I Have Wisdom Teeth Deciding to Come in Sideway: The Movie

So you may have noticed that I’ve already broken my promise and missed out a whole month. But I have to admit it was a lot harder than I thought to write an article each week during the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. There was so very much going on during that month, I had some of the most fun I have ever had. I had many adventures, from loitering outside the beautiful state library at 2 o’clock in the morning, to performing to a packed room at Trades Hall, to being in a different city with my ladyfriend(for some reason that makes it sound icky) Skye. Nothing can truly describe the feeling, the magic; being in a beautiful city with all your friends, doing what you love and seeing some of the funniest people on the planet. I have returned from it a better comedian, with more focus and drive than ever before. Unlike some, my goal is not to get famous from what I do. I see fame as a by – product of what we do, something that people aspire to without knowing why. Me, I just want to be good, I want to be really good at what I do.

My Dad told me once that there will always be somebody out there that is better than you. I only truly understand that now. It’s not meant to be mean or negative or to discourage, but to ground and strengthen. Ego is something that will always be an issue in my job, ego is helpful, it gives confidence and strength. But an ego that is too large can breed laziness. I will be the first to admit I have a healthy ego and I try to control it as best I can. I know I’m only starting out in this business and that I have a long way to go, but I have to believe that what I am doing is good, that I have something to offer to the world of comedy, otherwise I have no path, no reason. There are some comedians that are for lack of a better word ego maniacs; some deserve it, but most often don’t. One thing that helps me keep grounded is the truth; that we are what we are. We don’t save lives or put out fires, we make people laugh; we entertain. Work is more like play for me, everything about it is so fun, I feel like I have gotten better because that fun has doubled since Melbourne.

Anyway, this is just a quick one because I’ve been home doing nothing on account of my wisdom tooth deciding now would be the time it came in sideways. Thanks teeth, theeth.

Dead Teaching Society

High school is tough no matter what sort of kid you are. It may have been tough because you were incompetent with the opposite sex or maybe you were a trouble maker, or a nerd, or not good at maths. Whatever the case at some point in your high school career I’d wager that you had a little cry about it. If you were me, there was more than one of these moments; one in particular was in year twelve. My history teacher had just confronted me and told me to leave school because I wouldn’t pass History and would bring the average down “for the students”, after which I went behind the old Phys Ed office and shed salty angst tears. Looking back I realize that when she said “for the students” what she really meant was “for the school”. These are the institutions that are meant to help kids, I’ve seen the movies, Robin Williams reaches his students through poetry, passion and language and through that they learn about life and love and English. Yes the guy from House kills himself in the end because the guy from that 70’s show is his father, he’s a scary looking bald man and House guy wore stupid tights and tried to be an actor, it wasn’t Robin Williams’ fault. Teachers aren’t supposed to be looking for the bottom line in education; they should be helping their fucking students. Kids that they are going to be sent out into the big bad world to get their teeth kicked in. Sure I wasn’t a model student, but I wasn’t a bad kid. I always treated my teachers like adults; I never punched or kicked anybody, or broke or stole anything. I was a fucking drama geek for Christ sake! I may have not been good at History, in fact I was shit, but when you go into a class and got sat in front a television screen with a documentary playing that was made when women were still give thalidomide for morning sickness what are you going to do? Granted this may not be the fault of the teacher, truth be told I actually liked the woman, unlike my English teacher.

My English teacher; I think the poor guy just didn’t know how to deal with me. He would preach about how writing poetry was about breaking conventions and speaking from the heart. Yet when his preconceived notions of “speaking from the heart” or “breaking conventions” were challenged he would close off. When I found out how hypocritical the man was I didn’t make the situation better either, not with the turbulent ocean of testosterone and misguided anger bubbling underneath my pimply frame. As an example of me aggravating the situation, one afternoon when discussing The Handmaiden’s Tale by Margret Atwood (which now I don’t mind) he asked us “What makes a man?” to which I replied without missing a beat “Cock and balls might help!”. So alright, I didn’t help but the guy was a douche who was too preoccupied with trying to impress the female majority of the class, leaving the three males more or less high and dry (although Ben Woods was pretty much the smartest man alive). Another time I had tried my very hardest on a particular essay, I mean I thought about every line, every paragraph; I got a D. Then the next time I just let it rip, real stream of consciousness type deal, literally talked shit for four pages; I got a B- and a Great improvement comment. What the deuce? I had tried to put in the effort, put in every little rule that he had told us to include in the bull shit essays and I got butt-kiss for it but when I pull words from my gaping teenage anus it’s a great improvement. I think that’s when I realized that school was truly retarded, that teaching is just a job and like any job you can get someone who can make a great macchiato and some that give you a watery latte. Like any other business my school needed good marks so that it can publish them in the paper at the end of the year so parents of prospective children can look through and see which school will be the best for their little nightmare offspring. There are new admin buildings to be built, that new chapel won’t pay for itself, Mrs Godwin’s retirement fund doesn’t grow on trees, it grows in the pockets of northern suburbs WASPs.

All I can say is thank god for my form teacher Ms Wearne, that woman saved me in more ways than one. She not only talked to me like a grown up but was a shining beacon of encouragement in the dark, murky waters of unrealistic expectation and pressure. In a world where we were preached upon that school is the be all and end all of your life she kept me sane. She was the Robin Williams to my Ethan Hawke, not by making us call her Captain my Captain or spouting clichéd Latin phrases , but by reminding us that it was just school. That in the grand scheme of things it didn’t actually matter. It’s the choices that you make after school the count. She’s a good kid.

Episode 2: Harley Street Bazzar

Episode 2.
Harley street house. Just writing the name sets of a chain of images and stories. It was a career share house, guaranteed that every party a different person would remark that they had been here before. A four bedroom, one and a half bathroom den of inequity, hard wood floors, high ceilings, a living room that was an obvious renovation. Fireplaces in every room that were prohibited from use, a kitchen that you could have a conversation with, a fridge that I dared not enter. The living room was tiled, with large French doors opening out into the quaint back patio, completely different style to the otherwise very traditional heritage abode. Harley Street had its own personality, a collection of those who had come before, died, cried, drank and sang.

I had taken over the room from my ex-girlfriend who at the time of me taking it over was still my girlfriend and lived there with two others. Kerry, the matriarch of the house, was and still is a delight and Xavier, the hilarious man-child, was and still is a great inspiration and mentor in comedy. There was many a night spent up till the wee hours of the morn drinking red wine, smoking, laughing, talking trash, acting out. Till the day I die I shall thank this house for my development, both emotionally and socially. I was very much still a boy, barely out of my teens and had not yet had that great and valuable experience of having lived with likeminded people.
While I was living at Harley Street we had two other housemates join our ranks. First there was Renato, now Renato is a good friend of mine and had recently graduated from WAAPA at the time of his entry into our motley ranks. He slept in the spare room, the smallest of the four, which Xavier later was found out was once inhabited by old school Perth comedian Nick the Hippy. Actually I just remembered a funny little story involving Nick and my friend James, but I doubt James would appreciate me telling it. Just trust me when I tell you its funny, bloody funny, in fact ask James next time you see him. Anyway, I digress, to cut a long boring story short Renato decided to make the great pilgrimage to the east coast like all actors fresh out of WAAPA do and he left. To be fair, it was a pretty sweet deal for him, he was only paying fifty dollars a week and was there a little longer than he had first alluded too and I think that grated on us three as a unit. It’s hard to come into a house, especially when you’re coming into a group of friends like we three. We had done the time together, we had a rhythm, we understood each other’s patterns. I knew the when to give Xavier his space, I knew never that he was possibly the worst morning person in the history of morning people and never ever to wake him from his mighty Greek slumber unless absolutely necessary or suffer the consequences. Something I exploited once to the detriment of my dear ally Wyatt, who I once convinced it would be hilarious to jump into bed with Xavier one night, needless to say the hairy bald man did not see the comedy in it. I knew not to bother Kerry when she was reading, or watching the last episode of Six Feet Under. I knew better, at least I did my best to remember to try to know better.


For a period after Renato there was harmony, we all looked after each other, we had a few kick ass parties, got horrendously drunk and/or stoned, even had a delightful dinner party (Kerry destroys at making a roast dinner). Then came Nellie, Nellie had been recommended by Andrea, she was from Melbourne and was studying law while also being quite the competent Comedian. As with all things it started out fine, she fitted right in, the drinking, the movies, the late nights. I’m not exactly sure how it began to go downhill with the two so I won’t pretend to but she and Kerry seemed to get on each other’s nerves and I’ll be honest, she did get on mine as well. I don't even remember why anymore, it was a while ago, but some people just shouldn’t live together. I didn’t not like Nellie, I still wanted to be her friend, but whether I was unwilling to yield and compromise or whether she was just hard to live with isn’t important, cracks had started to show and no amount of poly filler or alcohol could fix it. One evening when Nellie was out we three had a meeting and agreed that we would ask Nellie to leave; I have to say I had never done this before and didn’t know how to deal with it, so naturally I think I dealt with it pretty damn poorly. Xavier was the one man enough to take on the job of asking her and he did it extremely sensitively and deftly, but of course Nellie did not, nor should she. I never really told Nellie my feelings on the subject, I just kind of shut up shop in that regard. I’m not proud of it, but that’s what I did at the time, I just didn’t know what to say, pretty soon it got to the stage where I didn’t talk to her about it for so long I felt that it was pretty much impossible too. I mean, what could I say “I’m sorry; I was too much of a coward to talk to you about why I can’t live with you. I don’t hate you I just can’t sleep in the same house as you.” Probably, yes, that’s exactly what I should have said. But I didn’t, I let the gap grow wider and wider and now its effects can still be felt, there is still an awkwardness between Nellie and I. I try for there not to be but at the same time I can’t blame her for being shitty at me. I was instrumental in getting her out of the house. I’m sorry about that Nellie, I think we as a group handled you very badly and while I still believe you were difficult to live with, I think the manner in which all the situation was addressed was done poorly. But I guess that’s life, sometimes you get it right, but most of the time you could have done it all better. I know, poignant right? I’m a regular fucking Hemmingway.

After Nellie left the house relaxed, Harley was coming to an end and so we all sat back and tried to live out the last days of Harley conflict free. We all tried to make time for each other, we all tried to make space for each other, and then we left. We filled two skip bins with years of junk the career share house had collected, Xavier went to Melbourne, Kerry went to Ireland to be with the love of her life. I went to another house. In the end I realized that in a four bedroom share house, always leave a spare room and never be the last to leave a share house. You will always be left with two filled up Skips and an empty, house, and there is nothing more depressing than an empty share house.

I’m sorry Nellie.

The Beginning

Alan Moore wrote that when writing about yourself you should start with the saddest thing you can think of and then take it from there. Idea being that after reading this the reader will travel with you anyway, whether it's out of pity or empathy or just because for some reason as human beings we find a morbid curiosity out of others' misery. Whatever it is I'm afraid I can't deliver, I've wracked my brains trying to think of the saddest, most terrible thing that has happened in my life and nothing seems to really measure up. I mean, I've had bad things happen, some tragic, some unfortunate, some times I had it coming. If we're going to gauge it on things that have made me cry then I can tell you about when my pet Axolotl died. I was camping down South with friends and I got a call form my father, telling me Stubby had passed. He was called Stubby on account that he had a misshapen leg, we had two of the ugly things, the other was named Bluey on account of it being an albino with bright red gills. I guess I had a bit of a soft spot for Stubby as he was the runt and we runts have to stay together. Still to this day I believe Bluey murdered Stubby, I never much liked Bluey, who never did die, we had to give the robust Mexican walking fish away in the end because the entire family were tired of taking care of what was frankly an ugly frog/fish creature who never said thank you or please. After the phone conversation which was just before bedtime, I lay in my sleeping bag and cried. It doesn't seem that much of a big deal now, but back then, it seemed like the right thing to do. Shedding a few tears for Stubby, I'm sure he appreciated it.

Am I getting some hardcore empathy from you yet? Can you spare a glass of pity or two? No? There has of course been greater tragedies in my life, but once again, nothing that hasn't been witnessed or experienced by your average person. There are a few things that have made me sadder than Stubby's passing/clandestine murder. I was sad I never got to know my Grandfathers, I was sad that I never got to go to either of my Grandmother's funerals, I was sad when a boy I worked with was killed in Bali. But we harden up, we get over it, learn to deal with it, the best we can do is hold these things in the backs of our minds, bringing them out from time to time to remember and learn.

I guess the point that I'm getting is that I have little to complain about in the grand scheme of things which is why this blog is not going to be a woe is me tale. This blog is going to be a journey through the things that I have done wrong and make no mistake I have made alot of mistakes, even for a twenty four year old and I'm only going to make more. I wouldn't have it any other way either, for through these mistakes I have learnt much, some would argue it's the only way I learn. But at least I learn. Some would argue that my previous statement is wrong, that I don't learn from my mistakes at all and to those people I say a polite fuck you. Seriously though, a deep, consonant filled fuck you, pausing slightly on the ef and ck for dramatic effect.

I'm going to try and post every week, which is more than I can say about my other fictional blog, which at the moment has been put on hiatus due to multiple shows that have been taking all my brain juices. I hope this is going to be a good venture. I hope you're going to enjoy it. I hope it will be funny or sad or whatever the fuck it is the young people of today are doing. On Sunday I'm going to be off to Melbourne for the International Comedy Festival. I'm positive that my month in festival town will be rife with mistakes, maybe I'll even post more than every week, maybe.