Mike Delamont

Critically acclaimed and award winning Canadian comedian.

Critically acclaimed and award winning comedian

Monday Magazine - At The Mic

Hello from the road!

It’s that time of year again. I am currently in sub-temperature Edmonton bound for even colder Winnipeg tomorrow. I try to hit all of Canada’s hot spots at their peak seasons.

I was in Edmonton just before Christmas and worried that I might not be able to handle the cold. My phone told me that I would be walking into -39 degree weather. An Edmonton friend of mine confidently told me, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Just don’t breathe with your mouth.” What? Thats not okay. Folks, if you live somewhere that “just don’t breathe through your mouth” is a common expression … it’s time to move.

I’m at the very beginning of my touring season. I am often on the road March through to the middle of September. With its varied travel, April will see me in six different cities over two countries. From sunny Los Angeles, CA all the way to the bright lights of Vermillion AB (population 3,930).

I love what I do, it is hard to be away so much.

When I was younger and a bit of a playboy (‘bit of’ may be an understatement) there was nothing better than hitting the road, taking my act to a new town and meeting new people. Now that I am older and have met that special somebody, it’s very difficult to walk out the door. And a part of me knows that it will only get harder. We have plans to get married and have kids and I am dreading the day when I have to wave goodbye to not only the woman of my dreams, but also a person we have created. It may be more than one little person as well. She wants four kids, and I want … well, less than four. If I agree to take dance lessons she says she will settle on two, so dance lessons here I come! If you ever see me with three children, this plan has fallen through and I have no idea how to flamenco.

I’ve been told public speaking is the world’s most common fear. I think it should be snakes, but what do I know, I just speak to the public for a living. I am often asked the same questions. One that has always surprised me is, “how do you remember all of those words?” I’m never quite sure how to answer that, but it usually comes from the same people that, when they ask about my career say, “How are your little skits going?” The number one question I get asked is: “Don’t you get scared up there?” The honest answer is I don’t. Probably because I want to be there, and the more people the better. It might sound strange but performing for 3,000 people is far easier than performing for 10. I do get scared though, but not of the stage. Scared that the career I chose might take me away from the things I want to be a part of the most. That the way I have chosen to provide for my family might keep me away from their biggest moments. First steps. First words. It’s a new crisis I have and it’s one I never thought I would.

Who knows, in a few years when it’s time to think babies, maybe I will be flipping burgers somewhere instead. As I write this, there is a little girl at the table next to me desperately trying to get her mother’s attention. A loud, piercing and varied: “MOM! MOM! MOMMY! MOMMY! MA! MA! MUM! MUM! MOMMY!”

This is all to show her mom that she holds something in her hand that her mother has never seen before: A goldfish cracker.

I think it’s time for dance lessons.

Monday Magazine - At The Mic

I just went to my hometown to visit family. I often find out through the grapevine that many of them have been through my current town at some point in the last year, but didn’t even think to call.

So with a few exceptions, if I didn’t go back home I wouldn’t see any of them outside of Facebook.

If you have never spent time in a large Italian family, I would say approach with caution. The food is good, the conversation is personal, and the volume is deafening no matter now many, or few, are in the room. You will be offered wine to drink and something to eat to tide you over … until we eat. Traveling home has always been a journey. Last year there was so much flooding on either side of the town we had to cancel. This year, there was so much ice, I promptly put the car into a snowy ditch. (For the record the only thing injured was my gentle, gentle pride.) I don’t know what it is about me but I feel as though I have a punch card for crap travel. For every five amazing trips, I get an awful one free (technically not free as it cost me $235 to get the car out of that snowy ditch). Last year on my way from Victoria to Saskatoon, there was a problem with a plane which caused me to be delayed by eight hours. Now, do you think it was the two-hour flight from Vancouver to Saskatoon, or the 16minute flight from Victoria to Vancouver that was the issue?

I think you might have guessed correctly. What was the issue on the 16 minute flight you might ask? The toilet was broken on the plane. That’s right! The toilet on the 16 minute flight was broken and so we were delayed 90 minutes (causing us to miss our connection). Who cares if the toilet was broken? Its a 16 minute flight! Who wants to use the bathroom on a plane that small anyway? Is anybody sitting at the gate thinking, ‘Oh God, I hope we board the plane soon, I really need to pee!’

Couldn’t we all as adults just make a pact that we would hold it for the 20 minutes it would take us to get from gate to gate? As it turns out, no. I’m 6’7 and 300+ pounds, I can barely use the washrooms on a regular flight. I tried one time, we hit some turbulence, and I accidentally joined the Mile High Club with myself. What was I talking about before I started talking about planes? My hometown! Right! Back on track! I’m not going back to my hometown ever again.

Well, that might be a little strong. I’m not going back ever again … in the winter.

I grew up in a small town in the Rockies and, while I love my home town, I wish it was closer to where I live now. Today we drove at the top speed of 40 km/h through the mountains while avalanches fell behind us chasing us like some kind of geriatric Michael Bay movie. In the summer it is a joyful place with purple mountains, vast ranches and the sun on your face. In the winter, it is hours of travel through the slush-covered, ice-coated nightmare that is the devil’s frosted taint of the world.

Next year when I have a week off …Cancun.  

Monday Magazine - At The Mic

Well people, I did it, I took the plunge! Well, not the plunge. The pre-plunge plunge, I guess. What I’m trying to say is that this gentleman is now engaged! That’s right friends, I am well on my way to becoming Mrs. Mike Delamont – that’s how that works right?

It’s over ladies. This fine hunk of West Coast prime beef is off the market. And by “fine hunk of  West Coast prime beef” I mean a man whose entire body looks like you shoved an adult size bean bag chair into a pair of beige pantyhose and then gave it a hair cut a la the Nazi youth.

Nobody tells you the stressful parts of getting engaged. Nobody! Asking a father’s permission is the same feeling as that moment you hit black ice on a highway. Once it begins it’s out of your hands and all you can do is steer into it and hope it doesn’t kill you. I had hopes it would be like a Hallmark card and that when I asked, one lone, manly tear would fall from his eyes so full of wisdom and experience. … Perhaps, looking back on it, I shouldn’t have asked him during a hockey game. Maybe then I wouldn’t have gotten the stressful dollar-store-card response of “Let me think about it.” Honestly I was surprised I even got that. Would you want your daughter to marry a Scottish drag queen? It takes a lot of explaining. To his credit, the next morning he gave me his blessing in an awkward and heartfelt speech that only a quiet and lovely man of so few words can do.

Next comes buying the ring. Did you know that the average Canadian man spends $5,800 on a ring? Neither did I. More importantly though, how do you know what size to get? A website told me that I should grab one of her rings and get it sized but she doesn’t wear rings. Do you know how uncomfortable it is for a man to buy a woman anything that has a size? It’s terrifying! If we buy her something too small she might feel fat and if we buy her something too big, it might mean that’s how we think she looks. We have no clue. We are monkeys in shoes leading the blind. We don’t know how to buy anything for a lady. Next time you’re at a drug store, take a look down the tampon aisle and look at the faces of the poor men sent there, coupon in hand having no idea what gentle flow means but assuming it has something to do with gas but are too embarrassed to ask.

At the end of the day, it turns out that none of this crap even matters. The dad says yes if you aren’t a douche canoe and, in my case, she didn’t even look at the ring when I asked because she started to happy cry. It’s amazing how much time we spend worrying for nothing. Until now all of my relationships have been the same. They all started with “Oh my God! You are SO funny” and ended with “Not EVERYTHING has to be a joke you know.” So was it worth the stress? It was. Would I do it again if I could? I would. Did the ring fit? It didn’t. Do I enjoy having my own personal memory of the moment I got on one knee and asked a beautiful girl to marry me? ... I do.