CHAPTER 22

‘And that’s why Barry never worked in television again!’ punchlined Gary, beaming his television smile. As he’d expected, the audience erupted. Not bad, given he was at a wake. That was catharsis for you. As a performer, his role was to help people process the tragedy of death by sharing insights, empathy and funny stories about drunk newsreaders.

He followed the golden rule – leave on a big laugh – gave the semi-circle surrounding him a wave and headed for the bar, feeling impressed eyes on him as he passed. Since his return to television as host of Which Duck? four weeks ago – Channel 9, 5.30 p.m., Monday to Friday – he had noticed more people looking at him as he went about his day, and did not mind one bit.

Were it not for some ridiculous, short-sighted, merit-blind and probably corrupt decisions by various television executives that had sidelined him for several years, he would never have been away. His official line was that his enforced absence from the box had allowed him to ‘get back to my roots’ and play comedy clubs. In fact, he had mainly done corporates, comedy in a suit, as well as the odd guest spot on television panel shows, leaving him with plenty of free time. Too much, really. He had probably wallowed a bit.

Some financial rationalising had also been necessary. Sell the apartment with views of apartments with water views in Sydney, buy a house with an actual water view in Bullford Point, and have enough left over for a decent-sized boat. His parents had retired and moved to the Sunshine Coast, but Bullford Point still felt like home. More peaceful than Sydney, but close enough that he could zoom down the highway for gigs and meetings. All good. More or less. Now he was back with what was already Australia’s third favourite game show and gaining rapidly on second place.

‘Great eulogy, Gary,’ said Bill Hopkins.

He didn’t need people’s compliments to know he had nailed it, but it was still nice to get them. He mouthed, ‘Thanks,’ nodded solemnly back, not slowing down to give the old coot any opportunity to prolong the conversation.

He had been particularly happy with his opening line. ‘I really miss Joe, and not just because he owes me fifty dollars.’ A joke containing a deeper truth that broke the ice, released the tension and let everyone know that he wasn’t going to pretend Joe was a saint.

‘I’m no expert on what drove him, or where his demons came from,’ he had continued, gravitas oozing, ‘but I do know Joe could be friendly, funny and great company. He was spontaneous and full of ideas. Many of those ideas, admittedly, were terrible, but still … And he could be thoughtful and considered …’ That was a stretch, but he probably had been once or twice.

‘He was the life of the party, but that became a double-edged sword. I don’t know why Joe’s life took the course it did, but there was a turning point. Seven years ago we were in a band in Sydney. He loved it, wrote great songs and was excited about the future. Then our band unravelled and that hit him hard. When a few months later our friend, Sal, who many of you knew, was murdered, that hit him harder. After that, things really went downhill for poor Joe.’

Hard truths, but they needed to be said, and he was the guy to say them. Not a bad turnout, either, given the number of people Joe had alienated and pissed off over the last few years.

He reached the bar and grabbed a white wine. More calorie friendly than beer. He had to watch his waistline now he was back in Australia’s lounge rooms.

He had always loved performing. He first got a taste in school musicals, then in the band. He could act a bit, had a decent voice, but his biggest asset was his stage presence. He belonged in front of an audience. When others got nervous, he got excited. Onstage, he was at ease. Not just himself, but a better version of himself: funnier, cleverer, happier, more energetic and alive. All the great performers were different onstage – Elvis, Pink, Steven Wright. They knew how to turn it on (or in Wright’s case, off) and so did Gary.

After school he had moved to Sydney and done communication at UTS, but that was just to do something. What he’d really wanted was to see how far their band could go. They made progress, but bands had a lot of voices, and not just the ones singing. Everyone had an opinion on everything (except Viv, obviously). It took a two-hour meeting to get agreement on buying a new extension cord.

Ideally, Gary wanted to be in charge. One night he and Joe went to a comedy night at The Antler in Glebe, and something clicked. Comedians had total control over what they did. They didn’t have to share decision-making, applause or laughter with anyone.

Some of the comedians he saw that night had good material, but couldn’t sell it, while others had confidence and presence, but only average jokes. He spent the next day watching more on YouTube. There were two variables: stage presence and material. If you lacked one, but had lots of the other, you could go okay, but if you wanted to make it, you needed both.

He knew he had the presence and confidence, so he tried to write jokes. It was harder than song lyrics, where you could get away with lines that sounded deep but didn’t mean anything.

After an hour writing comedy he had some observations about driving in cars, and a true story about being allergic to cats. Were they funny? One way to find out. He rang The Antler and put his name down for open mic night. Turned out they weren’t. He got some chuckles with his charm, but that was it. He tried again and again, without much improvement. It was frustrating. Comedy was a great pipeline to fame. So he kept working until he had his breakthrough.