Acknowledgments Read online

  Dedication

  To my friends and family.

  I’m sorry for being such a little bitch all the time.

  I really love you.

  Contents

  Dedication

  David

  The Chuckle Hut Comedy and Magic Club

  Carlos

  My primary school girl group

  The Westfield shopping centre

  Jack

  Sport

  Santa

  crazyhorny64

  Rachel

  Pam

  The man who fell down the stairs

  The nerd in the park

  The woman in the castle

  My very poor sex education

  The worst gigs of my life: part one

  The worst gigs of my life: part two

  Brett Jackson

  People who block the baggage carousel at the airport

  Isabella

  Emma

  Heather’s dad

  Ros

  Nick Wiley

  Hens’ parties

  Stevie Nicks

  Jacinta Allen

  Jeff

  The dead puppies

  Brian

  Mum and Dad

  Michael Jackson

  The gym

  Opals

  (Book) Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I’d like to start the book by saying a few thankyous . . .

  David

  I met David in a hostel in Brazil in my early twenties, during the trip of a lifetime. He was American and at first I was grossed out by him. He didn’t fit into what I considered my general ‘type’ – not that I was old enough to have a ‘type’, but I was old enough to know men who wear funky hats are to be avoided and it is possible he wore a fedora, which I had always believed was the international sign for letting people know you leave comments underneath online porn videos. But, in spite of his offensive hat, he had a confidence that was undeniable – although, in hindsight, I realise that he was just American, and you shouldn’t be charmed by an American’s confidence because they were born with it and it hasn’t been earned.

  His confidence was perhaps heightened by the fact that, during this particular leg of the trip, my friend Esther and I had amassed a group of very unconfident friends, due to my secret talent, which is that I possess some sort of Disney princess charm that draws meek and unconfident girls into my orbit.

  There was one girl in particular, called Jessica, who was Irish and very much needed coaxing out of her shell. Esther and I would try to get her involved by buying rounds of shots and insisting she do them with us, at one point both of us chanting, ‘Say Yessica!’ over and over again until she did it. She spent a week with us, shyly accepting offers to go on walks or to beach parties, and we got to know Jessica quite well. By the end of the week, we started to see signs that she was feeling more confident; for example, during one of the hostel parties, she wore round glow-in-the-dark glasses and only once asked us if she was ‘pulling it off’.

  When it was time for her to leave the hostel, we gave her a heartfelt goodbye in the foyer before turning on our heels and returning to our group of friends, including David, who were playing a game of cards.

  During the course of the card game, someone brought up the fact that Katie had left – in fact, we kept hearing the name Katie until eventually Esther asked who that was.

  One of the Irish guys piped up, ‘Katie! The girl you’ve been calling Jessica for the past week.’

  I laughed as though he’d told a joke.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘The poor girl’s name was Katie and you two thought it was Jessica. She told me she was too scared to say anything, so she just kept letting you call her that.’

  I realised in that moment that, while I definitely lack confidence in many areas of my life, I don’t think I’ll ever understand what it feels like to have so little confidence that I let people call me the wrong name for a week.

  After Katie had left, we began hanging out with David and his hat more and more, and he tried to kiss me every night. My initial repulsion to his advances only seemed to spur him on and, after weeks of relentless courting, I gave in. And in a tale as old as time, he retreated from me almost immediately, which meant I was now hooked.

  While overseas, I had pursued a variety of men, all of whom seemed exotic, like they were portals into a different life I could never have imagined possible. These days, their names are portals into a late-night scroll on Facebook and the main cause of my permanently furrowed brow, thanks to the hours I have wasted trying to figure out whether we had sex near the Louvre or if they’re my cousin’s friend who once showed me his webbed toe.

  But David felt different to me and, even though his interest in me had waned, I thought about him often and we kept in touch for the rest of my trip. Every now and then during one of our late-night text-message exchanges, I could goad him into admitting that he missed me, and when I returned to Australia, he totally encouraged me – although now I think about it, at most he may have simply agreed to my offer – to visit him in San Francisco.

  I saved for months and flew to Los Angeles, where I was to board the cheap connecting flight to San Francisco I had purchased without reading even a single word of the fine print. Tired, hungover and manic, I approached the counter where a woman with smooth skin and clear eyes told me that, actually, I had purchased no baggage allowance and it would cost me two hundred dollars if I wanted to check in a suitcase for a domestic flight. She was not won over by my argument that my bag was only twelve kilos, and she explained that because the bag had a hard bottom it was considered luggage and not carry-on.

  Feeling either sorry for me or benevolent, she leaned in and said, ‘Listen, there’s a bunch of big plastic sacks that were left here after some airport deliveries. You could put all your stuff into one of those and just ditch your suitcase.’

  Spurred on by our perceived camaraderie, I laughed. ‘I can’t put all my things into a see-through sack. That’s mental!’

  ‘Okay, well, that will be two hundred dollars,’ she replied, clearly over this exchange.

  So everything went into the plastic sack and I skulked off to my gate. I tried a few different ways of holding the sack in the hopes that one position would look dignified, but in the end I just went with the classic over-the-shoulder, as though it was a new type of trendy bindle. I knew, deep down, that turning up with a sack would seem like the annoying tactic of a girl trying to secure her place as the ‘protagonist’ in whatever the fuck this reunion was. But careening towards David’s apartment in a taxi I could barely afford, I still held out hope he might find it endearing.

  I arrived at his apartment with my sexiest expression and the giant plastic sack of my belongings and, within a microsecond, I knew I’d made a huge mistake. He didn’t mention the sack or even attempt a fake laugh in response to my pre-prepared quip about it. Instead, he welcomed me into his apartment, looking as though I’d interrupted his video game during a crucial moment, which I had.

  For an entire week I stayed in his home, acutely aware that he didn’t want me there. To this day, I believe that this is one of the worst feelings in the world. For most people – and this is definitely the case for me – we tend to reflect the way we’re being treated in the moment. If someone is laughing at you, you start making more jokes; if they smile at you, you smile back. So when someone treats you like you’re being annoying, you tend to lose your confidence and start being even more annoying. You can feel yourself doing and saying things that are just making it worse; it’s almost as if their feelings towards you become contagious and you start becoming as annoyed at yourself as they are at you.

  He’d half-hea
rtedly wave goodbye to me in the morning and go to work, after which I’d explore the city, pretending to have fun. Ashamed that I’d created this entire love story in my mind and too embarrassed to admit to any of my friends what had happened, I would walk the streets of San Francisco alone, willing something to happen to me, even walking into the more dangerous parts of town – but, alas, even the local thieves could sense I wanted it too badly. David had got in my head so much that I even believed I was not worthy to be held at knifepoint.

  On the second-last day, outside a Starbucks, I met a young Indian guy from Kerala, who told me he was training to be a pilot. After talking for a while, he invited me to have lunch at his place. This was because, being a white woman, I had mentioned my recent trip to India and discussed my favourite dish with him in the first five minutes of conversation. I went along with him, thinking that anything would be better than nothing. He was very nice and made me palak paneer as promised. We ate the curry and drank beers on his rooftop and, with the sun dappling my eye and a buzz from the alcohol, I could almost convince myself I was having a good time.

  At some point between our third and fourth beer, he tried to kiss me. I said no, out of some strange loyalty to my reverse captor.

  I’ll always remember his sad eyes as he pleaded with me to stay. ‘No, Becky, please, we have so much to talk about,’ he said, as I tried to ignore his quite obvious erection.

  I made some excuses about being late to meet a friend and bustled down the fire escape, stopping every few seconds to do a sort of semi-bow and thank him for the meal.

  The next night, I walked around for as long as I could. In what was obviously a conscious effort to avoid me, David had taken to staying later and later at work, and I wanted to prove to him that it didn’t bother me.

  I looked up some potential things I could do and saw that George Clinton and the Parliament-Funkadelic were playing a small gig on the outskirts of town. I walked through the club door, which was just a thick layer of multicoloured streamers, and emerged on the other side to see ten or so beautiful women onstage in their underwear. It turned out it wasn’t just a funk gig but also a ‘Big Booty’ competition, and the whole band was there to judge who had the best ass. The vibe was really fun and, despite the pangs of loneliness I felt looking around at big groups of friends laughing, I bought a beer and decided to enjoy myself.

  Eventually a guy next to me offered me some of his joint and, thinking this was a sign that he was up for a chat, I got up onto my tiptoes.

  ‘This is so cool,’ I said into his ear.

  ‘What?’ he replied, moving his head away from my mouth, visibly irritated.

  I projected more this time. ‘This! This show is so cool.’

  ‘Yeah . . . Hey, we don’t have to talk because I gave you weed, just so you know. I was being polite,’ he replied, delivering the blow that almost extinguished all of my remaining self-esteem.

  The frustrating thing was that he was quite unattractive and wearing a really pretentious flat cap. It was starting to feel like I was addicted to getting rejected by average men in bad hats.

  I finished my beer and headed back into town, walking aimlessly with cold, aching feet. I eventually found myself googling ‘entertainment San Francisco nearby’ and Google suggested a famous comedy club called The Purple Onion. I had time to catch the late show, so I jumped in a cab and got there just in time to buy a ticket and another beer. I sat down and there, in the dark, alone, away from any man or hat, I finally felt that this might be . . . something.

  David, after having my self-esteem crushed and beaten down all week by your unwavering indifference, the idea of getting onstage and trying comedy suddenly didn’t seem so scary. Eight years after this disastrous visit, I would return to America to do a set on Conan O’Brien’s show and that’s got to be partly thanks to you.

  ATTN: HATERS

  It might seem strange that this book, which is written by a woman and will be, I imagine, marketed to independent and modern women (the kind who have a copy of a Sally Rooney book on their bedside table, next to a Glasshouse candle and a bottle of melatonin) using the various media streams that target that demographic, would begin by thanking a man. But the truth is, there are a lot of men out there for whom I have a lot to thank, especially if this book is about thanking the ones I never thought I would.

  To be clear, like anyone (or more specifically any woman), I can find myself loving and hating men in equal measure. But the idea of amassing a fanbase based purely on detesting them doesn’t sit well with me. I’m sure the men who bought this book in an outward act of male allyship might be crestfallen (or elated!) to hear this.

  That’s not to say I’m not a feminist – of course I am. But then what does that actually mean? I am, by all means, living the feminist lifestyle that was marketed to me in my late teens and twenties, in that I make my own money and for the most part I don’t rely on men, except when I need to torrent a movie or be driven somewhere (due to the fact I don’t have my driver’s licence). I suppose some people would even argue that by, at times, using a man’s time and labour without paying for it, I have achieved true empowerment by enslaving those who ostensibly hold primary power.

  What has always seemed odd to me is that feminism so often seems to march in step with the companies that make money off us, leaving us, or at least me, feeling alone and miserable.

  I’m reminded of this when I find myself running at full speed on the treadmill, listening to a song by a perfect-looking nineteen-year-old girl telling me I don’t need a man and I can do it alone. For a few brief, euphoric minutes, the endorphins from exercising flooding my brain, I believe that it’s true, that I am all I need.

  Then I take a shower, try to make eye contact with one of the blonde marketing zombies from my class, give up, and scroll my phone, only to come face to face with an IVF ad that’s confused as to why I don’t have a partner who is willing to have a baby with me. Companies use feminism to promote a sense of carefree nihilism, where you’re encouraged to spend money on yourself and make selfish decisions, because us girls deserve it, right? So there I was in my twenties, with my girlboss cash buying serums and face masks, happily entering all my personal details into the Sephora website. But now I’m in my thirties and the Instagram ads targeted to me have a more solemn tone. They’re now saying, ‘Hmm, time to stop all that silliness and think about your future, babe. You can’t party forever. Have you not met a man? What on earth have you been doing?’ The same companies who used the broad strokes of feminism to encourage me to forget about the future and just buy the fifty-dollar lipstick are now happily selling my data on to other companies who are using it to imply I might be barren. And if not now, then soon.

  But I don’t mean to sound too depressing. My point is really that I am tired of feeling pressured to adhere to each generation’s interpretation of feminism. In my opinion, the only way I can say something relevant in this book is by making sure it’s how I actually feel, and I hope that this book endures despite a fluctuating cultural landscape. I don’t see the point in my entire output as a woman being spent discussing only my grievances with men – I’ve succumbed to that type of discourse before and, looking back, I find it embarrassing that I, alone, on Twitter (a company owned by billionaire Jack Dorsey, who exclusively dates models), somehow managed to fail the Bechdel test.

  By acknowledging that it’s odd to kick off the book by thanking a man, I hope it expresses to you how important it is to me to find agency in the decisions I’ve made, and one way I’ve done that is by thanking men for their contributions, good and bad – an act that, to me, has felt most empowering of all.

  The Chuckle Hut Comedy and Magic Club

  I started working at the Chuckle Hut Comedy and Magic Club as a bartender in my early twenties. The place was operating at a loss and would shut its doors a few years later, something the owner, Mitch, seemed to already foresee during my employment. Mitch spent most of his time sitting in his office a
nd staring at the wall while repetitively raking one of those mini meditative sandboxes. He had bought the place with his maladjusted brother John, who, before I worked there, had disappeared without a trace for a couple of months and then re-emerged one night, claiming he’d knocked his head badly on some rocks down at Sandgate and had suffered from a long bout of amnesia. It wasn’t long before one of his friends outed him – he’d apparently been crashing at a mate’s place, smoking bongs and avoiding child-support payments.

  Anyway, John was around a lot and, when he wasn’t blind drunk, his brother would let him get up and do some comedy as a way of distracting him from poking his red drinker’s nose into the finances.

  The Chuckle Hut Comedy and Magic Club was sort of a scam – or, at least, it employed a business model based on the premise that there were enough people in the city that they could rip off everyone at least once. The only return customers they ever had was when people came back to retrieve a jacket they’d left on a chair.

  The way they’d get customers in was by sending out official-looking letters to people in the suburbs, telling them they’d won four free tickets to a magic and comedy show for their birthday. Once everyone arrived on the night, the staff would herd all 500 of them into a large room with a makeshift stage. (During the week, this room was used for business conferences and other functions, as a way of making extra cash, so one of our main jobs at the start of a weekend shift was dragging in all the tables and chairs from storage as well as assembling said stage for the performers.) The staff then had the difficult task of explaining to the unsuspecting victims that, in order to redeem their free tickets, they had to buy dinner and at least one drink. Surprisingly, people nearly always did. They mostly came ready to party – the women would order white wines with lemonade, ice cubes and a dash of lime cordial, and the men would order jugs of rum and coke, plus dessert at the end and a hot mocha to wake them up before the drive home. I was regularly given the job of having to clean up diarrhoea in the toilets or, on some of our crazier nights, in the carpark, up against the wall.