When Mike Wilmot takes the stage at MICF, there’ll be no ingratiating compliments for the audience, nor will he limit his use of profanity, descriptions of sexual activity or details of prodigious drinking. Likewise, Wilmot’s shows won’t encompass the twists and turns of a finely sculpted narrative, nor build toward a mawkish resolution. Really, the chief focus of Wilmot’s stand-up is pretty straightforward.
“My act has always been me – what I’m going through, even that day,” he says. “I’m a comic 24/7, so it’s usually brain to mouth. I’ve never been polished, ever. I go out and I sort of surf the audience for an hour. There’s a lot of old stuff and new stuff. It’s like water; whatever’s the easiest way it flows, it flows that way.”
Having been a recognised comic for more than two decades, Wilmot’s application to collecting material has become rather obsessive. “I felt guilty about that for years, “ he says. “And then about 15 years in I said ‘Fuck it, I’m proud of being a freak and I’m going to bring my notepad out at funerals. I don’t care.’ It’s the way I do things and it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
Given his typical embrace of edgy, more expressive stand-up, it’s no surprise that Wilmot feels at odds with the mainstream comedy environment. “I always thought comedy was a very underground cool thing and sort of got off on that,” he says. “When everybody’s household is watching some fucking stand-up show, with three stand-ups and a celebrity host, or like it is in Britain now where it’s all game shows – I find that when comedy gets too popular, in some cases the audience has become fans of television shows, not fans of live stand-up people. In many cases I’m scared of those people.”
In line with this aversion, Wilmot’s preferred performance scenario isn’t a giant theatre packed with thousands of ticket holding punters. Oddly enough, he’s in his element in far from glamorous surrounds.
“I have just as much, if not more, fun at open mics where the audience hasn’t paid to get in and I’m not paid to go on,” he says. “To me that’s the natural comedy. I owe them nothing. I think what comedy should be is a benevolent disorder.”
With this in mind, keep an eye out for Wilmot on the local open mic circuit while he’s in town for MICF. Nevertheless, he’s not a belligerent man, so in spite of his noted preference for haphazard circumstances, Wilmot feels no repulsion towards comedy festivals.
“Doing festivals isn’t like doing nightclubs,” he says. “You can slow down and take the audience on a bit of a stroll in an hour long comedy festival show, and you’re surrounded by positive vibes. There are a lot of wonderful comedians in [Australia] and they’re in it for the right reasons.”
Wilmot’s not just bootlicking here. He first performed at MICF in 2003, taking out the coveted Barry Award that same year, so he’s very familiar with how it all goes down. We haven’t seen him since 2012, but he’ll return for a full season of shows this year, which appears to genuinely excite him.
“I’m addicted to festivals,” he says. “You meet all the new comedians and you meet all the old bastards like you. If they’re at festivals, 90 per cent chance they’re not bitter old cunts. They’re still positive, they’re still happy and still moving forward. That’s what everybody needs in life – to find as many people as you can that are like that.”
BY AUGUSTUS WELBY
