We were excited. We unexpectedly found ourselves shortlisted for some songwriting awards and were invited to attend a swanky ceremony in Sydney. We had to go. Not that travelling to Sydney is easy.
I am a terrible flyer. Usually, I’m the only one taking notes during the safety demonstration. I’m definitely the only person asking questions. Whilst some might consider this level of attention to detail admirable, it tends to annoy other travellers. But I had no choice but to fly. Partly because I was travelling with Katrina, who certainly expected to fly; and partly because there wasn’t enough time to take my preferred mode of transport – walking – and get back to Melbourne before Christmas.
We had no idea what to expect from the ceremony. There was the promise of a red carpet which I assumed a ‘red carpet’ would involve a trail of plush, crimson Axminster leading to the entrance, framed by flashing bulbs and shouting reporters. In actual fact, it was a space about two metres squared. It was more a ‘red rug’. And instead of a pack of photographers, there was one; albeit it was Tony Mott, who is undoubtedly the most renown photographer of musicians in the country.
(You know you’re in for an unusual night when you’re starstruck by the person taking your photo. It’s possible I embarrassed myself by mumbling something along the lines of ‘you’re amazing’ which, based on the photo he took, Tony didn’t hold against me.)
As first-time attendees, we weren’t sure what to expect. We certainly didn’t expect to find a program on our table announcing the winners before the ceremony had started. And so it was that we learned we’d lost before we’d had a chance to take our seats. If the Oscars operated like this, it ‘d be a much shorter night. They could, at least, have added the words ‘contains spoilers’ to the cover. Nevertheless, there was still the possibility of being called onto stage, and on that basis, I decided to make a strategic trip to the gents before our category – ‘Best Comedy / Novelty Song’ came on.
The room was cavernous. But on either side of the stage, there was an illuminated sign that, in no uncertain terms, told you where to go. Carving my way through the crowded room, I turned down a small hallway. The first door I reached had a brass plaque that said ‘Performers’.
‘How quaint,’ I thought, reasoning that the organisers had decided to use this nomenclature in the same way some bars prefer label their comfort stations ‘Fillies’ and ‘Colts’. I confidently burst through the door, at which point I was confronted by the sight of a sad and dishevelled cubicle. It barely seemed sufficient to meet the needs of a busload of people, much less a room of five hundred, many of whom were drinking.
Perhaps I was a little overawed by the occasion. Maybe I was keen to get back to my seat before our category came up. But whatever the case, I strode purposefully forward towards the sad little cubicle. After three metres or so, the wall to my left came to an end, revealing a room with couches and a mirror. And people. Standing in front of me was an older gentleman with a long, white beard dressed as a cowboy. He looked like Santa Claus if, indeed, Santa had decided to go undercover to infiltrate a gang of cattle rustlers. I should have stopped. I should have turned around and left. I should have done anything other than press ahead.
As the door to the cubicle slammed shut behind me, it realised I was not in ‘the Gents’ but somebody’s dressing room. I could hear murmuring and chatter outside. Doubtless, they were trying to determine who was currently residing in what might once have been referred to as ‘the Executive washroom’.
Then there was the matter of an exit. As soon as possible, I peeled back the door and walked quickly without making eye contact. I was back on my seat just in time to hear the name of the winner read out, rather than our own. As the applause died down, the ceremony moved along and they brought out a very special guest. As people whooped and hollered, Undercover Cowboy Santa appeared on stage and took a seat, ready to be interviewed. I was mortified.
It turns out that I’d just used the private bathroom of a revered singer-songwriter responsible for hundreds of memorable songs, including the theme song from the TV show, ‘Prisoner’. Which, given that I’d just been ‘on the inside’ of his dressing room, was kind of fitting. I withered in my seat, hoping the guest of honour didn’t decide to regale an eager audience with an amusing anecdote from backstage.
Had I been standing on the red carpet/rug at that moment, I’d have blended right in, such was the scale of my humiliation. But Allan, as I now knew him, was too much of a class act to use me for comedic fodder. And for that, at least, I can be grateful.