The Happiest Refugee: A Memoir (27 page)

I remember my father always said to me as a kid, ‘When you know it’s right for you, but it scares you, it means you have the most to gain from doing it.’ I figured I would at least give it a crack and if it didn’t work out, I could always go back to being a suit. When I told Andersen Consulting that I was going to have a go at being a stand-up comedian for a year, they said to me, ‘Anh, if it doesn’t work out, you’ve still got a job here with us if you want.’

And then it was time to tell Mum. Most kids would be worried about announcing to their single mum; ‘Mum, after five years of university and a big job offer that will guarantee money and security for many years to come, I’m going to chuck it all in for a shot at becoming a stand-up comedian.’

‘What’s a stand-up comedian?’ she asked.

There are no stand-up comedians in Vietnam. Sure there are comedies, but these consist of a troop of actors performing a comedy play. The thought of just one person on stage with a microphone making people laugh for an hour seemed like a ridiculous way to make a living.

‘You think you can do it?’ Mum asked.

‘Yeah I think so. Anyway, Andersen said that if it doesn’t work out, I can always go back and work for them.’

‘All right. If you think you can do it, go for it.’

I love my mum. She’s so damn optimistic and has so much faith in her children that sometimes I wonder whether we deserve it.

Now all I had to do was try and become a professional comedian in a year. I had a lot of motivation and a mother’s blessing. A mother who was happy to continue spending long hours slaving away at a sewing machine so her son could have a shot at making a living out of a job she didn’t even realise existed.

I worked like I was possessed. Any club that would have amateurs, I would sign up for, and so I was doing six or seven gigs a week. Some nights I’d do two gigs—I’d finish one then drive to another. In between I’d be writing and re-writing material, trying to improve the jokes, the material, the routine.

I was doing gigs for free, for $50, $20, a slab of beer, a cheeseburger—anything really. I took jobs that weren’t even comedy, but if it entailed me getting up with a microphone, I was there. And where I could, I would mix comedy into the announcements. I was an MC at boxing tournaments, spruiked fruit and vegies in the mall, even performing magic tricks at kids’ parties.

I asked around for tips and advice from the senior guys and Dave told me to do the hard gigs as they made you stronger. So one day I found myself in front of fifty bikers who were waiting for strippers to come on. It was a very, very hard gig, but it taught me how to be very funny very fast.

The following week I performed in front of twenty priests. I thought the bikers were hard, at least they laughed. The priests just looked at me blankly. When I finished I asked, ‘What do I get for the gig?’

‘Ten thousand Hail Marys.’

I worked as much as I could and it paid off. In 1999, about a year after I’d started doing comedy, I won the prestigious Harold Park Hotel’s Comedian of the Year award. I was one of the youngest comedians to ever win it and it was the launch pad that I needed. My friend and mentor Dave was one of the first to congratulate me.

I entered lots of comedy competitions in the beginning. One of the ones that meant the most to me was a competition in Canberra called Green Faces. It was a big national event that ran over ten weeks. They flew in comedians from all over the country and put them through early rounds, semi-finals and then the big grand final. The winner received $5000 in cash. I made the grand final, and I had a very good reason to want to win.

My little sister Tram rarely smiled for many years of her childhood. She had a number of dental problems that caused her top row of teeth to become all jammed up and lopsided. She was so embarassed that in every family photo she always had her lips shut tight. It wasn’t anything a few years’ worth of braces couldn’t fix, but we just didn’t have the money. So Tram went around feeling very self-conscious. She was hitting her late teens and her teeth in particular began to affect her confidence and self-esteem. So I was doing it for Tram.

There were ten finalists altogether and we were all very good; after all, we had just beaten everyone else from our own state. I felt awfully nervous because in getting to the grand final I had used up all my best material; I only had my B-grade stuff left. I was furious at myself for not saving some of the good jokes in case I got to the final. Here was the biggest moment of my life so far and I had no good gags left.

It turned out I wasn’t the only one who had used up all my best jokes; all the others were in the same boat. The crowd was so pumped up, though, they enjoyed everyone anyway. At the end of the night the audience voted with a little sheet of paper and a pencil, just like a ballot, that was collected by the staff. Not long after the organisers announced third, then second, then first… 

‘And the winner is: Anh Do!’

Whoo-hoooo!

As soon as I got off stage I raced over to a payphone.

‘Mum, I won!’

‘Tram, Anh’s won! Anh’s won!’ Mum screamed. It was a truly great moment in my life. Mum and Tram had stayed up to midnight awaiting the phone call and I was able to deliver them the news they had been hoping for.

The events manager, Mr Laing, walked over to me, lifted open my jacket and stuck a very, very fat envelope into my pocket—a much fatter envelope than the ones Mum used to give me to pay for my school fees. I had never held five thousand cash before, so when all the other guys went out drinking afterwards I was too nervous about getting mugged or dropping my winnings. I went straight back to the hotel room, double locked the door, and slept with the money under my pillow. I woke up the next morning and saw in the mirror that I had a huge, deep envelope-shaped indent on my cheek. It didn’t matter, I’d won five thousand big ones, and Tram was going to get her teeth fixed. Tram is a gorgeous girl and now she has a beautiful smile.

One day I decided to call up Suzie out of the blue and she told me she had recently broken up with her boyfriend.

‘Well, do you want to meet up after uni to have one of those coconut ice-creams we used to have?’

We met up and everything was going so well that after ice-cream we decided to go and see the film
42 Up
, the latest instalment of a documentary series by British director Michael Apted, where he revisits a group of English people every seven years to see what shape their lives have taken. The film made me realise that life flies by and you’ve really got to seize the moment. In fact it reminded me of my father’s philosophy; ‘There are only two times in life, there’s now and there’s too late.’

Afterwards we both were still a bit reluctant to go home so I suggested we have something to eat. We had dinner at a fancy restaurant in Darling Harbour. Later on, I went to the bathroom and on the way back I whispered in her ear, ‘Okay, let’s go.’

Suzie’s eyes widened: ‘What about the bill?’

‘Just get up and start walking now.’

Suzie was so stunned she just followed me. Once we were out of the restaurant, we took off—running and laughing our way through the crowds and across Darling Harbour. Once we were back at the car, I fessed up: ‘I paid the bill on the way back from the bathroom.’

She whacked me on the shoulder.

‘Oh my god! I can’t believe you did that!’

‘I can’t believe
you
did that. You didn’t even try to go back and pay!’

Another whack.

We drove down to Clifton Gardens near Mosman and hung out at this beautiful bay, looking at the lights and stars and listening to the water lapping the shore. The temperature had dropped and it was getting cold, so I gave her a cuddle. I don’t know what made me do it, maybe there was some magic in the air that night. I said to her, ‘You know, all these years have gone by, but I think I’m still very much in love with you.’ She gave me that smile.

We sat and talked all through the night until the morning. Just talked, nothing else. It was wonderful. Then she told me something.

‘Anh, just a few weeks ago I said to my friend, “There’s this guy called Anh and I think he might be the perfect person for me and I don’t know why we’re not a couple”.’

I gave her an enormous hug and that’s when we decided to be together.

The stand-up comedy was starting to take off and I began getting offered little comedy spots on TV, just five minutes of stand-up here and there on obscure late night shows. Then, round about a year and a half into my comedy career I got offered my first TV hosting role. It was on a show called
Rush TV
, a youth variety program aimed at sixteen to twenty-four year olds. The station ran it on Sunday mornings and it ended up becoming popular with late-night party animals who wanted something to help them get over their hangovers.

During my time hosting the show I got a phone call from a magazine called
Australian Women’s Forum
. I had never heard of them but it sounded like just another glossy, like
Woman’s Day
or
Women’s Weekly
. They wanted to interview me, take a photo, do a big write-up.

‘No problem.’ When you’re on a television show, you are obliged to do as much publicity as you can to develop a profile and ratings.

I told Brendan, my producer, about my busy publicity schedule.

‘Next week I have to do the Melbourne
Age
, the
Sydney Morning Herald
and
Australian Women’s Forum
.’

‘
Women’s Forum
? You sure?’ Brendan asked.

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘You know it’s women’s porn, don’t you?’

‘No way, man.’ I didn’t even know women’s porn existed. ‘You’re kidding aren’t you?’

‘It’s women’s porn. They make it sound all classy and call it “erotica”, but it’s like
Playboy
for ladies,’ Brendan told me.

‘I… They… They didn’t mention anything like that.’

‘Well, it could be just an ordinary photo with an article, nothing too risqué,’ he said. ‘I’ll check.’ So he rang the magazine.

‘Anh can take his shirt off if he wants to but we’re not going to ask him to do anything he doesn’t want to do,’ they confirmed to him.