The Tour

by Denise Scott

  I looked at the tiny white-haired lady who’d called out the suggestion. Her eyes sparkled. She was there to help, happy to help, dying to help.

  As it turned out, every single woman in that room was there for me. They all understood, they all empathised, they all sympathised, and they were not going to let me down. For one of the first times in my life I truly understood the meaning of the term ‘sisterhood’. I felt all those elderly women carrying me on their shoulders, and there was no way they were going to drop me.

  ‘Good suggestion, thank you, but no, it’s not chocolate. Success is …’

  ‘Having all your own teeth?’

  ‘Being able to change your radio setting from AM to FM?’

  ‘Waking up in the morning and realising you haven’t died?’

  Those women were riotous. We laughed a lot, but after ten minutes I had to acknowledge defeat and admit I couldn’t remember what the hell success was.

  Five minutes later, as I sat with the ladies, chatting and eating dessert—tinned fruit salad and ice-cream—it came to me. ‘I remember! I remember the end of my joke! Success is …’

  All the women whooped and cheered as though I were a marathon runner who, after looking like she was never going to make it, had finally arrived in the Olympic stadium. They didn’t care about hearing the end of my joke, because for them there was no greater success than someone forgetting something and then remembering it again.

  Bernis stood up and thanked me for coming. She said she’d made a mistake in her introduction, because ‘Denise Scott is not the best comedian in Australia. She is the best comedian in the WORLD!’ Okay, it wasn’t Dave Letterman or Stephen Colbert who made this observation, but it was Bernis; and she was the president of the Langwarren Ladies Probus Club, and that was enough to make my heart soar.

  For those of you interested, success, according to that motivational speaker, was not about falling down; it was about falling down and getting back up again. And, even though I made a joke of it (and no, I’m not repeating the joke here—if you’re that keen you can come and see me do it live), my awakening led me to agree. No matter what life throws at you, you must never give up. (Unless, in my case, I become allergic to wine, at which point I wouldn’t see the point in living. After all, everyone has their limit.)

  chapter thirteen

  Rash behaviour

  One day I went for a walk with my little dog, Raffi. As usual we headed towards the local shopping centre and suddenly, not five minutes from home, I saw a skin clinic. It featured a large photo of a beautiful woman in the window, all perfect teeth and dazzling, the best part being that this clinic promised that I too could look like that. I couldn’t believe it. Surely this was a sign that the universe was looking out for me?

  Months earlier, before going away on the 2009 tour, I’d attempted to do something about my skin by going to a skin specialist who, after peering at every mole, blemish and wart, declared there was nothing cancerous, so nothing to worry about.

  ‘But what about the warts?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Well, they don’t look very nice.’

  ‘No, they don’t. Such a shame. I feel sorry for you, I really do. I mean to say, you could have them frozen off, but in your case where would one begin?’

  ‘Well, what about this red rashy thing on my forehead?’

  ‘Oh that? That’s good old-fashioned sun damage.’

  It was then that he suggested I grow a fringe, advice I had willingly heeded. But now here was a promise of beautiful flawless skin and so close to home! I tied Raffi to a lamp post out the front of the clinic and went inside.

  I met Shana, who was extremely interested in my story and so sympathetic I could have wept with relief. She took me into a consulting room and asked me to pop my head inside a large box-shaped machine, a sort of X-ray kind of thing. (To be honest, I didn’t understand what the hell it was.) Once my head was inside the box, I rested my chin on a small grooved shelf. Shana then asked me to close my eyes and wait for three flashes of blue light.

  Three flashes of blue light later I emerged from the box, and Shana explained that the images of my face were now travelling to her laptop computer, which was sitting in front of her on the desk. ‘And I have to warn you, Denise: the images are designed to show every single imperfection you have, so you might be a little shocked …’

  The laptop whirred into life and suddenly there I was, in three infra-red images of my face taken from three different angles. Shocked was an understatement. Suicidal would have been more on the money. Not only were all my blemishes and wrinkles and circles under my eyes highlighted as though with thick black texta, but there were thousands and thousands of tiny white spots the size of a pin head covering my entire face.

  ‘They’re blackheads, Denise. And you see here, and here?’ I nodded feebly. ‘Well, that’s where you have blackheads on your sunspots.’ Oh my God. I thought I was going to faint. ‘But don’t worry; we can eliminate all those flaws.’

  Shana produced a piece of paper on which was printed a simple outline of a face, neck and shoulders. With the aid of a black biro she busied herself covering the face with squiggles. She then turned the paper to face me and explained all the problem areas, which appeared to be my entire face. She discussed the various treatments and procedures I needed to undergo. When she had finished, she asked, ‘How does that sound, Denise?’

  ‘It sounds great, Shana, but how much will it cost?’

  Once more Shana went to town with her biro and paper, squiggling figures down the right-hand side of the page with an intensity and focus that bordered on ferocious. Finally, she turned the paper towards me.

  I stared at it for some time. ‘I’m sorry, Shana, but which one of these figures is the actual cost?’

  She tapped her French-manicured nail on a number.

  Had I been a cartoon character my eyes would have boi-oi-oinged out of their sockets, and steam would have come out of my ears, and my body would have blasted out of the chair and shot through the roof, flown through the sky, whizzed around the universe a couple of times, hurtled back to earth, crashed back into the skin clinic, and, as my dust-covered head poked up through the hole in the floorboards, I would have said, in a funny Mickey Mouse kind of voice, ‘Nine thousand, four hundred and seventy-five dollars?’

  ‘I know it sounds like a lot, but there is a lot of work that needs to be done. But you’re lucky, because for this week only we’re offering a twenty per cent discount to all clients who pay the total fee upfront! This means …’ Shana produced a calculator and manically pressed buttons, ‘that you only have to spend seven thousand, five hundred and eighty dollars!’

  I looked at my white-spotted infra-red face staring at me from the computer screen and whimpered, ‘When could we start?’

  ‘Let’s see …’ Shana looked at her calendar. ‘Denise, it’s your lucky day. We’ve had a cancellation. I can see you at five o’clock tomorrow. Do you want to pay the full amount now?’

  I explained I couldn’t do that because I didn’t have a credit card. I promised to return the next day with a cheque.

  The next day I took Raffi for another walk to the shops, but this time in the opposite direction. I was in a state of high anxiety. My stomach was knotted; I hadn’t slept. To spend nearly ten thousand dollars on my skin … But then again, if it worked and I didn’t have to feel embarrassed any more … But what if it didn’t work? No, bugger it, I needed to do something … And that was when the universe arrived to rescue me in the form of Kerry Eccles.

  Kerry was an old friend who lived in the ’hood. She was sitting at a table outside the Book Grocer. She invited me to join her in a coffee.

  I told her my skin clinic story.

  ‘Crock of shit.’ Kerry said it with no hesitation. ‘I tell you, Scotty, it’s an absolutely diabolical, disgusting crock of shit. If you go ahead with … with whatever it’s called, I’m going to have to get a few of my big old lezzo girlfri
ends to come around and damn well tie you up and sit on top of you and slap you until you come to your senses.’ Kerry had always been an opinionated woman and had become even more so since suffering a stroke in her forties. ‘Scotty, only last week I saw you on the TV, on that show, what’s it called? You know, that panel show, with what’s-his-name hosting, and you were sitting next to that gorgeous little slip of a thing, oh, you know, she’s that singer, or is she an actress? Anyway, I saw you sitting there on that show, Scotty, and do you know what I thought? I thought, Gee, that Scotty scrubs up well. Th at’s what I thought, and sitting here with you now do you know what I see?’

  Not much, I thought, given that since her stroke Kerry had been pretty close to blind.

  She took a deep, lusty suck on her cigarette and lifted her sunglasses. ‘I see a face that’s in really good shape. All you need is a holiday in Bali and a jar of bloody good moisturiser.’

  I went home via a chemist, bought a nice moisturiser and cancelled my appointment at the skin clinic.

  chapter fourteen

  Chook meet

  Soon after returning from the 2009 tour, completely out of the blue, I received a call from my old school friend Jay-O. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. ‘Hi, Scott,’ she said. (Jay-O always called me Scott, never Scotty.) ‘I’m having a chook meet at my place and need some entertainment, and I think you’d be perfect.’

  Okay, it wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but it was an amazing offer, especially since my knowledge of poultry was, quite frankly, paltry. Boom-boom!

  Jay-O lived in St Andrews, north-east of Melbourne. Her home had survived the Black Saturday bushfires, but many in her community and surrounding area had not been so fortunate. There were those who had lost homes, livelihoods, pets and, most devastating of all, family. A few had lost their entire family. Jay-O had wanted to do something to lift the spirits of her grieving community, so she had gone to all the fire-recovery centres and put up notices asking if anyone was interested in getting together and knitting chooks. The idea had taken off, and, before you could say ‘Knit one, purl one, pass the slip stitch over’ there were groups of women gathering together in fire-recovery centres, portable rooms and makeshift homes, creating through their loss, all with a common aim: to knit a chook! Eventually, it was decided to celebrate their creations, and thus the chook meet.

  ‘We’re going to have all the chooks on display and there’s going to be a real chook judge. And I thought these people had been through so much, Scott, they could really do with a laugh.’ I agreed. ‘But Scott, I don’t want anyone to know who the entertainment is going to be, so if it’s okay with you, all I’m going to put on the poster is “Surprise celebrity guest.”’

  Oh dear. I might have had an epiphany, but, as already mentioned, I still had enough self-doubt to immediately picture Jay-O introducing me on the night: ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, for our surprise celebrity guest, make welcome Denise Scott!’ at which point there’d be a sea of quizzical faces all asking the same question: Denise who?

  * * *

  John drove me to St Andrews on the night of the chook meet. It was eerie. Even though it was nightfall and for the most part the main road seemed to have been unaffected by the fires, you could sense the devastation nearby. Small details—a smoke-stained street sign, a burnt-out tree—were enough to hint at the horror that had filled that day.

  ‘I feel sick, John …’

  ‘About the fires?’

  ‘No.’ (Honestly, sometimes John could be so far off the mark.) ‘About me, having to perform tonight. What am I going to do? I can’t just do my normal shtick.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, John, call me crazy, but I don’t think doing a routine about how hard it is to have G-cup breasts is appropriate for people who’ve just lost everything in a fire.’

  ‘Scotty, it’ll be great. People love big breast stuff.’

  ‘Oh God, John … And did I tell you that Jay-O said there’s a rumour been going round, and do you know who everyone thinks the surprise guest is going to be?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ian Smith.’

  ‘Who’s Ian Smith?’

  ‘Harold Bishop!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Harold from Neighbours. You know—the old guy with glasses who plays the tuba and he disappeared at sea in one episode and came back five years later having suffered amnesia. Anyway, that’s who they’re expecting to be at the chook meet.’

  ‘So? They’ll be getting you!’

  ‘My point exactly! Haven’t these people already suffered enough? And now all they want is to see Harold Bishop and it’s going to be me, oh …’ I groaned.

  About 2 kilometres from Jay-O’s place we turned onto a dirt road; by now it was pitch black. A chap in a fluoro jacket waved a torch at us. John stopped and wound down his window.

  ‘Goin’ to the chook meet, are youse?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘Well, let me tell ya, mate, it’s bigger than bloody Woodstock up there.’ I felt ill. ‘Yeah, so we can’t let any more cars through, so youse are gonna have t’ park here and walk in. Youse got a torch?’

  ‘No, we haven’t.’

  ‘Well, be bloody careful. There’s a few potholes.’

  John and I held hands. At one point I stumbled.

  ‘You alright, Scotty?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s just my ankle. Geez, arthritis gives me the shits.’

  And then I recalled why we were there, and John and I continued our journey in respectful silence.

  * * *

  ‘Oh, Scott, thank you so much for coming.’ Jay-O hugged us both. I was blown away. She had always been a stunner at school, but to see her that night, looking pretty much the same, was, quite frankly, upsetting. She still had smooth olive skin, not a wrinkle in sight; her teeth were so white and straight, her cheekbones high and her hair wild and curly—she looked no more than thirty. Surely she’d had work done! But sadly I knew that wasn’t the case. She radiated love and contentment and peace.

  Her husband, Ronnie, also had the whole ‘beauty within, beauty without’ business going on. He’d built their mudbrick house twenty-eight years earlier. It featured high ceilings, beautiful artworks, a large rustic kitchen and in the bathroom a ceiling-to-floor window that allowed you your own private view of the bush as you lay in the sunken bath.

  The place was packed with hundreds of people, and, as naive as it sounds, I wasn’t prepared for what I encountered. Everywhere I looked I saw a face that was grief-stricken and sad beyond comprehension, haunted by the events of that dreadful day. What had I been expecting? That people would be laughing and chatting and having a good old party time? I guess that was exactly what I had been expecting.

  I walked into the main living area and had I followed my instincts I would have burst into tears. The room was full of knitted chooks—ninety-three of them. They all had such presence and dignity, proudly sitting up on hay bales and shelves, in nests that had been lovingly placed all around the room. There were fat and skinny hens, a mother hen with a brood of chicks; some were adorned with knitted jewels, some with knitted hats. What struck me was their overwhelming beauty. Even the one that looked disabled—its cockscomb, instead of being on top of its head, was coming out the side of its neck—was adorable and had indeed won the Chook with the Best Personality award. I noted there was a cock, just the one—a great relief, because as a comedian I didn’t see a cock; I saw a joke. But then Jay-O informed me that the knitter of this chook had lost everything in the fires, and I thought, No, I won’t make fun of it. Then I thought, But I am desperate—so maybe …

  Because I was desperate. Big breasts aside, what on earth could I say to these people to make them laugh?

  Jay-O introduced me to one of the locals. ‘Mary, this is Denise.’

  ‘Hello, nice to meet you, Denise. Have you knitted a chook?’

  Jay-O whispered conspiratorially, ‘No, Denise Scott. She’s the surprise guest.’
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  ‘Oh! I thought it was going to be Harold Bishop.’

  Oh God, kill me now.

  Jay-O called everyone to attention. Some people gathered in the living area, while those who couldn’t fit inside remained outside, looking through the large windows. Ronnie had organised an excellent PA system, so everyone could hear. As Jay-O introduced me, she recalled that it was thanks to me that she had met Ronnie.

  What? Was it? In keeping with the theme of the night, my mind quickly unravelled like a ball of wool, and went back in time until there I was, sixteen years old, dancing at Bushbeat. Of course! I’d taken Jay-O with me to the Friday night dances at Eltham High School, and consequently she’d met Ronnie and they’d lived in blissful happiness ever since.

  There was warm applause as I stepped onto the stage—a magnificent wooden coffee table handmade by Ronnie. Initially, I had insisted to Jay-O that it would break if I stood on it, but Jay-O had been equally insistent that it wouldn’t. I have never in my performing career reached the point at which I’ve had the microphone actually in my hand and still had no idea what I’m going to say. That night, though, I came close. As I stepped with great reluctance onto the table, I had nothing. And then it came to me. Of course! Bushbeat! Eltham was close enough to St Andrews, and the audience was close enough to my age, that maybe they had also attended those dances. And so I told the story of how I’d pashed Robbie Buckle even though his mouth had been full of vomit. The audience laughed, which was gratifying, but there followed a great deal of whispering.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I said.

  A woman at the back of the room put her hand up. ‘Denise, I pashed Robbie Buckle, too.’

  And then another hand went up and a woman said, ‘So did I.’

  And then another hand went up and another woman said, ‘So did I.’

  And then a woman stood up and proudly declared, ‘Well, I had sex with Robbie Buckle.’