by Denise Scott
And then another woman stood up and said, ‘So did I.’
And then a man stood up and said, ‘So did I!’
And suddenly the people who had been so grim faced and shell-shocked and sad were laughing and beaming, united in the fact that nearly everyone there, it seemed, apart from me, had had sex with Robbie Buckle.
It was a miracle. I couldn’t believe that nearly forty years after that kiss Robbie had arrived like a knight in shining armour and rescued me in my hour of need.
After my performance I asked one of the women what the sex with Robbie had been like. She looked into the distance all dreamy eyed and beamed, ‘Denise, it was awesome.’
* * *
A month or so after the chook meet I was being interviewed on radio by Waleed Aly when, apropos of nothing, he asked, ‘So, Denise, any regrets?’
Yes. Not fucking Robbie Buckle when I was sixteen.
That was my exact thought, so instant and clear that for one ghastly second I thought I’d actually said the words out loud, which would have been tricky given I was on ABC Radio at the time. Nevertheless, I was shocked by the thought. Since when had I regretted not having sex with Robbie Buckle? And, more to the point, since when had I started using the f-word as a verb? Who did I think I was? Kim Cattrall in an episode of Sex and the City?
‘Denise?’
‘Oh, yes, sorry Waleed, vagued out there for a second; you were asking?’
‘If you had any regrets.’
‘Yes, I do. I very much regret not being able to play the ukulele.’
To go from sex to ukulele in less than five seconds was for my money nothing short of genius. And the ukulele regret was even true. I explained to Waleed that my mother was living in a locked dementia unit and how difficult it could be to have a conversation with someone with Alzheimer’s. I recalled once asking my mother, ‘How are you going, Mum?’ to which she replied, ‘I’m as good as gold.’ Then she looked at me and said, ‘And what about your mother? How is she going?’
It was an awkward moment. I had replied, ‘She’s as good as gold, apparently; at least, that’s what I’ve been told.’
John, on the other hand, could simply stand in the middle of the crowded dining room in the dementia unit and start playing his ukulele: the sheer joy and sense of calm it brought to all the residents was nothing short of a miracle. On one memorable occasion, a resident named Sheila called out to John, ‘Do you know “I belong to Glasgow”?’ John didn’t know it, but that was no problem for Sheila, who began to belt it out regardless. One by one the residents joined in until they were all singing their hearts out, faces beaming. John managed to play along. Finally, they finished the song.
Not two seconds later Sheila looked at John and said, ‘Do you know “I belong to Glasgow”? It’s one of my favourite songs, and I haven’t heard it in years.’
And so John played it again … and again…
Waleed then did a spiel about there being no point going through life with regrets and made me promise that I would learn to play the ukulele and perform a song onstage, an empty promise if ever there was one.
* * *
A few days later I had dinner with my good buddy Fran. I told her the whole story, about the chook meet, Waleed, my regret.
She looked puzzled. ‘But why do you regret not having sex with Robbie Buckle?’
‘Because I think it would have been awesome. And I really believe that if I’d had a simple, uncomplicated, straightforward, hot introduction to sex, no strings attached, as opposed to … well … as opposed to the one I did have—not that it was bad, it was great; well, I assume it was; I actually can’t remember it in any detail, and then the relationship that followed was so messy—I would have grown up to be a happier, better adjusted human being.’
Fran looked unconvinced, but nevertheless offered the following words of wisdom: ‘I went to school with a girl whose mother often used to say, “You must never go through life regretting not sleeping with someone.”’ Right on, sister!
‘Yeah, she ended up sleeping with her daughter’s husband.’
Not so right on.
* * *
In early 2010 I joined Facebook because I thought it important to know what four thousand of my closest friends were going to have on their sandwich for lunch. One day I went online to discover that a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend—a woman—had sent me a photo. It was a picture of a man standing in his laundry, casually leaning against his top-load washing machine. He was totally bald, had a large handlebar moustache, an enormous beer gut and was wearing a mankini, which led me to conclude that all his clothes must have been in the wash. He had a large Laughing Buddha tattoo on his stomach and was holding a can of Jim Beam.
There was no message and no name. I stared at the photo, wondering why this friend of a friend of a friend of a friend had forwarded it to me. I peered at this bald man’s face; it sure as hell beat peering at his gut.
And then I saw it—the sparkle in his eyes.
It was Robbie Buckle.
Did I still regret not having sex with him when I was sixteen? Not so much. It felt as though life had come full circle—from a vomit-mouthed kiss to a photo on Facebook via a chook meet in St Andrews.
chapter fifteen
Comedy and death
On a Monday evening late in March 2011 I performed at the Palais Theatre as part of the opening-night gala of the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. Later that night, when I arrived home and John asked me how I’d gone in my three and a half minutes onstage, I confidently replied, ‘Pretty good. In fact, I reckon it was my best gala yet!’
* * *
A few days later, the following Thursday to be precise, I was on location for Winners and Losers filming a hospital scene; my onscreen character, Trish Gross, had been diagnosed with breast cancer. We wrapped at 6.15 pm and immediately I jumped in a cab and headed into the city. It was the opening night of my new show, Regrets, which was based on Robbie Buckle, the chook meet and the Facebook photo. For the next month I was going to perform it every night except Mondays.
On that first night, I had an hour to kill before curtain time, so I headed to the Westin Hotel. It was a showbiz trick I’d learnt years earlier—to go to a swish hotel and set up camp in their lounge area. I sat down in a comfy leather armchair and ordered a pot of tea from the stylish waiter. I didn’t want tea, but I saw the eight dollars fifty—that was how much an Earl Grey cost in that establishment—as cheap rent for an upmarket space where I could sit, collect my thoughts and rehearse my show. How does one rehearse a solo show while sitting in a bar? Simple! One sits there drinking tea and talking to oneself. It’s quite marvellous. No-one comes near you.
After finishing my run-through I headed to the ladies, where I changed into my stage outfit—a funky animal-print dress with a sheer black jacket. I applied make-up and then proceeded, in my orthotic runners, to walk to the nearby Victoria Hotel, in which my performance venue was located.
While it may not have had the sophistication of the Westin I was nevertheless happy to be performing at the Victoria Hotel. Every night when I walked into the foyer I marvelled anew at the wide marble staircase that swept up to the first floor bar. Covered in worn carpet, it still managed to maintain a quiet dignity, a downmarket grandeur, and I respected that quality—I’d even go so far as to say I related to it. I also loved how behind the reception desk a holland blind (of correct dimensions) was pulled down to cover the enormous fish tank, thus enabling the fish to get a good night’s sleep while comedy fans poured in and out of the building.
I was nervous and avoided speaking to any of the other comics in the foyer; instead, I headed downstairs to my venue, a conference room that had been converted into a temporary theatre courtesy of a makeshift stage, raked seating and a lighting rig, all hired for the occasion. I stood backstage. It didn’t quite have the dignity of the staircase. In a word, it was putrid. I did some deep-breathing exercises, raising my arms on the i
n breath, lowering them again on the out breath.
In …
Out.
In …
Out.
Jesus Christ, what was that smell? The place stank.
Urine! That was it. Stinking stale urine. This tiny back room had more than likely been used as a urinal; it wasn’t as if there was a toilet backstage, and once the audience came in there was no way out. Ah, the joys of being a showbiz celebrity.
Dori, my stage manager and tech, put on my house music—motown hits that had been rejigged to have a contemporary sound. It was my solution to being old but wanting to appear to be a happening human being still in touch with modern-day life. I swapped my orthotic runners for a pair of high heels.
I did the show. I spoke about my regrets, including not being able to play the ukulele and not having had sex with Robbie Buckle. At the end of the show I played ‘I belong to Glasgow’ on the ukulele. This had nothing to do with keeping my promise to Waleed Aly and everything to do with the reality that, though not quite as effective as wearing a leotard, playing the ukulele badly also distracts an audience from noticing that you don’t have a decent gag to finish your show. The audience ticked all the boxes—they came, they stayed, they laughed, they applauded, they left in an apparent state of happiness. I was relieved and just a little bit pleased with myself. It was going to be a great festival.
* * *
It was early the following Sunday morning when the call came from the dementia unit. My mother was unwell. She went to hospital to have an X-ray. The doctors thought it was constipation, but it wasn’t. The next day Mum was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer. My sister and I made it clear there was to be no treatment, only pain relief.
That evening the Comedy Festival gala screened on TV. And then all hell broke loose. My Facebook page was swamped with posts of the negative kind. It appeared that in my ‘pretty good’ comedy spot I had managed to offend alcoholics, coeliacs and people with Asperger’s—one hell of a trifecta.
From the alcoholics there was only one complaint, and being a borderline alcoholic myself I liked to think I had a right to say whatever I wanted. As for the coeliacs, at the risk of causing more offence, I didn’t care if I did upset them. Not one bit. So what if they couldn’t eat wheat? Honestly, get a grip, people! What did make me feel sick to my stomach, though, was that people believed I’d made jokes at the expense of children with Asperger’s. As I said in my online apology, why would I joke about something like that? I don’t find it funny.
My joke had been about people who claimed to be alcoholic or coeliac or to have mild Asperger’s when in reality they didn’t and just used the label as an excuse for bad behaviour. Sadly, the nub of my joke appeared to have become somewhat lost in translation. I hoped my sincere and heartfelt apology would be the end of it.
* * *
Meanwhile, I went to the hospital to sit with my mother. She was distressed. ‘Why are you doing this to me, Denise?’
‘What, Mum?’
‘Keeping me prisoner.’
‘Mum, I’m not keeping you prisoner. You’re in hospital. You’re not well.’
‘Oh Denise, please don’t lie to me.’
‘I’m not lying, Mum. You’re quite ill.’
‘How would you know what the hell I am?’
‘Because I just do.’
‘Oh, that’d be right. You always were the one who knew everything.’
My stomach knotted. I reminded myself that my mother had Alzheimer’s.
Her anxiety continued. ‘Denise, please, you’ve got to get me out of here.’
‘I can’t, Mum. Not now. Perhaps in another hour, after you’ve seen the doctor,’ I lied.
‘I don’t need to see a bloody doctor. If you don’t do something, I’ll just get up and walk out of here myself and you’ll never see me again.’
My mother said ‘bloody’? This was serious.
Later that afternoon my sister arrived and I went to the hospital canteen for a break. My mobile rang. It was Kev, my manager. I sensed my day was not about to get any better. ‘Hi, Scotty, how’s your mum?’
‘Still alive—that’s about all I can say.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry, Scotty, but I thought I’d better ring and let you know the Herald Sun are probably going to run the story tomorrow.’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘Yeah, I did my best. I tried to talk the journo out of it. To be honest, I used your mother’s situation, but unfortunately no dice. I’ve pushed him to print your apology but he wasn’t sure.’
‘Oh God.’
‘And I have to tell you I’ve had people from various autism groups on the phone, and they’re pretty upset …’ How I wanted to run and hide. The familiar sense of shame was crackling, preparing to make a big, incendiary comeback. ‘I think it’s because these people have such stressful lives, you know, with all they have to deal with, and they’ve just got to vent somehow.’
I said nothing.
‘Anyway, Scotty, I just wanted to give you the heads up.’
* * *
That night, my sister and a group of her friends came to see the show—an arrangement that had been made before Mum’s hospitalisation. Jay-O and Ronnie along with a large group of people from the chook meet were also in the audience. Included in their posse was one of the many who, as an adolescent, had had sex with Robbie Buckle. I spoke to her during the show, and she informed the entire audience that the love tryst had taken place down an old mine shaft.
‘And was it awesome?’
‘Actually, it was pretty ordinary.’
Afterwards, we all had a drink together and I took comfort in their company.
Meanwhile, John had gone straight from work to the hospital to sit with Mum. He informed me later that they had watched Winners and Losers together, and Mum had appeared to enjoy it.
‘Did she know it was me in the show?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh, well, that would be why she enjoyed it.’
* * *
As predicted, the next day the article appeared in the Herald Sun. Kev rang me early that morning. I was already at the hospital and took the call in the foyer. Although my online apology had been included in the article it seemed it hadn’t quite cut the mustard … ‘If it’s any comfort, Scotty, the whole thing will have blown over in three days max. But for now, you’d better prepare yourself because every nutter in the fucking country is going to jump online and have their say. I suggest you don’t go anywhere near a computer for a few days, and please, don’t, whatever you do, look at the Herald Sun online forum. I’ve just checked it and it’s ugly.’ I felt as though a medicine ball was being thrown at my guts over and over again. ‘Yeah, the timing is awful, but I swear, for two or three days it’ll spread like wildfire, and then it will run out of oxygen and disappear. Oh, and I should warn you, I’ve got messages here from other media.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I wish I was, but if you don’t mind I’m going to go in hard and really play the dying mother card.’
‘Please play it. I mean to say, it’s the truth—my mother is dying and I just need to be with her. I can’t be dealing with this other stuff, not now.’
I went back to the ward and resumed my vigil. Even though my mother needed to be in palliative care she was still stuck in a surgical ward—something to do with the bureaucratic process. This meant that numerous times throughout the day surgeons, always accompanied by a gaggle of student doctors, would gather around my mother’s bed. They’d ask her questions, and each time she would become abusive, and I would have to explain she had Alzheimer’s and endlessly repeat that ‘no, my mother is not going to have surgery.’
As the days wore on my mother’s anxiety escalated to fury. ‘Denise, why? Why are you doing this to me? For God’s sake, I’m your mother. How could you be so cruel? As soon as I get out of here I swear I’ll never have anything to do with you again.’
* * *
Her voice faded. I was no longer listening; I was too busy having a religious experience. I saw a glowing golden halo surrounding Geraldine’s head and I heard an angelic choir singing the Hallelujah Chorus and I knew without a skerrick of doubt that she was our ticket for getting Mum out of the surgical ward and into palliative care.
I told her of our plight, and for some reason (a comedian’s constant state of self-absorption, perhaps?) I went on to regale her with the story of the autism business and then dared to ask, ‘Were you by any chance at the school centenary dinner?’
‘No I wasn’t, Scotty,’ and here she gave me a meaningful look, ‘but I heard all about it.’
‘Oh,’ I groaned.
In turn Geraldine told me she had followed my career because her mother, a conservative, deeply religious, straightshooting eighty-four-year-old Catholic woman, had kept a scrapbook of my work. ‘She’s so proud of you, Denise. She brings out the scrapbook all the time. Bores us stupid with it.’
I was taken aback. How come Geraldine’s mother was proud of me when my own mother …? Ah, but of course, Geraldine’s mother could feel proud of me because I wasn’t her daughter!
That afternoon my sister and I tag-teamed—Julie took up residence in the chair next to Mum’s bed while I went home. Stupidly, I checked my Facebook page. A lynch mob had gathered. Its numbers were few, but the vitriol was gobsmacking. I noticed that an ‘I hate Denise Scott’ page had been created. Some were calling for my death—at least, I assumed that was what they meant by ‘BURN! BURN! BURN!’
* * *
That evening I was early for my show so went and grabbed a coffee at a small cafe in nearby Swanston Street. I gazed out the window and watched people hurrying to and fro on their way home from work or out to dinner, and I felt a distinct pang of envy.