Do you remember I promised I’d let you know what happened at the Oxfam comedy gala way back at the start of this crazy ride?
Now, where did we leave off? Ah, yes. Dad and I were about to walk out on stage and I was having a moment. Then my dear pal Joel Creasey introduced me. I looked at Dad and was momentarily struck by how far he and I had come. How just a few short years ago I’d been a single, unemployed mother living with him and Mum, borrowing petrol money to be able to drive the kids to school. And how as a kid I had sat with him and watched this very broadcast never imagining that we would be on it. How so many things had contributed to the person about to walk out on stage and perform in front of three thousand people.
Dad and I took to the stage. I was the second last performer of the evening and the crowd was exhausted. There had been roughly fifty-seven comics on before me and no alcohol consumed. I could feel they needed a lift, so I set about doing just that. I did my ‘three promises I can make to people without children’ bit and then sang my version of ‘There are Worse Things I Could Do’ from Grease. What did you say? You don’t know those bits?
Yes okay, I will pop them in here so you can truly be on stage with us. So imagine Dad and me on the stage. He sits down on a stool as I stride out all guns blazing in the sensible red frock and announce: ‘Hey bitches! I’m Em and this is my dad, Vincie, or as the internet calls us, “What the hell happened to Ruby Rose and Super Mario?” I have two children, one is eight and the other is thirteen and I love them equally, I just love one a little more equally than the other. One corrects my spelling, says I drink too much wine and knows everything, and the other one is eight.
‘It’s no secret that kids are disgusting. They are vile little things who will wipe their hands, noses and arses on pretty much anything. What they don’t tell you before you have children is how low your own personal hygiene standards will drop.
‘Where are the people in the crowd who are yet to spawn? Pop those hands up so I know whose tyres to spoke on the way out . . .
‘There you all are. Well, as a parent, I feel it is my duty to warn you of the things that the pregnancy books don’t tell you. I wish to make you all three solemn promises and if you look around you as I make them, I guarantee you’ll see all the people who have children nodding aggressively in agreement.
‘The first promise I want to make you is that one day, you will run towards projectile vomit. You will willingly hold out your hands to stem the tide of spew.
‘The second promise I wish to make you is that one day you will have a top drawer full of human teeth and hair. I have taken that a step further and still have the peg with the top of my kid’s umbilical cord attached. It looks like birth beef jerky!
‘The final promise I wish to make you is that one day, without question, you will stand, clap and cheer as another human does a shit in front of you.
‘That is what they should be teaching in Sex Ed at school. Don’t get the kids to carry a raw egg like it’s a baby. Get them to carry a steaming human turd around in an ice-cream container. That will lower teen pregnancy levels quick smart.
‘But there are even worse things that we do.
‘There are worse things I could do, than to skip a page or two.
Last night you wet my bed, I didn’t change it, I didn’t care, I slept on damp sheets, yes it’s true, but there are worse things that I do.
I often lie about bedtime, that’s not Ribena, it’s red wine.
I encourage cheating, yes, so the game can finally end,
I licked your dummy clean it’s true,
But there are worse things that I do.
I took a shit with you on my lap,
Caught your spew in my bare hands,
Picked out head lice, gave up dreams, shaved my legs with Sudocrem,
Dropped a fart and I blamed you.
I once forgot about you too, left you at the Melbourne Zoo.
‘Thanks very much! I’m Em Rusciano and that is my dad, Vincie!’
After six hours of angst it was done! We got pretty big laughs and I felt okay after I came off. I mean, I’d left some things out and rushed a little, however I didn’t hate what I’d delivered, which is always a bonus. Everyone was exhausted backstage, especially Joel, who had done an excellent job hosting the night. It was a marathon effort – considering he’d been away from civilisation, technology, the media and his family and friends for almost three months in the jungle, his performance was bloody impressive.
Dad and I packed up and drove home, and Dad dissected the performance as he always does in typical Vincie fashion.
‘You could tell they’re tired, we got them going but you could tell. Who was that fucking clown, Em? He was a bit morbid. You did well to come on after him. I think we need to speed “Worse Things” up a little. They liked the poo gags, everyone likes the poo gags. Wait till I tell the boys at golf, they won’t believe that we played the Palais!’
That was the big payoff for Dad, bragging to the boys at golf that he’d made his Oxfam comedy gala debut at sixty-three years of age and done it at the majestic Palais Theatre!
About a week after the taping, the day that the gala was due to go to air, I received a phone call from my manager, Andrew. It was very early in the morning. I was instantly worried when I saw his number – in my experience, phone calls before 7am rarely bring good news.
‘Hey, darlin’.’
‘Hey, AT, what’s up? Is everything okay?’
‘Well, no. There is no easy way to tell you this but they’ve cut you from the gala broadcast tonight. Your spot won’t go to air. I’m sorry, I think it’s a stupid decision but it’s completely out of my hands.’
‘Oh. Oh, okay. Well. Did they say why? I mean, was I really bad? I thought it went okay. I need to know why, Andrew.’
‘I don’t know, just know that lots of people went to bat for you but ultimately politics got in the way, they needed to save time and you got cut. I’m really sorry, Em, I know you must be very disappointed.’
‘It’s okay. [Lump building in throat.] I’d better call Dad.’
I hung up and burst into tears, partly because I felt sorry for myself but mostly because I had to call Dad, who had told every single person he had come into contact with, including the guy who delivers his eBay packages, that he was going to be on the telly performing in the Oxfam comedy gala with his daughter. I didn’t want to tell him, he had done so much for me and asked for so little in return. The fact I was able to give him this experience meant a lot to me and now it was being taken away for apparently unknown reasons. I felt rejected, humiliated and bitterly disappointed. All the old insecurities came bubbling up and unfortunately my husband got caught in the crossfire when he found me pacing the kitchen, partaking in some silent, angry crying.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Andrew called to say that Dad and I got cut from the gala broadcast tonight.’
‘Oh, that’s shit.’
‘Yes, it is, thank you very much, Captain Obvious. And now I have to phone Dad and break it to him.’
‘He’ll be okay, he was just happy to be there with you. He doesn’t care about that other stuff. It will be okay. Did Andrew say why you got cut?’
‘No, he says he doesn’t know why, he mentioned politics but didn’t go into specifics.’
‘Well, did you learn anything after your performance? Can you take anything away from this?’
‘Fuck off with your unsolicited life coaching, Scott! I just need to feel sorry for myself for a bit, okay?’
Scott left the room and I sat down at the table and thought back to all the things that had happened in the lead-up to the gala. Would I have done anything differently? If I was being honest with myself, I would have done everything differently. I wouldn’t have arrived six hours early, I would’ve stuck to my guns about my costume, I would’ve kept to myself, run my own race and not listened to the other comics chatting. I would’ve not drunk beer, I would’ve eaten something and I would’ve slowed down on stage. Look at all those lessons! Just look! That didn’t take away the sting of being omitted from the line-up but it did make me feel like I’d taken something away from the experience.
So I called Dad and I told him that we’d been left off the list, and, as Scott predicted, he didn’t care at all. He was just happy to have done it, in the moment, and didn’t need the televised accolades as well.
‘We’ve already sold out all our shows, Em, we don’t need the publicity! And don’t worry, because one day you’ll play your own show there. On your terms. And I’ll be there. I just know it.’
The very next week we began our assault on the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, twenty-three shows in a row with Mondays off. I’d already performed The Motherload in Adelaide and Perth to an overwhelmingly positive response so I knew we had something pretty great on our hands.
Here is the show blurb for those of you who missed it:
Imagine all the love of a Celine power ballad and all the snot and isolation of an Ebola outbreak.
This show’s kinda like that clip Beyoncé did with Blue Ivy, only with more C-bombs, more references to extreme toilet paper usage and no attempt whatsoever to hide marital difficulties.
From parenting in the 80s to her hatred of the Disney musical Frozen, The Motherload will leave no stone unturned, no relationship unexamined, no swear word unsworn.
Oh and there will be a John Farnham singalong, by God, there will be John Farnham singalong. Accompanied by her long suffering father, Vincie, Em will rip through your heart like herpes at a Blue Light Disco. If you’ve had a mother, then this show is for you.
The reviews were pretty awesome as well.
‘Em Rusciano is an irrepressible force of nature. 
’ RIP IT UP
‘Rusciano delivers some of the best written, outrageously funny comedy I’ve ever witnessed with near perfect precision.’ Same Same
‘Solid, rhinestone-studded gold.’ The Age
It could not have gone better. The week after my Nana passed away was the week I began touring this show, and I threw myself into work. As you now know, it sold out and went on to be a roaring success, so much so I was able to buy a house. A whole house, for Scotty and the girls and I to live in. Flashback to that broken mess in Perth who had to sell everything up and thought she’d destined her family to a life poverty and gloom, and you may understand the importance of that fact. The day the real estate agent handed over the keys (fun fact: his brother was the one I fake dated in high school to get close to my real crush Ryan), I burst into tears.
I don’t know if I believe in guardian angels but I have had some seriously good career and life luck since my beloved Nana left me. She was totally down with the Gee Oh Dee. God and her were tight, so I have some pretty impressive weight in my corner. I speak to her and Uncle Haydn before I go on stage anywhere, I see him standing in a stream fishing and I see her sitting in a chair, adjusting her brooch and clutching her handbag. I always keep two seats empty for them at every show. No one knows that – except you now.
I have just finished touring Em Rusciano is NOT a Diva, which I hope many of you saw. I decided to step it up a notch and include a band; Dad was still involved but he deserved some back up. Rob Mills put me in touch with a great music director, Jeremy, who I happened to go to school with, and Jeremy found me a family. I know that’s gross but it’s true. I’d been touring on my own for so long that having the boys to hang out with before and after the shows was a revelation. It’s lonely doing stand-up; once you get off stage the silence can be deafening and all consuming. Marcel, Fab, Kim, Jeremy and Dad kept me going, made me sound amazing and taught me a great deal about being a musician.
The most exciting thing about this tour was the venue we played the Melbourne shows in. Can you even begin to guess where I did my very own solo show for the 2016 Melbourne International Comedy Festival?
YEP! THE FUCKING PALAIS THEATRE, BITCHES!
Remember what Dad said a couple of pages back? After we’d been cut from the gala? I’ll remind you so you don’t have to turn back through the book because: annoying.
‘We’ve already sold out all our shows, Em, we don’t need the publicity! And don’t worry, because one day you’ll play your own show there. On your terms. And I’ll be there. I just know it.’
How right he had been, and almost exactly a year to the day!
I spent a lot of the two shows just watching Dad; he was loving it – and himself – sick. All his golf buddies came, my mum came, my cousins Dave and Tom came – it was the best concert I had ever given for my family! If you’d have told eight-year-old Em after she had given a thrilling performance in the kitchen to ‘I Touch Myself’ by The Divinyls that she would one day be on stage in a similar outfit in front of three thousand people who actually wanted to be there and who were not her dolls and family members, she would have said –
Look, to be honest, she would have said, ‘Duh, obviously I know, have you seen how good I am?’ And then she would have done an aggressive body roll and high kicked out of the room.