by Joel Creasey
Straight after we were eliminated, Anna and I were taken to the crew base, which was really close to the celebrity camp, but of course we had no idea about that. Crew members came running over to us for photos, congratulating us, slapping us on the back. It felt amazing.
I asked if I could borrow a phone and I made a thirty-second call to my manager, Andrew, asking, ‘Do I still have a career?’
He responded, ‘Yes. I am so proud of you.’ I think I started to cry.
While the show was being broadcast live in Australia at 8.30 pm, it was only about 11.30 am in Africa and Anna and I still had a full day ahead of us. First up we were required to have a psych and medical briefing and that’s when I realised just how much weight I had lost. Kate the psychologist talked us through a few things and prepared us to be released into the outside world where our profiles had grown immeasurably and the public now had opinions about us, some good and some bad. (I’d pissed off quite a few Merv Hughes fans, as it turns out.)
People often ask me what my first meal was after coming out of the jungle. Of course I had a burger and fries and Anna had the same thing. The meal was incredible.
Then our crazy media schedule began. I started with interviews with some of the big magazines back in Australia, like New Idea and OK!, as their reporters had all been waiting up to see who was eliminated.
Then Australia went to bed so I had a few hours off. I was taken to a luxury mansion where I could shower (which felt crazy good!) and look at myself naked in a mirror for the first time, which was really confronting. I immediately shaved my beard off and made sure my penis still worked. Then I began photo shoots for the Australian magazines. That took a couple of hours but I had time to sneak in a phone call or two. I FaceTimed my mum, and I tried to reach Jeffery but I couldn’t get hold of him because of the time difference with America. Also African wifi isn’t great, and these were such important phone calls to make I didn’t want them to stuff up.
After dinner, at about 10 pm, I was taken back to the crew base to start press interviews. By then Australia was waking up, and Anna and I sat there and did fifty back-to-back breakfast radio interviews. A lot of the questions were very similar like ‘How did you find your time in the jungle?’ Many of my questions were about Chrissie and Barry, and a few were about my argument with Merv, which I found quite funny, because although Merv and I had squabbled, by the time Merv had been eliminated a few days earlier, we were the best of friends. And still are.
And then, suddenly, it was done. I was out. I was a celebrity and I was out of there. I was put on a plane back to Australia, seated next to Julie Goodwin, who had been eliminated the day before. Fuck, we got drunk.
We landed in Sydney and there were paparazzi everywhere, people wanting photos, people saying, ‘My child loved you on the show!’ and ‘My daughter cried when you were eliminated!’ It was all so odd. I’ll also never forget the flight attendant at the business lounge in Sydney saying with a huge smile, ‘Welcome home. Can I make you a coffee? I know how much you missed it.’ What a fucking legend.
When I landed back in Melbourne, Jeff, one of my managers, picked me up. He had hamper after hamper after hamper and bottles of French champagne in the back of his car. I was welcomed home by Thomas and we sat on my balcony for hours, laughing and chatting about the show.
Flash forward to the next night and I was at my favourite nightclub, Poof Doof. Yes, that is the real name of a gay club in Melbourne. How brilliant is it? Gays are so good at taking words and just owning them. I feel like gays have done what rappers did with the N word . . . except we added glitter and Lady Gaga. I’ve also been to gay clubs in Europe called the Cockpit and the Male Box.
So there I was drinking and partying all night long, and had an utterly insane moment at about three in the morning when I realised Chrissie Swan was still stuck in the middle of the African jungle and, only forty-eight hours before, I had been there too. But now here I was back in Melbourne, living my life, drinking a vodka soda and flirting with boys. It was the weirdest, most bizarre experience.
I had a whirlwind year off the back of I’m a Celebrity . . . perhaps irresponsibly so. I took every TV show that was offered and appeared everywhere. I ended up burning myself out.
At the end of 2015 I was asked to go back to Africa as a host of the I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! Australia after-show called I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here NOW! I said no twice but I was eventually persuaded, and frankly, sold a different show and concept to what I ended up getting in Africa. I was told repeatedly, Your show is the sister show to the prime-time show. We are family.’
We broadcasted live from the African jungle on Channel Eleven immediately following the main show finishing on Channel Ten. The highlight was getting to go back to Africa and live in the lap of luxury. We stayed in a beautiful house complete with four butlers an hour away from the celebrity campsite and the show set. I got to meet some amazing people and experience Africa in a way not many do. Before this I had hosted shows like The Project and morning TV, but never the same show night after night after night. I got a baptism-of-fire introduction to live nightly television, and it’s fair to say I got fucking burned.
The lowlight was the show itself. Whereas the main show has a huge crew (which is absolutely required), we put together our one-hour-a-day show with an official crew of six. We would wake at 4 am to drive to work and would go live to air around 11 am. I was the anchor and host of the show but I also took on writing duties, penning all the jokes and openers and closers. To make matters harder, crew from the main show seemed to shun us. If we were a family, to them we were apparently their dirty step-cousins, even though we were all working for the same company and had the same goal. I remember asking an executive producer from the main show one day for some advice and he shrugged and said, ‘It’s not my show, mate.’ So much for ‘family’.
In an attempt to make the show work, I took on more responsibilities, filming segments in the afternoon to play in the next day’s show in the hope that injecting some of my humour would help. One afternoon I found myself back in a Tucker Trial – something I’d sworn I would never do again. Who willingly puts themselves through that? But an executive producer from the network I really liked and respected asked me to do it. And I was paranoid about my perception within the industry, knowing that the show was a ratings bust, so I agreed. Suddenly I found myself chained in a tank in a Houdini-type situation while water rose around me and crocodiles and snakes slipped all over me as I tried to unchain myself.
As I said, we got slammed in the ratings and reviews. Torn to pieces.
I got incredibly depressed in Africa the second time around. I hated waking up every day and going into work knowing that nobody was watching and everybody on set knew it. I had very little room to move in the live show and ended up just feeling like a talking head. I wasn’t myself. I was embarrassed and my ego was bruised.
After work each day I would eat takeaway in bed in this stunning house in Africa looking over the savannah. I would shut my blinds and medicate (definitely not meditate) myself to sleep, then wake to my 4 am alarm and want to throw up.
I was also counselling people on set who knew the show wasn’t going well. I would look down at the celebrities roughing it in the jungle and feel incredibly jealous. I would’ve taken raw eyeballs, baboon shit and a dirty old camp bed over this experience any day. I counted down the days till I could get home and literally ran to the plane at Johannesburg Airport on that final day.
I’m A Celebrity . . . Now was, without doubt, the worst professional experience of my life. And I felt incredibly guilty complaining about the job, because I had a job. In television. In Africa. Staying in a beautiful house and experiencing a magical country that so many people never get to in their lifetimes. I’m just not very good at failing.
I was mad for a long time after I’m a Celebrity . . . Now. Mad I’d taken the job and mad at what had transpired. But oddly, it was Maureen Mc
Cormick who made it all right. I was in America shortly after the show finished and arranged to catch up with her, as I always do when in LA. We were sitting in a restaurant in Venice Beach, glasses of wine the size of our heads in hand. And she said, ‘You know what? I’ve been in this industry my entire life. And I’ve made so many mistakes. But shit happens. And the sooner you learn that shit happens, the sooner another opportunity will come your way.’
I had no way to respond. No advice I could return. Except to finally – and kindly – confirm for her that baby hyenas do, in fact, grow into hyenas.
Gosh, I love that woman.
11
A Proper Comedian
Performing at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala will always be one of my greatest career achievements.
For those not familiar with the gala, it’s a televised comedy special on once a year and includes the top twenty or so Australian and international comedians performing at that year’s Melbourne Comedy Festival and for that reason is always guaranteed to be a great show. Not to mention all the comedians are trying to entice you to buy a ticket to their live show – so they’re throwing their ‘gold’ material at you. That’s an industry term for best material. Obviously, my material, like my hair, is platinum.
The Gala traditionally aired on Network Ten but has recently moved to the ABC. When I was growing up, we used to sit down as a family and watch the gala together. I probably started watching at twelve years old and I felt so grown up. My parents were always big fans of comedy, so I think they just viewed it as an important part of their children’s education. Either that or they were drunk and thought we were watching Round the Twist.
I always used to watch the Gala, or any stand-up for that matter, for the ladies. I’ve always been more a fan of female comedians. Is it sexist to say I find women funnier than men? Because I do. I’m not sure what it is, but I guess I’ve always been attracted to the story-telling style of stand-up as opposed to the other forms like one-liner comics, or prop comics or whimsical acts. I’m a story-telling comedian myself. And I think this style lends itself better to women. No idea why. The only comedy shows I’ve ever bought a ticket to were performed by women, I’ve only ever had female comedians as my support acts and it’s in my contracts that, if I’m on a line-up show within Australia, there must be at least one woman on the bill. I say ‘within Australia’ because I don’t quite have the power to make those sorts of demands overseas – yet. I’m comin’ for you, New Zealand! And it’s not because I’m trying to make some sort of political stand, just more that it gives me something I want to watch while standing in the wings waiting for my turn.
As a child I used to sit and wait for all the women performing at the Gala: Judith Lucy, Denise Scott, Kitty Flanagan and my all-time favourite, Fiona O’Loughlin. When I was really young I was allowed to stay up until Fiona had been on. By the time I was fourteen I was allowed to watch the whole thing.
I never particularly imagined myself on the Gala stage. At that point in life I was taking my performance far more seriously and was determined to be an actor. In fact, I remember being completely in awe of these comedians in a ‘how the hell do they do that?’ way. Which is a question I get every day now as a professional comedian: ‘I don’t know how you get up there and do that!’ But now I truly can’t imagine not doing it. I don’t really get nervous, it’s more an anticipation – I’ll look forward to a big show for days. That’s just me, though. I know some hugely successful comedians who get incredibly nervous before a show and relish harnessing that nervous energy and using it for their performance. Not me. I’m not pacing backstage, or jumping on the spot or doing air karate – I’m usually on Instagram checking out how many people in the audience have tagged me in their selfies – and if they’re cute enough to ask them backstage.
I made my first appearance in the Gala in 2013, having bugged my manager, Andrew, the previous few years to get me on. There are actually two galas that go to air these days. There’s the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Gala, which is the one that’s been on for years and where all the comedians donate their time because it raises money for Oxfam. I guess this is the more prestigious of the two because of its history. Not to mention any time you work for Oxfam you totally feel like Angelina Jolie sans the creepy necklace with the blood on it. (Gosh that’s some vintage Ange for you, remember that shit?) I am Team Angelina, if you were wondering. Love Jen but Ange forever. Guess it’s all over now though isn’t it? (I’m obviously still not coping with the split.)
The other show, which has been running for almost ten years now, is the All-Star Gala, which is filmed a week later. With the size of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, there are too many headline comedians to fit in one show and they had to create another. The line-ups are always equally as good, there’s just perhaps a little more jostling among comedians to appear on the Oxfam Gala purely because it airs earlier during the festival and therefore allows for more exposure and more potential ticket sales. If you don’t think established, successful comedians are money hungry . . . you’re wrong.
My first booking in 2013 was on the All-Star Gala, and I called every single person in my contacts list crying. I was finally in one of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival Galas and I wasn’t even twenty-three yet. To me this meant I was a proper comedian. I was one of Australia’s comedians. So fuck, I’d better deliver a good set!
The galas have been filmed in theatres all over Melbourne, most regularly at the Palais Theatre. The Palais is the largest theatre in Victoria and it is gorgeous. It’s opposite Luna Park in St Kilda and, much like the prostitutes who work the local corners, is constantly surrounded by scaffolding as the facade is crumbling from the salt air. Inside is stunning and so large you feel like you’re in an arena. Once again . . . much like the prostitutes . . .
March of 2013 was my fourth Melbourne International Comedy Festival – that year I was presenting my new show, Drama Captain, and it was my first time setting foot on stage at the Palais Theatre, though I’d sat in the audience many times, once on a date to see a hipster band called Boy and Bear whom I lied to my date about and said I loved. Honestly didn’t know a single lyric.
I dressed myself for the Gala as I didn’t have the money or forethought at that point to hire a stylist. This is also before I had any decent taste of my own, so I went to David Jones and bought the most expensive shirt on offer. It was a black shirt with heavy gold stencilling. I teamed it with navy Nudie jeans (cropped) and black leather lace-ups. Gross – one of those looks that ages worse every single day. I actually have a hard time watching certain gigs back if I don’t like what I was wearing. This was one of those gigs.
Having said I don’t get nervous before a gig, there are exceptions. And televised galas are gigs that I believe all comedians get nervous before. Because sure, there are three thousand people sitting in the audience, but then add the million people watching at home. And that’s not all. When you are finally on a televised comedy gala you are – perhaps for the first time – being perceived as part of the upper echelon of stand-up comedians, so you can’t help but shit yourself a tiny bit. Not only do you have to deliver your set well enough to prove your worth, but you could be on after a comedian who has been doing this for thirty years and is a comedy icon. Perhaps the most terrifying part is that everyone in the industry pays close attention to the festival galas. Backstage at these events is really quite daunting, because every manager is there, watching keenly. I guess in a way we’re athletes and they’re the bookies looking to see who’s ‘in form’ this season. And let’s be honest, schadenfreude feels pretty great when somebody else fucks up.
I was on third after the interval, following comedy legend Rich Hall, who went on to win Best Show at the festival a few weeks later. No pressure whatsoever. And of course I had Andrew watching backstage. I also wanted to impress him, the man who’d taken a punt on me a few years back and finally secured me a shot at the comedy bi
g leagues. I remember standing in the wings waiting to go on, the backstage buzzing like a NASA launch site with crew and camera operators, sound guys and producers everywhere. A runner had handed me a bottle of water to sip before I went on but every time I had a drink I would choke and I ended up having to stop and just concentrate on pacing my breathing and remembering my fucking material.
Tom Gleeson was hosting the 2013 gala and he was doing a spectacular job. In fact, everyone had been nailing it, so I didn’t want to be the first one to fuck it up. Then suddenly Rich Hall had finished, Tom had announced me, I’d gone out, done my three-minute spot (that’s right: you literally only get one hundred and eighty seconds to prove yourself, although I suppose that’s more than I’ve given some dates I’ve been on) and I was off. It was all over. It was such a blur. I remember the audience laughing, at one point even clapping – and that was it. I also remember thinking, Gosh this theatre is even more gorgeous from the stage and This outfit I have chosen is TIMELESS. I will never regret this decision.
I’ll never forget Andrew thumping me on the back with his huge hand in the way only he could and saying, ‘You fucking killed it, mate. Well done.’ I was really proud.
My parents and Ashleigh were in the audience that night. Apparently all three of them teared up while I was on stage. I know this because Ashleigh told me after my twenty-eighth glass of champagne at the after-party, after I asked her for the thirty-second time to tell me about it again.
The following year I was booked for the Oxfam Gala. I was thrilled to be chosen for this gala as it was the one I had always admired growing up. My parents once again attended and by this point I was working with a stylist, who put me in a cropped blue suit. I can actually bear to watch this performance. I was up against it though, as I was closing the show. Normally going last is a huge compliment, but at a gala it’s not a great spot to be in: galas are notoriously long shows because hardly any of the comedians stick to their allocated three minutes. Me included. We often refer to these shows as a ‘glamorous hostage situation’ for the audience. But Eddie Perfect was the host that year and he did such a marvellous job of keeping the show cracking along. I had my best gala performance to date. And no gala would be complete without a debrief with Ashleigh, my parents and twenty-eight champagnes after. This year with an added Thomas.
