Rick Mercer - Talking to Canadians

This is a memoir. Because of that I relied on my own expert testimony.

It is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Kind of.

Three people walk into a bar and spend an evening together. Twenty-five years later each of them will have a very different version of what occurred on that night. Or I should say, two of them will. One of them will swear, on their mother, they were not in attendance and in fact out of the country at the time. When faced with photographic evidence to the contrary they will simply say, Well, thats not how I remember it.

Under the guise of research, while writing this book I called up many old friends and colleagues and questioned them on their version of events, curious to see whether theirs conformed with mine.

For the most part they did, but sometimes they did not. Always the conversation took strange and wonderful turns and we always went down roads entirely irrelevant to anyone but us.

It was grand.

For those calls, those catch-ups, I shall be eternally grateful. If I have any advice, its pick up the phone and place those callsyou dont need to be writing a book to do so.

Like most Canadians in the entertainment business and all Newfoundlanders in any business, all I ever wanted in life was the opportunity to go to work. And work I did. And I was fortunate to work in the field of my choosing. I understand this is the equivalent of winning the lotto. That it happened was only possible because I stand on the shoulders of giants. I speak of the actors and writers and show-business pioneers in Newfoundland and Canada.

This is my version of events. Some names have been changed, some locations have been altered, some reputations have been protected.

Regards, and thanks for reading and thanks for watching.

Chapels Cove, Newfoundland and Labrador, 2021

October 1990. Ottawa

The hotel is called the Beacon Arms, but Ive only heard it referred to by locals as the Broken Arms. Its the kind of place where you know, instinctively, upon entering your room that you should keep your shoes on. The carpet looks like a crime scene.

For the past three days a small Kentucky Fried Chicken box has been sitting on the floor of the elevator. The cover is off, and inside there is a single chicken breast and a french fry on a plastic fork. Earlier this morning, on my way down for coffee, I noticed the box was still there, but someone had absconded with the chicken.

There is a Yuk Yuks comedy club in the basement. I wonder which Canadian comedy legend was peckish last night before bed.

Im up at this hour because my one-man show is about to be reviewed on CBC Radio.

The publicist from the National Arts Centre is up early as well. She wants to pull a quote from the review for ads that are being placed in tomorrows newspapers. The quote will also be plastered on the show posters that will go up all over downtown Ottawa. They are hoping for something along the lines of Run, dont walk, to the NAC.

At home in Newfoundland the CBC morning show is going to carry the review as well. Newfoundlanders are always proud of anyone who does well on the mainland, and they love the narrative of a young Newfoundlander having a hit show in, of all places, the National Arts Centre.

The host of the Ottawa morning show teed up the segment with a pretty flattering introduction. There is a one-man show at the National Arts Centre which is getting a lot of attention in political circles. Why? Well, he continued, its a comedy about, of all things, the Meech Lake Accord! Can a constitutional crisis be funny? Well, lets find out. In the studio is theatre critic Brian Gosnell. He is here to review Rick Mercers Show Me the Button: Ill Push Itor Charles Lynch Must Die.

A very kind set-up. I was feeling pretty good about this. The show the night before had gone really well. Great, in fact. We had a full house, people laughed in the right spots, I didnt rush (which I tend to do). I felt like I killed it. It might have been the best night of my life.

The reviewer began to speak. Actually, Im not going to review the production I saw last night at all.

That got my attention. Im out of bed now, bare feet on the dubious carpet.

Instead of a review I am going to read an open letter to Mr. Mercer. I hope he is listening.

I was listening.

He cleared his throat for effect. Dear Mr. Mercer. Show Me the Button: Ill Push It is not a play. You are not a playwright. Nor are you an actor. Please leave the theatre. You have nothing to offer.

This was followed by literal radio silence.

It was both the shortest and the worst review in the history of Canadian theatre. How lovely that the folks at home were able to hear it.

Leave the theatre. You have nothing to offer.

I stared at an unsettling stain on the ceiling and thought, The hell with this. Im going into television.

Which I did.

Luckily the standards are much lower there, so it worked out well.