I was a cheerful child, always indulged by a large number of aunties. I used to think that if Germany was the Fatherland and England was the Motherland, Australia should be the Auntieland. I was the first grandchild, doted on by all these women clucking over me.
Edna was named after an adored nanny, a symbol of my father Eric’s growing prosperity as a builder. One day, she wasn’t there any more. I’d no idea what had happened. Had there been a quarrel? Had she walked out? I was told nothing. But then I’d never even been told her surname. I was only six or seven at the time – and I minded.
After a year working on the wholesale counter at EMI in Melbourne, I got taken on by Australia’s only touring repertory company and was cast as Orsino in Twelfth Night. I had to wear tights and, when I walked on stage, I thought I heard a titter in the audience. The director asked why I was skulking behind the furniture. I explained I thought my legs were ruining this serious play. He assured me his wife thought I had very good legs. But then he added: “You must realise as an actor that you’re naturally ridiculous.” Whether I liked it or not, I belonged in comedy.
My parents’ favourite word was “phase”. I think young people wrestling with their sexual persuasion are often told they’re just passing through a phase. My mother and father felt the same about my theatrical ambitions.
In my early 20s, I tried my hand at writing about suburban life and with some anger. The young Edna Everage only talked about her lovely home in Moonee Ponds. I’d clearly stumbled upon something – I was rewarded with the laughter of recognition. The first review was by the architectural correspondent of the Melbourne Age.
The smugness of Australia in the 50s was insufferable. I once said to a friend of mine who was coming to visit: “You’ll hear a thumping noise as the plane approaches Sydney.” He asked what would be causing it. Kangaroos, perhaps? “No,” I said. “It’s 30m Australians patting themselves on the back.”
In the early 60s, I felt Edna had run out of steam. But no, she proved indestructible – and a very useful mouthpiece. She can say things, for instance, about political correctness that I couldn’t possibly express. The same is true of Sir Les Patterson. I never swear in real life. Both characters are wonderful outlets. I’m very careful myself about what I might say. Edna and Sir Les, on the other hand, can point to the nudity of the emperor.
I got together with Lizzie [Spender] some 33 years ago and we married in 1990. I have to thank Wife No 2 for two daughters and Wife No 3 for two sons. Why has this last marriage endured? Oh, because I’m a bit smarter now. The truth is I’m not a very easy person to be married to. For over 10 years of my life, I had a serious alcoholic illness, but I haven’t touched a drop for almost50 years.
I’m 88 and about to start a new tour. But it’s not as though I’m going to pass away mid-performance. That was a coup de théâtre accomplished by Tommy Cooper. Brave? On the contrary, I’ve always thought of myself as quite cowardly. The sound of a cricket bat hitting a ball causes me to duck.
Barry Humphries: The Man Behind the Mask tickets and dates are available from manbehindthemask.co.uk
