . . but I’m writing this part of the book at forty thousand feet on my way to do a gig in Darwin and I think it’s playing with my emotions. Also, I need another G&T . . .)
But I knew I couldn’t be mad at him. Hadn’t I had that exact same thought watching him at Watch What Happens Live? Perhaps he was just more honest than me.
I later found out my dad had tried to be supportive and turned to Jeffery just before I’d walked on stage at Joan’s show and said, ‘I’m so glad Joel has you to support him.’ Dad meant it one way, Jeffery took it another . . . but I wish I had known this earlier.
We closed our time at the New York fringe with a sold-out show thanks to Ms Joan Rivers insisting everybody come along. Jeffery and I flew to LA the next day.
Jeffery lives in a house once owned by Buster Keaton and now owned by his very generous friend who we’d also stayed with in New York. Thomas arrived a day later and Jeffery happily
played tour guide to us both, including driving us up to San Francisco for two nights. On our way we stopped at the Madonna Inn, a kitschy hotel halfway between LA and San Francisco. If you ever do that drive, I insist you stop there for a night. It’s in the middle of the desert and every room is themed to within an inch of its life. The hotel’s restaurant has gaudy, hot pink booths and the food portions are huge (and unlike Madonna, not all vegan, thank God). For dessert, they roll around a cake cart with cakes made of colours that are surely not natural nor good for your body. The champagne cake we chose (the size of a small car) was practically glowing like phosphorus. The three of us sat in a booth and laughed, cracked jokes and drank wine, and I remember thinking I couldn’t possibly be happier. I was with my two favourite men, eating a ridiculous meal, in a ridiculous location, laughing like fucking crazy.
Soon enough, Thomas left LA and I was once again alone with Jeffery. We spent our time together eating dinners, hiking and telling each other how in love we were. I also began doing some gigs in LA and taking meetings with my US manager, Jodi.
In America, casting agents and network executives do something that I’ve not found in the rest of the world – they have meetings with talent to kill time. I’ve honestly met with every casting director and network executive in Hollywood. The meetings are completely fake and phoney. They roll around laughing at your jokes, tell you you’re a star . . . and you never hear from them again. Two days later they’ve completely forgotten you and you’ve completely forgotten them. It’s all so strange. But at least they pick up the bill. Or – sorry, it’s America – the ‘check’.
