The Hardy Man

POLITE APPLAUSE greets the introduction of Matthew Hardy as the closing act at yet another satisfactory evening at Murphy's Laughter Lounge.

A regular headliner on the English circuit, where he has been performing for six years, The Kookaburra Kid remains unknown in Ireland. Nevertheless, as he makes his way up the centre aisle towards the stage, a strange thing happens. Inch by inch, row by row, the crowd becomes gradually more animated, their applause more thunderous. Bounding onto the stage and removing the mic from the stand, Hardy's opening gag is delayed by the ongoing applause and a chorus of shrill wolf whistles. Few comics can ever have made quite such an initial impact without opening their mouths.

With hair slicked back and dressed from head to toe in his trademark pristine white, Hardy resembles nothing so much as a bulimic John Travolta. As comedic stunts go, it's more by accident than by design, more economics than ego: Hardy awoke one morning in a Tokyo hotel, opened his wardrobe and found two brand new rinky-dink white suits hanging inside—proof of a rather expensive sake-fuelled visit to a Japanese tailor. Determined to get his money's worth, Hardy decided to incorporate the ill-advised purchases into his act, and while the move seems to have been a shrewd one, the virginal white of his suit remains in sharp contrast to the content of his act. Playing the role of stereotypical Aussie bloke to the hilt, he quickly strikes up a winning rapport with the audience, focusing on the differences between men and women, while concentrating on the propensity of women he has known and loved for fucking him over.

"It's obviously an act, but women have worked me over," he tells me in an accent you could tar a road with. "I reckon I'm the innocent party because I've never betrayed any woman in a relationship."

Speaking, as I am, to someone who dresses like the top seed in a Huggy Bear lookalike competition, I confess that this comes as something of a surprise.

"I promise you mate, I have not!" he reiterates with a broad grin. "I pride meself on it. When I came to London I noticed there was so many people in this dog-eat-dog existence that all the little morals I brought with me from my Little House On The Prairie area just didn't seem appropriate. It's almost like bringing T-shirts and shorts to London and then expecting that to be the right attire for an English climate. I brought Aussie morals which didn't fit the London climate. The last one I'm holding on to is not shagging other Sheilas when I'm living with one. I swear to you mate, it's a fact!

"Having said that, when I'm single I enjoy playing the field and being a bit of a hound," he continues conspiratorially. "I was really skinny in Australia, which I still am now, but my mates over there were big, blonde, beefcake boys . . . surfers and that. So what would happen was that I would end up getting their leftovers . . . if I was lucky. And it would always be very late in the evening when I was too drunk to do anything, so that really started building a resentment in me. But now, because of the comedy, I'm more confident and better able to chat girls up. Actually, when I think of it, maybe I'm just less of an arsehole . . . (laughs) whatever it is, these days girls seem willing to listen to me."

Despite his six years in Britain, Hardy still suffers from homesickness and regrets that he rarely gets to go Down Under. The fact that he has not achieved celebrity status in Australia doesn't particularly bother him, although he would clearly prefer it if he were at least a household name in his own house.

"I really miss me family and me Aussie Rules footie, and I miss the cold beer and the big steaks and the weather and the space," he reveals with a heart-rending moan. "In London I've found there's too many people in too small a space. In Australia there's plenty of times during the day you can look around and not see another person, even if you're in a hustle-bustle area. There might be a couple of minutes at a time where you can't see another person.

"What I hate about London is the way you live. If there's someone arguing or shagging either above or below you, or to your left or your right, depending on where your flat is situated, you end up hearing things you'd rather not hear. You also know that if you're arguing or shagging, these people can hear you, so there's always these people arguing or shagging somewhere in the building. Then out on the corridor you have to quietly say 'g'day' to some bloke who you've just heard threatening his missus with a broken bottle upstairs, or something."

The relocation to London, of which Hardy speaks so highly, was prompted by a chronic shortage of paying gigs back home and a chance perusal of London listings bible Time Out.

"One day a friend of mine returned from a trip overseas to Britain and he had a copy in his bag which I began flicking through," he reveals. "I suddenly realised that there was more than 100 stand-up shows a week going on in London which kind of knocked me for six. At that time, if you were doing 20 shows a year in Melbourne you were going good. So I arrived in London with enough money to last six weeks and so far I've been there for nearly six years."

How did the native comedians react to this foreign invasion?

"Well, what Aussie comics tend to do, because they're really insecure and on their own and unable to ring their dad at 2am if they're drunk and in the gutter—and I've seen a few Irish people do this too—is try to become ultra-Aussie," laughs Hardy. "I was almost like a caricature of myself, using all these Aussie words that stopped being used 30 years ago and trying to out-drink and out-fight and out-fuck everybody else. I was obviously just trying to mask my insecurities but thankfully, a couple of comics told me to pull my head in, which I did. I'm just glad they had the courage to say that to me.

"Basically I get on well with them all, whether they're English, Irish, American, Scottish . . . whatever. They like beer, most of them like girls, we're all working the same jobs. They're nice guys and we all get on pretty well."

When I ask what the Matthew Hardy masterplan is, my request is greeted with much humming and hawing.

"I dunno," he avers uncertainly. "I had a little masterplan and that was to go on last at all the clubs. I've achieved that and there's nowhere else to go. I could probably get a little better in that realm. I've just written a book which is going to be published in Australia. I actually rang Ardal [O'Hanlon] to ask for a few tips on how I should put all that together and he was cool, really helpful. I'm hoping I could move into authorship, but if that book doesn't sell a single copy that's that plan fucked.

"What I would really like to do is an absolutely gigantic rock 'n' roll show, Kiss style, with me white suit. There'd be fireworks, dry ice, explosions, spit and blood, me breathing fire, absolute rock 'n' roll music, dancing girls holding up numbers between jokes, like they do in boxing matches before each round. I'd like to take the absolute piss. Yeah, a Kiss-esque stadium comedy gig . . . that's my new masterplan."

To which the obvious response would have to be: "eh, good luck with the book!"