My nine years of co-writing for Cheeky Moon have been among the great joys of my life, ranking somewhere between the birth of my child and the time I accidentally touched a crowd-surfing Bruce Springsteen’s left buttock.
But creating amateur, low-budget comedy vignettes in your spare time isn’t always the glamorous life it’s made out to be. Here are five common problems everybody in the field faces — and which every newcomer should watch out for.
1. The medium isn’t widely respected
It’s not standup comedy. It’s not improv. By the time you describe what you actually do to a stranger, they’re already chatting to another wedding guest about their kitchen renovations. You didn’t even correct them when they said “skit”.
I can only extrapolate from my own experience, but you probably feel that your 35-year-old sister Hannah (an outstanding artist) and 32-year-old brother Anthony (a successful musical theatre star and children’s entertainer) have chosen far wiser creative paths, far easier to quantify and discuss; far worthier of respect and admiration.
Please rest assured you are not alone. I, too, have had these exact thoughts. We all have.
2. People will automatically assume you’re either siblings with or dating your writing partner, creating some awkward social misunderstandings
Also, she and your wife will share the same birthday. It’s very confusing.
3. You will accidentally go viral several times in the international nudist community
Be honest: who among us hasn't, at one time or another, co-created a YouTube comedy channel, cultivated a "shy and polite" image for its hosts, decided to subvert said image for laughs with the obligatory censored naked comedy sketch, then ended said sketch with a punchline so comedically body-positive that a lot of super-lovely nudists thought it was a genuinely good example of their own healthy message, causing said video to go viral among online naturist circles, then win a laurel for "BEST NUDIST FILM" at a clothing-optional film festival in Texas, in turn propelling it to a film program on an international nude cruise to the Caribbean, despite the original sketch in question exposing nary the faintest buttock?
It's a tale as old as time.
4. It is impossible to get a skin check with your dermatologist, a very kind and very bald man who stands just under nose height, without thinking about leaning forward and giving him a lovely little kiss on the head
Is there a sketch in this? Writer, beware these six dangerous words, for they may be your undoing.
When you have trained your brain to search for absurdity in every situation, ideas can surface in the worst of places.
Again, every writing journey is unique, but from my own research, I’ve found you’re most likely to encounter this problem at your scheduled twice-yearly skin cancer check in Brisbane’s eastern suburbs.
Standing in your underpants, trying not to get too ticklish under cold hands, you’re already on the defensive. There is precious little in this sterile room to focus on except the bald head of the kind specialist carefully inspecting that mole on your collarbone; a head seemingly bowed down and neatly presented to you, sitting so close he can surely feel your calm, controlled nasal breathing.
Then the inevitable thought arrives: if you really wanted to mess with the status quo — which you don’t, but what if you did — it would be the work of a mere moment to lean forward and give this very nice doctor a lovely little kiss on the head. Nothing weird. Just a quick peck to thank him for his hard work. Is there a sketch in this?
Once the idea is spinning - once the adjectives "lovely" and "little" have embellished it with a certain benign mischief - it cannot be unthought. Already your mind is racing ahead to structure and possible endings.
So you roll with it: what if a fictional character in your situation did have a strange urge to do this? How funny would it be to see a calm, collected patient standing there while a panicked inner voiceover urges “don’t lean forward and give your dermatologist a lovely little kiss on the head, don’t lean forward and give your dermatologist a lovely little-”, etc? What strange places would that thought process go? What bizarre leaps of logic would follow en route to the inevitable snap?
All the while you’re trying desperately not to laugh at this idea. Remember: at this distance, he can feel your breath. Any variation in rhythm or intensity could give you away. How sensitive is an unprotected human scalp to nearby nasal chortles?
Then you realise: your character’s situation (trying not to lean forward and give their doctor a lovely little kiss on the head) has functionally the same energy as yours (trying not to laugh about a character trying not to lean forward and give their doctor a lovely little kiss on the head). Both scenarios require one to keep a straight face and maintain the aforementioned calm, controlled nasal breathing.
Oh no. Oh no. Have you been controlling your breathing, or did a hint of mirth rush out of your traitorous nostrils just now?
At this point you realise your real life monologue has gotten just as frantic as the fictional one. This only makes the situation funnier, and the urge to laugh stronger. Hypothetical sketch and stark reality begin to blur. You wonder if it isn’t easier to cut out the middleman and just give him a lovely little kiss on the head yourself.
Should this, in fact, be a meta-sketch about a writer in your predicament? And while we’re here, who could play the doctor? Local actor and improviser Scott Driscoll seems to wear his baldness with a handsome confidence. Would it be insensitive to ask him based solely on a physical trait, even if — now you think of it — he’d be fantastic in the role regardless? And why is the doctor’s head still hovering under your nose? Is he still inspecting that same mole? Should you be worried? Has it been that long, or does time simply warp and congeal and lose all meaning around the conceptual gravity of leaning forward and giving your doctor a lovely little kiss on the head?
It’s a problem we all face, and there are no easy answers. After three years of increasingly difficult visits to same clinic, I can only impart the following advice:
Have a fallback excuse on standby if you do giggle, ideally one based on the truth (that you, like me, are famously ticklish).
It’s probably fine to ask Scott, so long as you offer something fun and interesting in the role and broach the topic in a transparent, respectful way. Alternatively, just namedrop him in a blog and passively hope he reads it at some point in the next two years.
Remind yourself: this whole bizarre situation is just wonderful. You are not only finding inspiration, but feeling a very specific energy you can channel almost 1:1 into your writing.
The mole is probably benign, but with your family history and pasty Irish/Scottish lineage, it’s very important to play it safe.
Above all: celebrate the absurdity of it all. This is the path you have chosen, and it makes life more interesting in the most surprising of ways. Whoever you are, and whatever your reasons for getting here, you need to be able to look in the mirror and say: “Alastair Craig, you are living your best life, and you are going to be okay”.
5. Your boss will earnestly recommend your work to colleagues by telling them you’re a “naked stand up comedian”
Astonishingly, this will not sell tickets to your live show.
Cheeky Moon’s complete library of sketches can be found on their YouTube channel.
The author acknowledges the privilege of living in Australia, a country with the basic human right of affordable health care, and that many sketch comedy writers out there do not have the luxury of routinely trying not to think about giving their bald doctor a lovely little kiss on the head.