Fiona O’Loughlin opens up about alcoholism, job struggles in new memoir
After battling with alcoholism and even being homeless, comedian Fiona O’Loughlin thought her luck had turned when she won ‘I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here’. But in an exclusive extract from her new memoir, she reveals how it felt when the job offers never came.
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Comedian Fiona O’Loughlin knows what it means to hit rock bottom and has openly talked about her battle with alcoholism and even being homeless. When she won I’m A Celebrity...Get Me Out Of Here! in 2018, she thought her luck had turned – but the job offers didn’t come.
In this extract from her new memoir, she details her journey from a place of disappointment to one of acceptance.
When Julia read out my name, all I felt was relief. As they placed the Jungle Queen crown on my head, I thought, I’ve put everything right as best I can. This was about more than a reality show for me, it was about doing my family proud, righting my wrongs and proving I was worthy.
Part of me was thrilled to know that people actually liked me. When I found out I had won with 63 per cent of the votes, it was so affirming. Plus, I’d won $100,000 prize money for my selected charity Angel Flight.
The local South Australian paper ran a photo of Mum and Dad celebrating my win at the front bar of the Warooka Hotel holding champagne flutes in the air. They looked so happy and proud to be my parents.
I was glad I was sober, because I could feel the pure joy of the moment. A sense of peace soaked all the way into my bones. I felt exonerated, and I released the guilt and shame I’d been carrying.
I started living like the Queen I was crowned. I treated myself to a tummy tuck to get rid of my five-babies belly and the excess skin I had after losing 10kg in the jungle. After five caesareans, the surgery felt like a routine recovery, so I was sorted. I rented a beautiful house in Melbourne and waited for the phone to ring.
I knew someone was going to call and give me the big break that would set me up for life. All I wanted was for my kids to see me in a house of my own, so they never had to worry about their mum sleeping rough again.
But the phone didn’t ring. By the time I gave up staring at it and willing it to vibrate, I started to worry about my financial situation. I still don’t know why I didn’t receive any offers after I’m A Celebrity. Maybe I had pissed off someone in power, or maybe my past behaviour had finally caught up with me.
I hadn’t been drunk on screen since my early Good News Week appearances, but I felt like I’d been blacklisted for my reputation. On the street and in Facebook messages, I was asked why I never appeared on various prime-time panel shows. It was awkward and humiliating – and I truly didn’t know the answer.
My friend Tom Gleeson had me on his YouTube show Hard Chat. “Are you jealous of high-functioning alcoholics like myself?” he asked. “I can sink a lot of piss and still earn a living, that must really sh*t you.”
“Yes, it does,” I said, cackling.
Something else that sh*t me was finding out footballer Brendan Fevola was paid $350,000 when he won I’m A Celebrity in 2016 and that cricketer Shane Warne negotiated a $2 million salary for his appearance the same year – compared to my $150,000 pay cheque.
I had never experienced sexism in the stand-up scene, but I certainly felt I was judged harsher for being an alcoholic than my male peers. Some of the best male comics have battled with addiction, but it’s never mentioned in a negative way. I never saw a “bad boy” at the top of their game get rejected because of their disease.
Men spin bullsh*t about “having demons”, but they don’t often say the word “alcoholic” out loud, so they can keep drinking beer in public. Calling it what it really is would be too scary, too vulnerable, too honest. We all have demons, but not everyone drinks themselves to death over them.
Demons don’t kill alcoholics. Alcohol kills alcoholics.
I was in rehab when radio host and self-confessed alcoholic Derryn Hinch was photographed drinking wine. Now, it’s none of my business what Derryn puts in his mouth, but his blasé reaction made me boil. Seven years earlier, he’d had a life-saving liver transplant because his was lethally damaged by his alcoholism.
Derryn defended his actions by saying, “I swore I would never drink again, but you have got to live your life.” He claimed that his doctor had given the all clear to have a few drinks. No doctor in their right mind would give an alcoholic the all clear to have a few drinks.
When Derryn made that ridiculous claim, he gave false hope to alcoholics everywhere. We all dream of being able to drink normally and having the power to stop after a couple of beers, but we can’t. I don’t judge Derryn for relapsing, but I do think he may have endangered others by his claim.
I gave up waiting for the phone to ring and hit the road with [fellow comedian] Peter Rowsthorn. We booked in dates at Caboolture RSL in Queensland, Red Earth Arts Precinct in Western Australia, Bunjil Place theatre in Victoria and every civic centre, town hall and country club in between.
We spent zero time planning our routine. We knew we’d each get up and do 30 minutes of our stand-up and then come together and dish secrets from behind the scenes of I’m A Celebrity, but that was as far as our planning had gone.
Two weeks before our first show, I called Peter worried about our lack of preparation. “What are we going to do?” I said. “What’s the show going to be?”
“Fiona, it doesn’t matter,” he reassured me. “These people are buying tickets to see two half-baked characters from a reality TV show. It doesn’t matter what we do.” He was right. Fans lapped the live show up; we killed it every night.
On October 26, 2019, we took our show to where it all started for me: Warooka. The locals swept the wooden floors of the Warooka Town Hall and brought in extra chairs. We filled the hall. I felt like the prodigal daughter returning home in a blaze of glory as the Jungle Queen, and Warooka welcomed me back with open arms and belly laughs.
The afterparty was held at Mum and Dad’s place, naturally. I felt like a teenager again, heading back to our family kitchen table after last call. More than 40 years later, Mum and Dad could still pull a crowd.
The kitchen table felt smaller than ever, cramped with locals and flowing with beer and wine. I stood there for a moment, without a glass in my hand, and drank up the gratitude.
It might not have been the kitchen table I dreamed of as a little girl watching American sitcoms, but it was a testament to my parents that everyone was welcome in our house – especially if you had a good story to tell and a six-pack under your arm.
Mum and Dad stayed up with the crowd until 3am. I had to leave. Once the adrenaline of the show wore off, I took myself back to my accommodation in town and away from the free-flowing booze and drunkards.
I chose to look after myself instead of waiting around to be tempted. How very mature of me – it only took 56 years to learn my lesson. I wasn’t sad about leaving the party early, I was at peace with the knowledge that for me, the party is over.
Truths From An Unreliable Witness by Fiona O’Loughlin (Hachette Australia, $32.99) is out Tuesday.
Originally published as Fiona O’Loughlin opens up about alcoholism, job struggles in new memoir