Best Australian Comedy Writing Read online

  When the movie The Mask first came out, someone had told Geoffrey that he did an excellent impression of the bit where Jim Carrey says, ‘Smokin’!’ Since then, he’d wanted to be a voiceover artist, convinced that his repertoire of Fred Flintstone, Crocodile Dundee and John Cleese impressions were nothing short of a gift for others to experience. It was a very long night.

  ‘This parrot is dead! He’s an ex-parrot. Bereft of life.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it, Geoffrey.’

  ‘No, you’re meant to say, “He’s just resting.”’

  ‘Can’t we play I-spy instead?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go first. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with an F.’

  ‘Well it’s certainly not a ferry.’

  ‘No, but it’s got the word ferry in it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, it’s got three words.’

  ‘That’s a sentence.’

  ‘No, it’s a name. Of a place.’

  ‘Fuck that then, I’m not playing anymore. What was it?’

  ‘Ferry Booking Office.’

  ‘I’m really tempted to drive the car off the edge of the dock right now and drown us both. What’s the time?’

  ‘11.15, so …’ He counted off fingers, ‘eighteen hours and fifteen minutes until we get to board. You know what we should do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hum parts of a song and the other person has to guess what the song is.’

  ‘I’m going to go to sleep.’

  ‘Oh, no, don’t do that. Then I’ll be awake by myself and there’s nothing to do. Come on, I’ll start. Hmmm hmmm, hmm, hmmm hmmm hmm, hmm.’

  ‘“Bohemian Rhapsody”?’

  ‘No. It didn’t sound anything like “Bohemian Rhapsody”. You must be tone-deaf. Here, I’ll do it again. Hmm hmm, hmmm, hmm hmm hmm.’

  ‘That sounded completely different from the first time.’

  ‘That’s because I did a different bit. That was the chorus. I’d have thought you’d get it easy with the chorus. Do you want me to hum it again?’

  ‘No, I give it up. What was it?’

  ‘“Don’t You Want Me” by The Human League.’

  ‘What time is it now?’

  ‘11.18.’

  At 4.30pm the next day, we were first in line to drive aboard.

  The ship was essentially a floating parking deck. Due to the booking change, the only tickets available were ‘Ocean Recliner’, which meant sitting in a chair overnight with no shower facilities after our thirty-six hours in the car.

  A few chairs down from us, a couple had a child with a toothache and a set of healthy lungs, but we managed to get a few minutes of sleep regardless. We drove off the ship into Devonport at six the next morning, leaving a large puddle of coolant behind.

  Devonport looked a lot like Adelaide, and I had never been that impressed with Adelaide. We filled the radiator and headed south. Our original five-day plan had been to tour the island in a clockwise route, with overnight stays in Launceston, Hobart, Queenstown and Burnie, before arriving back in Devonport for departure. We’d already missed our first night, so we made the decision to bypass Launceston and head straight to Hobart instead.

  ‘We should stop and buy apples,’ declared Geoffrey. We were driving through farming land and, every few kilometres, kiosks selling apples were set up at the front of properties.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re in the Apple Isle. We have to buy apples. Tasmania is famous for them. People will ask us about the apples when we get back, and what are you going to tell them? That we didn’t try any? That’s just ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m fairly certain they are the same apples we buy in Adelaide. All our apples come from here.’

  ‘Yes, but these ones haven’t been in a truck. And a boat. They’re straight off the trees. Besides, we need snacks for the road trip. Pull over at this one.’

  Geoffrey purchased two large bags from the vendor, a woman with no teeth who told us we were going in the wrong direction. We headed back the way we had come, looking for the turn-off.

  ‘Do you want one?’ Geoffrey offered the bag to me.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You’re not even going to try one?’

  ‘I kind of like the green ones better. They’re more crisp.’

  ‘These are pretty crisp,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘Listen …’ He took a large bite.

  ‘I stand corrected. That did indeed sound crisp.’

  ‘Do you want one, then?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Fine. All the more apples for me. I’m fairly sure that was the turn-off, by the way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You missed the turn-off.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you tell me it was coming up?’

  ‘You’re the one driving.’

  ‘Yes, and you’re the navigator,’ I countered. ‘That’s your job. You have the map.’

  During our trip across on the ferry, we’d taken time out from our designated chairs to eat at the cafeteria. It was slim pickings – pre-wrapped sandwiches and the like – and we had to line up with trays like they make you do at IKEA. Our tray liners, A3 pieces of paper, featured an outline of Tasmania, with landmarks, for kids to colour in with a supplied small box of crayons. The crayons, four per box, were only slightly thicker than a piece of wire, and one of them was white. They kept snapping and were constructed from a material not unlike crayon, but not similar enough to leave much of a mark on paper. Our proposed route was marked in purple crayon, with tourist locations we intended to visit coloured in green. Geoffrey had also shaded the shoreline in with blue.

  ‘The map doesn’t show the turn-off. It just has a picture of a turtle. I’m going by what the old lady told me. She said to turn left at the big rock shaped like a boot. That road will take us to a main road that goes all the way to Hobart.’

  ‘Was there a rock shaped like a boot?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Right. I’ll keep going for a bit then, and if we don’t see a rock that is definitely shaped like a boot, we’ll head back.’

  ‘No, it was definitely boot-shaped.’

  I turned the car around and drove back. The rock wasn’t shaped anything like a boot.

  ‘Maybe you misunderstood because of her thick Tasmanian accent and lack of teeth.’

  ‘No,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘She definitely said “boot”. Maybe it depends on which angle you look at it from.’

  ‘It’s round. Whatever angle you look at it from, it’s going to be round. Perhaps you should have asked her what kind of boot: a boot-shaped one or the round kind.’

  ‘It’s not perfectly round – it has a bit that sticks up at the back. I can definitely see a kind of boot shape.’

  We took the turn-off. It led to a farmhouse, so we reversed back down their driveway and continued on along the highway until we found the correct landmark. It was actually shaped like a boot. Someone had spray-painted black laces on it. Someone else had spray-painted the words ‘Ken Matthews is a wanker’ in white.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I saw that when we drove past earlier.’

  ‘You knew where the boot was?’

  ‘It didn’t register that it was boot-shaped at the time. I was too busy wondering who Ken Matthews is and if he has seen that rock. He would have been pretty cross.’

  On the five-hour drive to Hobart, Geoffrey made me play a game that he invented called ‘Number Plate People’. As cars drove past us, we had to record the letters and numerals from their number plate and use each letter as the first letters of someone’s name. GZA-426, for example, became Glen Zoe Alice. The numbers indicated the probability of the person driving the car being called Glen, Zoe or Alice. In this case, a four in twenty-six chance. It was far more excruciating than I am making it sound.

  ‘Losing that day has really mucked up our schedule,’ Geoffrey complained as he marked our new route on the map. He’d tried colouring over the old ro
ute with the white crayon but it hadn’t worked. He held it up. ‘Ignore everything in purple. Everything green is where we are going now. Except the green whale.’

  ‘Right, well you’re the navigator. We’ve already established your skills in that area.’

  ‘Okay, because we lost a day, and it’s now nearly noon on Sunday, we should turn left up here. That will take us to Port Arthur.’

  ‘What’s at Port Arthur?’

  ‘It’s the ruins of an old prison.’

  ‘Oh, good. I thought we were going straight to Hobart, but visiting ruins sounds much better than food and a shower.’

  ‘We can eat at Port Arthur,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘They have a cafe. If we go to Hobart first, we won’t have time to get there before the prison closes, and I will have to colour over it with purple. I know how long it takes you to shower.’

  When I was growing up, my father had very strict water usage rules. If using the sink, under no circumstances were we to use the hot tap. If using the shower, we were not to exceed three minutes. He would set a timer, and if the water was still on when the buzzer went off, he’d barge into the bathroom yelling and turn it off. He was a bit of a dick. As the shower took a few minutes to warm up, we had to lather ourselves with soap and shampoo outside the stream and use the remaining sixty seconds to wash it off. After my father left us, everyone took as long as they fucking wanted in the shower. Since then, my showers have extended to two, sometimes three hours. I usually turn on the shower and make a coffee while waiting for it to get nice and steamy. Then I get in and have my coffee with a cigarette. After enjoying the water for a while, I shave, brush my teeth, shampoo my hair and wash. In that order, but the time between each varies. Then I enjoy the water for a while. Sometimes I try to drown a bug or see how much water I can hold with my arms crossed or hold my arms down with my fingers splayed to make the water run off the tips. My current bathroom has a television and coffee machine in it. I tried putting a beanbag in the shower but, after a few months, the stitching rotted away and it burst, so now I use a camping chair.

  The Port Arthur Historical Site was an hour out of our way. Geoffrey suggested we continue our game of Number Plate People, and I threatened to swerve into oncoming traffic.

  ‘Let’s play Science Fiction Movies then. I’ll say a science fiction movie, and whatever letter it ends with, you have to name a science fiction movie that starts with that letter.’

  ‘Righto,’ I agreed, ‘Star Wars.’

  ‘No, I go first.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Star Wars.’

  ‘Really? Fine. Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back.’

  ‘No, you can’t use Star Wars twice in a row.’

  ‘Are you just saying that because you can’t think of a science fiction film that starts with K?’ I asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fine, Spaceballs then.’

  ‘That’s really more of a comedy than science fiction, but I’ll let you have it. Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back.’

  ‘Right, I’m not playing anymore.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t have thought it possible ten minutes ago, but you actually managed to come up with a game more painful than Number Plate People.’

  ‘Let’s play Animals then.’

  ‘Do you name an animal and I use the last letter to name another animal?’

  ‘No, I make an animal sound and you have to guess what it is. I’ll go first. Araack!’

  ‘That just sounded like someone yelling the name “Eric”. Is it Eric’s mother?’

  ‘No, it’s Araack!, not “Eric”. I’ll give you a clue: it’s brown.’

  ‘That’s not much of a clue. Most animals are brown.’

  ‘Yes, but only one of them says Araack!’

  ‘Is it a camel?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I give up then. What was it?’

  ‘Oh, don’t give up yet,’ Geoffrey moaned. ‘I’ll give you one more clue. It has long eyelashes.’

  ‘That’s all I get to go on? It’s brown, has long eyelashes, and yells “Eric”?’

  ‘Araack!’

  ‘Right, well I don’t give a fuck what it is, it sounds dreadful.’

  ‘It was a seal.’

  ‘It didn’t sound anything like a seal. Seals bark.’

  ‘No, that’s dogs. Because you didn’t get it, I get to go again. Braaad!’

  We arrived and drove through a tollbooth and into the car park just after 1pm. It was a nice day, warm with blue skies and a light breeze. There were quite a few tourists. Geoffrey consulted the brochure that we had been given at the ticket office.

  ‘What do you want to look at first? The prison ruins or the church ruins?’

  ‘Where’s the cafe?’ I asked.

  Geoffrey consulted the brochure again. It had a little map on the back. He pointed to a building.

  ‘That’s the gift shop and cafe,’ he said, ‘but we should look at the ruins first. I’m not really all that hungry.’

  ‘Really? You only ate two bags of apples. You don’t want a barrel of plums or a bucket of apricots to go with them? I’m going to get something to eat.’

  We made our way up the steps of the building and entered through the gift shop. I bought a black-and-white striped T-shirt with ‘Inmate of Port Arthur Prison’ printed on it. Geoffrey bought a coffee mug and a fridge magnet.

  The cafe had the IKEA tray system, so we grabbed a tray each and made our way down the line. I had my eye on a cherry danish, but the man in front of us took it.

  ‘Good choice,’ I said. ‘I was going to get that.’

  The man turned and frowned. He had blond wavy hair, parted in the middle, and was carrying a big bag.

  ‘You can have it if you like. It’s burnt on the edges. I don’t like them when they are overcooked.’

  He offered the danish to me.

  ‘No, no. You enjoy your cherry danish. I’m sure it will be delicious, despite the burnt edges.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll have it then,’ said Geoffrey. He took the danish.

  The man with the blond wavy hair and I each selected a slice of carrot cake instead.

  ‘Snap,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Snap. You know, the card game.’

  ‘No. Is it like Uno?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s more like Go Fish,’ Geoffrey interjected helpfully.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ I told the man with blond wavy hair. ‘Don’t listen to him. He’s insane.’

  ‘It’s for the same age group,’ Geoffrey argued.

  ‘Right, so by that argument, Slip’N Slide is also similar to Snap.’

  ‘I’ve never played Slip Inside, so I wouldn’t know,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Is it like Go Fish?’

  ‘Are you serious? Slip’N Slide. The long piece of yellow plastic that you put on your lawn, spray water on, and kids slide down.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the Splash’N Ride?’

  ‘What the fuck? Who calls it the Splash’N Ride?’

  ‘That’s what the one we had was called.’

  ‘You must have had a cheap Chinese knock-off then. The real one is called Slip’N Slide. Where’d you get it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe Target. Can you pass me one of those splades please?’

  Further up the line, I added a cheese sandwich and a bag of chips to my tray. Geoffrey selected a banana to ‘mix things up a bit’. I have no idea what the man with the blond wavy hair added, because Geoffrey and I were busy arguing about whether the plastic spoons with a built-in fork were called splades or sporks. We paid for our meal and made our way outside to eat on the balcony. Wasps hovered near an open bin by the door, so I carried on a bit and we sat at a table towards the back. I’m not a fan of wasps.

  Once, when I was young, my family drove up the coast to stay at a beachside town called Kalbarri during summer break. We rented a cabin at the Kalbarri Caravan Park. O
n the beach, there was a small shack that rented out snorkelling equipment, so my sister and I hurriedly searched through bags for our swimming outfits. My father walked around with his hands on his hips, nodding and commenting on what an excellent choice in accommodation he had made.

  ‘Look, ceiling fans. Very nice. The ceiling appears to be bowing here, though, and there’s a stain in the middle that looks wet.’

  He reached up on tippy-toes and poked the wet spot with his finger. His finger went straight through, opening a hole about an inch in diameter. Wasps poured out of the hole. Thousands of them. The room looked like yellow and black static. Everyone was stung multiple times, but my father took the brunt of the attack. After he was released from hospital, my mother had to drive the car home because my father couldn’t open his eyes due to the swelling. It was the third-worst holiday I have ever been on.

  The man with the blond wavy hair sat a few tables down from us. He smiled and raised his spork with a bit of carrot cake on it in way of a salute.

  ‘They’re not European wasps, so you don’t have to worry,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Those are just normal wasps. There’s a lot of wasps about today, but I haven’t seen any European wasps.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ Geoffrey asked, seemingly quite interested. ‘Is there a noticeable size or colour variation?’

  The man with the blond wavy hair seemed pleased at this engagement.

  ‘They’re the same colour, but European wasps are smaller than normal wasps. They look more like bees. A man came to our house and hung European wasp traps on the trees in our backyard because our neighbour had a nest of them in their shed. I looked in one, and it was full of dead European wasps. We’ve got lots of European wasps in Tasmania, but those,’ he indicated towards the bin, ‘are just yellow paper wasps. They won’t kill you.’

  ‘Well that’s good to hear,’ said Geoffrey. ‘You certainly know a lot about wasps.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a wasp scientist,’ said the man with the blond wavy hair. ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Why didn’t you put the traps on the trees yourself then?’

  Geoffrey kicked my leg under the table.