Wheaton’s Way: The Old Bag and the Sea

You probably all heard that I was the celebrity guest host of ‘Stories by the Sea’ at the Library By The Sea bar on 28 June, right?

I mean, I’m sure it made the international press and would have gone viral if that couple at the Coldplay concert hadn’t stolen my thunder. Honestly – you just can’t count on people to not rip the spotlight away from you when you’re basking in its glow.

In fact, now that I think about it, that’s the second time that bloody Chris Martin has thrown a spanner in the works. The first was when I might have been on the air in the red chair for ‘The Graham Norton Show’ if he hadn’t kept wittering on about something less important and they ran out of time.

Bitterness, thy name is Wheaton. But I digress …

For my event in June we came up with the title ‘The Old Bag and the Sea’ (jeenyus), and the format was me telling stories about some of the ridiculous adventures I’ve had in my life with wee intermissions from time to time. The award-winning bar staff came up with some fantastic cocktails and the chefs, a selection of exquisite canapés. At least that way, paying guests could feel they’d got their money’s worth, no matter what.

“ … and I had to walk ALL the way home in bunny slippers!”

[Crickets]

Despite the gala hosting, stand-up comedy stints, band gigs and stage interviews I’ve done over the years, this was a different and very intimate setting. Leading up to the night, I was pretty nervous, and the week before, I was told it had sold out, which didn’t help.
Nevertheless, I proudly shared the news on the Wheaton WhatsApp chat, only for my brother Michael to respond with: “How much did that cost you?”

Ahhh … family keeps you grounded.

Seriously, though – no matter how much performance experience you’ve had, a different setting and material can really throw you. I can sing ‘Crazy Train’ by Ozzy Osbourne (RIP) in front of 1,000 people, but I’ll gulp and stammer my way through ‘Evergreen’ at a highfalutin wedding. It’s all about comfort zones.

Was this audience going to find me entertaining? If they were strangers, would they wonder what the heck I was doing in charge? If they were people I knew, had I possibly already bored them with these tales at some cocktail party in the past?

It’s at times like these when my bestest buddy Lynne considers moving out of the house until an event is over. All she’s missing is Lucy’s ‘Psychiatric Advice 5¢’ booth because I turn into Charlie Brown.

Actually, Lucy is pretty cold and unfeeling. Lynne’s more like Linus.

That being said, under any other circumstances, if I don’t have a performance booked on the horizon, I’m Peppermint Patty and she’s Marcie.

Flattering comparisons, all.

I don’t know how I got so far down the Peanuts rabbit hole, but this is a good example of how I spiral when my mind is a whirling dervish.

Despite all my worries, there was one advantage I had on my side: age. I was talking to a friend of mine about a week ago, and we both agreed that as you get older, you worry less about what people think of you. You’re more willing to put yourself out there. Just go to any organised singles night in Cayman and you’ll see what I mean.

I’ve always been happy to sacrifice my pride if it will get a laugh, but when I was younger, I had more concerns about how I looked when I was doing it. Were my thighs too big, what about that pimple on my cheek, suppose that guy I liked showed up when I was wearing the shower cap …

Those were the days of wearing matching underwear, keeping constant tabs on that random chin hair, and not leaving the house without at least concealer on. Y’know – funny, but kempt.

I think it was about 10 years ago when I first entered the petrol station with a visible bump on my nose. As they didn’t chase me out with pitchforks, I then blatantly dipped my toe in the waters of Foster’s sans lipstick. No burning torches, no screams of “Unclean! Unclean!”

Sweet!

“Where is she going with all of this?” you may ask.

Well, as I started to prepare for ‘The Old Bag and the Sea’, and considered what stories to include and which to discard, I thought about the night I had to transform into a pirate wench in record time.

Quite a few years ago, I had to organise three pirates – each to meet a boat arriving on the beach and lead guests to a party. I was only supposed to be there to coordinate, but when I got a call to say that the third buccaneer had a flat tyre (my eye) and was running late, I had no choice but to take up the sword myself. I (of course) had a costume in my car that would work, but with the vessel imminently arriving, there was no time to even get to a bathroom to change. So, I did what I had do – I scooted into a dark area off the parking lot and stripped down to my bra whilst frantically pulling on a big skirt, followed by a top and velvet jacket with unforgivingly narrow sleeves. When you’re trying to dress in a panic, everything goes on backwards, inside out and feels like rubber bands.

I managed to make it to the docking area with moments to spare, and as the first passenger alighted, I greeted them in a bizarre accent to which I then had to commit until I dropped them at the party.

Fast-forward to my recent event, and I decided to recreate that night for the audience – what a super-immersive performer! I still had the same costume and, despite not caring so much about my public appearance, bras remained a feature in my wardrobe.

(And, by the way, why is it that people gasp when they see someone in a modest bra, but bikini tops the size of a dime held in place by dental floss are a-OK?)

After everyone had ingested a suitable number of cocktails, the moment was upon me. “ … big event … pirates … flat tyre, and … ” I ripped off my top with a flourish, revealing a Maidenform special in bland pink with padded straps for extra comfort. My flabby upper arms had nowhere to hide and a décolletage permanently browned by years of sun exposure, surrounded by flesh as pale as panna cotta, was there for all the world to see.

After a millisecond of silence, the crowd roared approval. I didn’t strip further – I know my limits – but in that moment, I was Mae West: sex symbol and goddess.

Needless to say, Chris Martin didn’t suddenly appear in his boxer shorts. He knows when he’s been beaten.