As I looked over my bloated diary recently, I realised that due to a reckless inability to create balance in my life, I would be trotting out three World Premieres, in exactly a single calendar month. I’ll list them here.
Premiere 1.
Show - ‘The Plan & Other Plans’ by Grace Rouvray and Bridie Connell
Venue - Butter Factory Theatre, Albury/Wodonga
Season - March 19th-23rd, 2024
This play was developed and produced by Hothouse Theatre, an Albury based company, and one of Australia’s last remaining professional, regional theatre companies. The play tells the story of two sisters who go home to their country town for Christmas, to discover that their dad has been concealing his cancer diagnosis. Directed by Hothouse Artistic Director Karla Conway, with Bridie and Grace in the lead roles, I was part of the ensemble playing their step dad, the oncologist and, most memorably according to audience feedback, an elderly agricultural show announcer, whose teeth seem to disappear when he spoke. It’s a brilliantly funny play that handles the pathos of grief deftly. The experience of being involved it its development, was a joy from start to finish. It’s one of the most satisfying, ensemble collaborations of my career. The show will eventually tour, and I’ll happily board the bus when it hits the road. You can read more about the play here and buy a copy of the play here.
Premiere 2 - Unlikely Friends (Melbourne International Comedy Festival Season)
Venue - Comedy Republic, Melbourne
Season - March 30th-April 21st, 2024
As part of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, this new improvised format involves two guests taking on the roles of disparate historical figures, who couldn’t possibly be friends, and spend the hour defying that logic. As we hit the halfway mark of the season, I’m confident in stating that the format is a keeper. It has been a joy watching my clever comedian friends, not only excel, but have so much fun on stage together. Wil Anderson, who played Ned Kelly to Gillian Cosgriff’s Estee Lauder, said it was the most fun he’d had on stage at the Melbourne Comedy Festival in years. If you’d like to see the show, you can grab your tickets here. The shows are being recorded and will later be released as a podcast.
Premiere 3 - Hall Stories (Shepparton Arts Festival)
Venue - Harston Memorial Hall
Date - Thursday, April 18th
Having accumulated a sizeable amount of data, yarns, characters and photo stories from my extensive small hall touring over the years, I decided to compile them all into a show and take the show to the source. However, the Hall Stories project is not just a live performance, it is an immersive experience. I interview locals and mount field research to tailor elements of the show, and also deliver a podcast episode that gifts the community an aural history of their hall’s story. There are more shows planned, and the show is being pitched to the regional touring bodies, but for now the focus is on the hamlet of Harston, 8kms from Tatura. The hall has a fascinating connection to the POW and Interment camps that dotted the region during WW2. They’ve also had 1970’s rockers, Status Quo play on their stage. There’ll be more detail on these stories in this space, once I’ve done the show. You can learn more about, and buy tickets to the show here.
For now though, I’m going to iron out the creases on one of my own Hall Stories.
This verifiable story, which will be told as part of the show, suffers from seeming too far fetched to be true. On the only occasion I told this yarn on stage, the audience seemed to have their bullshit meter set to high, so I’ll have another crack here and you can let me know how I go.
THE FAKE CLERGY OF TANGAMBALANGA
At the 2006 Melbourne International Comedy festival, I premiered my most biographical work to date: ‘Spaznuts’
By way of explanation, Spaznuts is the affectionate nickname that my partner of the time gave me early in our relationship. We were discussing my infertility in bed one night and, tiring of the pillow talk, she rolled over said ‘Oh well, you’ll be right Spaznuts’ and I fell out of bed laughing.
They were different times and I wouldn’t call the show that now, but at the time, it was not only funny, but part of my story, so I decided to embrace it.
For context, my level of infertility, is beyond Olympic qualification level. My sperm doesn’t just have a shit sense of direction, wandering aimlessly around other key organs looking for eggs, and it isn’t just lazy, giving up on its quest the moments after its eviction. Much like Channel 7’s Spotlight producer’s consciences, my sperm just doesn’t exist.
The show went well … yep, its sold out it’s season … yes it did win some awards, shut up … yes, it did go to the Edinburgh Fringe - whatevs, you’re distracting me from the main story.
A few months after its Premiere season, my old Australian Catholic University mate Joe Quinn asked me if I’d do the show as an event for his school community. At the time, he was the principal at St Michaels Catholic Primary School up in the remote Murray Valley town of Tallangatta in Northern Victoria
When I arrived, I found that the show wasn’t even in Tallangatta. For reasons that were never explained to me, the show was to be staged in Tallangatta Valley, a further 40 km away up into the Mountains. A hamlet that consists of a school, a hall & a footy oval.
I recently performed in a Victorian town, who had a variation on that trifecta. Ruffy is roughly halfway between Euroa and nowhere else. Ruffy has a school, a hall & … gourmet provedore! These people are happy to drive 30kms for milk and bread, but they like their goat’s milk fetta on hand.
It’s easy to imagine these types of conversations in and around town
‘Bev, I think we might be out of quince paste. I’ll pop down to the provedore … How are we off for Lavosh Crackers … I’ll get two packets, you can never have enough.’
That night, Joe told me that a bus was collecting us, and a few staff members, along the way. It was the middle of winter, so we waited for the bus in Joe’s HR Holden paddock basher up at the farm gate with the engine running & the heater blasting a hole in the ozone layer.
‘Here it is’, said Joe, killing the engine. My eyes had been scanning for a mini bus, not the 55 seat coach that loomed out of the night.
The door opened … cssshhhhh! and we stepped aboard: What I next witnessed, remains indelibly inked in my memory. The coach was packed, with barely an empty seat . My eye was drawn along the trail of eskies, dotted all the way down the aisle to the back seat, that was populated by people in fancy dress religious costumes – 3 nuns, a priests and a bishop.
The bus lurched into motion and I asked an entirely reasonable question.
‘Why are there 3 nuns, a priest and bishop sitting in the back row.’
Joe shrugged & the question ricocheted around, initially to no response. Eventually Pauline, the school receptionist chimed in.
‘They’re from Tambangalamba’.
Everyone nodded knowingly, accepting this as a reality, in a way that suggested that they all should have known. Clearly this was the local ‘explain all’ for any situation.
‘Why is that guy using a soup ladel as a tennis racket ?’
‘He’s from Tangambalanga’
‘Fair enough’
‘Why is the midwife using a leaf blower on reverse to deliver the baby?’
‘She’s from Tambangalamba.’
‘Why did that bloke buy meth off a stranger, but won’t get vaccinated?’
‘He’s from Tambangalamba’
Joe stood up the front so he could direct the driver to the pick-up destinations. I joined him as there were seemingly no seats, and I was keen to keep a distance between myself and the fake clergy. However, that plan came unstuck when the priest made his way up the aisle, tripping on eskies & shadows, and clutching a crumpled print out.
‘Come on mate. Let us read some jokes on your microphone?’ pleaded the ersatz man of the cloth, revealing all four of his teeth
‘I said no mate, & I meant it!’ the driver spat. ‘Back to your seat!
‘Pam & Geoff are next’, Joe told the driver as the counterfeit preacher stumbled to the back seat cloisters. Moments later, a couple loomed out of the darkness, waving their arms.
Pam and Geoff on board, the bus continued on down impossibly narrow dirt, country roads, through flowing creeks, & border checkpoints. As we rounded a bend, I’m almost certain I saw a Yeti feasting on some road kill.
Intermittently, people loomed out of the night to flag us down and squeezed in where they could. We were seemingly done with the picks up, when Pauline’s hubby yelled out, and this is a verbatim quote.
‘Hey! Isn’t that Graham the poofter physio’?
‘Yeah it is’, replied Joe
‘Didn’t he move to Sydney?’
‘Yeah, but he’s got a new fella & moved back to the area’.
‘Thank fuck for that. My shoulder’s been rooted since he left.’
Again, sure enough, Graham & his new fella stepped onto the bus looking like they’d stepped off a lifestyle magazine photo shoot for a new spa resort in Daylesford.
I eventually squeezed into a seat with another old mate, Owen, who had just moved back to the Wodonga after living in Japan for a decade. This was his first social outing since returning & was experiencing profound culture shock. I reassured him that nothing about this night was normal & we took out a pact to have each other’s backs.
We struck up a conversation with a couple of self-declared ‘Single Mums’ on a night out. They seemed lovely and the trip took a turn towards normalcy, until the bus eventually arrived at the Tallangatta Valley Hall and disgorged its eclectic cargo.
It was close to show time, so I ducked into the hall pushing through at least another 100 people drinking heavily around burning fire bins. I’ll be honest, this is not my ideal pre-show scenario
‘What do you want for your pre-show preparation?’
‘Well since you ask, if I could travel to the show with half the audience drinking heavily on a bus, and then have to walk through the rest of the audience drinking heavily around fire bins, that would be my ideal!’
The show ordinarily begins with me dressed as a buxom, matronly nurse greeting the queue outside the venue and handing out some sample sperm cups to the men. Once I find the bull in the paddock, I hand them a sample cup the size of bucket. The audience are then invited to enter, while I duck back stage and change costume. Here, there was no queue and I had to stand on a table and scream the instructions over the din, but all things considered, it seemed to go well. However, once I had changed, the hall sounded oddly quiet. I peeked through the curtains and the hall was empty. The audience hadn’t moved and remained where they were - drinking heavily around fire bins.
I asked my tech if he wouldn’t mind reminding the audience that there was a show on, which did the trick. As the crowd began to filter in, my tech popped his head through the curtain.
‘There’s a priest out here wanting to know if he can get up & tell some jokes. Is that alright?’
I made it quite clear that this was not alright.
As I came out to start, it’ll be no surprise to any of you to learn that the fake clergy were sat in the front row. The 3 nuns in the middle bookended by Fr Four Teeth and the bishop, who already had the nods. The show began and so did they.
It was largely an incoherent stream of consciousness, but it was impossible to continue, so I began to verbally hammer them. I’m ordinarily not brutal with put downs, but it seems drunk, mock clerics are my line in the sand and in this instance, I didn’t hold back. The crowd were loving every single ecclesiastical whack from my lapsed catholic armoury.
I’d been going 15 minutes and had barely started the actual show. As well as the banter was going, I had to get them to shut up, so I started leaning on the most responsible looking of the nuns, and got her to pressure her fellow clergy into a vow of silence. It eventually worked and the orders fell silent. I’d just started getting momentum with the narrative, when the bishop lurched to his feet.
‘Sorry champ, I need a slash’.
I was performing on the floor and the toilets were either aside of the stage behind me and the Bogan Bishop staggered across my space to get to the dunnies.
‘Good idea’, someone chimed in and soon the trend caught on. Some headed for the hall facilities, while others opted for a bush wee. Once the number of people on their feet hit double figures, I finally called out a halt to the unscheduled interval.
After the wee stop, the show found its stride without further interruption. It was genuinely one of the most fun shows I’ve ever done. It went half an hour longer than usual, they had laughed like idiots, were respectful during the poignant moments and mostly held onto the bladders for the rest of the show.
Later, I found myself outside by one of the fire bins with Owen and a group of farmers & their wives. Owen had had a few bin fire drinks by then, and started eulogising about the show.
‘It’s just so refreshing to see a man so comfortable in his own skin that he can reveal such personal detail about his sexual being. Such emotional bravery. Don’t you reckon?’
They didn’t reckon. It’s as uncomfortable a silence as I’ve ever experienced. The hush was too much for one of the farmer’s wives who eventually broke the silence by asking me …
‘So Damian, have you got any kids?’
I decided to extricate myself from the excruciating interaction, to grab a beer. As I made my way through the throng, I felt a slap on my back.
‘Ha – Spaznuts!’ Fr 4 Teeth screamed at me. ‘I’ve got 5 kids’!
I mean, by doing this show, I’d hoped to de-stigmatise and normalise male infertility, but old mate had mounted that horse, jumped the fence and was cantering to the land of ‘Too Far Buddy’.
Eventually it was time for the bus to leave and curiously it was half empty. There was no head count and it departed leaving those who missed it to fend for themselves. Blessedly, no clergy made the return trip.
However, in their absence, the now inebriated single mums stepped up to a similarly obnoxious level and began relentlessly hitting on Owen & I. My suitor had turned off all editing functions and began groping me. Her hand grabbed my crotch & forcefully grunted into my ear.
‘Let me have a go of your Spaznuts. Go on!’
I escaped to the back of the bus. On the way I passed Graham the poofter physio giving Pauline’s hubby a shoulder massage & I slumped into the next vacant seat.
As the bus meandered I began to process one of the weirdest nights of my life and I eventually I nodded off. I awoke when the bus came to a stop in a small town. As we drove off, I saw Owen drunk pashing his single mum on the side of the road, while the other groped his arse from behind. As the bus eased through the gears, we passed a sign …
‘You are now leaving Tamgambalamga’
Oh dear, that made me laugh and cry! That crowd a different world to the Stratford one. Saying Tangambalanga would take some practice methinks. Looking forward to more Hall Stories Damian!