AT The Mic – Mike Delamont

Rumours of my demise …

To whom it may concern,

Consider this the last will and testament of comedian Mike Delamont. I am writing this on the tray table of what I can only assume is the world’s smallest plane and what I am sure will deliver me to my untimely demise.

This Lilliputian-sized chariot of death will take me from Saskatoon to Regina. If you don’t own a map, that ain’t a long drive folks. We should have just got in a car. If I was in a car right now I would likely be asleep rather than nauseated from the violent winds hurling me around in the last moments of my life like some fat, diabetic Buddy Holly.

I am on the road with an overweight Greek comedian and a bald neurotic Jew. I didn’t know that my obituary would read like a corny joke from the 50s. A funny Greek, a Jew and a fat Italian get on a plane …

To give you an idea of how small this plane is, we didn’t even have to go through security! It left from a hangar. To be fair, the staff have been very nice to us and even gave us free snacks and beer. I assumed my last meal would be steak but I suppose Ritz Bits and a local lager will have to do.

I never thought I would be a comedian. I went to post secondary school for opera and business (different times and schools for both … that would be a very specific niche market school otherwise.) I never thought I would ever be able to make a living at this.

Last night I played in a theatre with 2,500 people. That’s a big chunk of people facing you.

Lots of folks ask how we can do it, how a comedian can walk out in front of that many people and talk for an hour. I’ll be honest and say it’s the easiest thing in the world. The more people, the better. A full 3,000 seat auditorium is easier to to play than the 160 seat auditorium in Edmonton where you have 20 people who came to see the noon show on a Thursday.

We have a vast array of gigs on the road but it’s those full ones where the laughter never stops that keep your batteries charged. When you have that perfect storm of jokes and laughter, nothing feels better. It feels like home.

The plane just did that thing where it dropped in the air and my stomach shot into my throat. Bring on local lager number three. I wish I had done more with my life. I wish I had been less afraid of everything. I’m too afraid to dance, can you believe that? I hate the idea of feeling foolish.

If I survive this 45-minute flight of death, then I shall take dancing lessons. You heard it here folks.

Of course, all of this is written on cocktail napkins on the plane that I die in … I don’t know if anybody will ever know this.

So how do you know if I am alive or not? Well, the likelihood is that from wreckage of this fiery crash, somebody found the napkin and thought it was so delightful they sent it to Monday Magazine. What’s more likely is that the day before my column was due, I found the napkins I wrote this on while cleaning up my hotel room in Sudbury and thought I should just send them this.

It will have to remain a mystery I suppose.

 

 

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