Critch - Son of a Critch: a childish Newfoundland memoir

A S I WRITE THIS Im sitting in the prime ministers plane en route to Vietnam. Im travelling with the Canadian media to cover Justin Trudeaus first official visit there, but Im not a journalist. Im a comedian. For the past fifteen years Ive been a writer and performer on Canadas longest-running TV comedy, This Hour Has 22 Minutes, now in its twenty-fifth season.

My time on 22 Minutes has allowed me to do things Id never have had the opportunity to experience otherwise. Its brought me to Afghanistan, where my show for the troops was interrupted by a Taliban rocket attack. It brought me to China, where I pretended to be a Canadian premier and was given the same private show at the famous Lao She Teahouse that they gave Presidents Nixon and Bush 1. It brought me to Moscow, where, after the Russians had planted a flag on the Arctic seabed to lay claim to the energy riches of the North, I planted a giant Canadian flag in the middle of Red Square. I laid claim to it based on their rules and was questioned by the Politsiya.

My job has taken me to the White House four times. On my second visit, a staffer who recognized me (he was part Canadian) brought me down to the basement under the press briefing room where the tiles from President Kennedys swimming pool still line the walls. I was invited to sign my name on a tile right alongside the signatures of Frank Sinatra and Muhammad Ali.

My role as the shows roving reporter has taken me to the top of the Peace Tower in Ottawa. I was invited to sign my name again, this time on a wall of the small room under the flagpole. Being a comedian has taken me from the basement of the White House to the roof of the Parliament Buildings, but it has never taken me this far from home.

The Socialist Republic of Vietnam is halfway around the world from Newfoundland and Labrador. I cant really get any farther away without starting to come back home again. Its four a.m. and weve stopped in Anchorage, Alaska, to refuel. The PM is taking the opportunity to go for a jog along the runway. Hey, Critch, he shouts from the front of the plane, are you coming? No. I am not. I have work to do. Also, I would never be able to keep up and I prefer to embarrass myself on TV.

Just about everyone else on the plane is sleeping. It will take a full day to reach our destination, and the weight of that journey is ever present. Journalists are taking turns, one sleeping on the seats and the other on the floor between rows, then switching every couple of hours. This is not a fancy plane like Air Force One. Air Force One is a flying fortress. It has advanced communications capabilities and can be refuelled mid-flight, giving it unlimited range. The prime ministers plane is a little more modest. It is thirty years old, doesnt have Wi-Fi, and still has ashtrays in the washrooms. It doesnt even have a cool name like Air Force One. Call it what you will, but Royal Canadian Air Force One could very easily be Air Canada flight 692 with service from Winnipeg to Moncton. Nothing fancy. Very Canadian.

I am far away from home, but home is never far from my mind. My mother was recently admitted to hospital, at eighty years of age. Shes been living on her own for three years now, since my father passed away at the age of ninety-three. She took a bad turn, as people in their eighties often do, but shes on the mend again and insisted that I go on this trip. Still, everything in my being makes me think I shouldnt have left. I should be with her.

My job has taken me all over the world, but I never see it like that. To me, it has always taken me away from home. Newfoundlanders have always travelled for work. Whether its out to the Grand Banks of the Atlantic Ocean to catch cod or to the Alberta tar sands to help power the countryor, in my case, to Vietnam with the prime minister to make jokeswe go where the work is. Travelling all the time comes with sacrifice, but its worth it because the thought of moving away forever is too much to bear.

The PM returns to the plane from his run fresh-faced, followed by four tired-looking RCMP officers who, unlike me, were bound by duty to jog alongside. Critch, Trudeau calls playfully, I thought you were going to come, man. You missed out! I laugh and promise to join in next time. The engines rev as we prepare to make our way again along the 13,743 kilometres to Hanoi. I turn my head to the window and close my eyes. I think of my mother. I dream of home.