Play Time

By John Darling

Rob Streeton, star of the hit kid’s TV show, Play Time, realised he’d made mistakes that night.  Drinking all night with his infantile brother – mistake #1.  A lap dance with a stripper – mistake #2.  Not realising his life would change forever – the biggest mistake of them all.  

Now there are photos of Rob with a gorgeous stripper, Mirabelle, and a mysterious blackmail attempt.  The race is on to save his career, resurrect his failing marriage, and attend to his terminally ill mum.

Intriguing and absorbing, Play Time, is a heart-warmingly amusing tale of love and life – and the not-so-innocent world of kid’s television. 

Playing with toys wasn’t supposed to be this hard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Darling
• Release date: Dec 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386461043

John Darling

John Darling has spent most of his career working in the world of corporate finance in Australia, New York, and London.  Yet, he’s continued to pursue his passion for creative writing, particularly the comedic genre.  John has studied screenwriting at the New York Film Academy, and undertaken numerous comedic writing courses at The Second City Training Centre in Hollywood and Chicago.  John created Chronicles of a Domesticated Gent, a quirky Facebook blog providing insights into the oft-misunderstood world of being a stay-at-home dad.  As an avid fan of all forms of comedy, John has performed stand-up and improv.  He has also created a YouTube web series and recorded several comedic songs which all went “viral” - within his family.  John wrote, and rewrote, Play Time, in the cafes of Paris, where he lived for eighteen months with his wife and their six-year-old daughter.  Play Time is his first novel.

Book preview

NINE YEARS AGO

The perspiration stains on Rob’s fluorescent long-sleeved shirt were partly concealed by his denim overalls.  Rob was a nervous sweater. The thick stoned-washed farmers costume combined with the spotlights bearing down on him did not help matters though.  A 25-year-old Rob Streeton nervously stood on the black masking tape cross as he stared out at an audience of darkness.  Although Rob was accustomed to stage performance, the stakes seemed significantly higher today. 

Studio 21 at the ABC’s Ultimo Centre in Sydney was bustling with activity.  Lights were being adjusted.  Wiring and cables were being aggressively sorted by an energetic technical crew.  Yelling could be heard in the background as set designers made the final adjustments to painted cardboard boxes, which were hurriedly assembled to replicate a brick wall.

Despite the commotion and activity taking place around him, Rob patiently waited for his cue and attempted to remain calm and positive.  He tightly gripped an egg-shaped Humpty Dumpty doll against his chest like a toddler cuddling his favourite soft toy.  Rob attempted to focus on his breathing, but his brain refused to play this game. 

This was Rob’s big break and he didn’t want to fuck it up.  Play Time was an iconic Australian children’s television show that had graced the airways since the late 1960s. Rob fondly recalled his childhood watching this very show.  He couldn’t believe he had a chance to be the presenter on the longest running children’s show in Australia.  He just could not screw this audition up.  The thought of going back to TV commercial auditions for insurance companies and yoghurt brands was as demoralising as it sounded.  After an exhaustive testing and audition process, failure now would be painfully dispiriting.

Although Rob couldn’t see past the lights and cameras, he knew a panel of directors, producers, and HR staff were watching and judging.  None were more important than the recently appointed Head of Children’s Entertainment, Brian Jacobs.  The panellists would be analysing his voice, eye contact, screen presence, interaction with the toys, appearance—the list went on.  Rob tried hard to forget about all this.  Again, his brain had other ideas.  Just be yourself, and people will love you. That’s what his mum would always say.  That advice had gotten him this far, but in reality, this far wasn’t that far at all.

Rob, we’re ready when you are, said a kind female voice from behind the cameras.

He subtly cleared his throat and centred himself. With the Humpty Dumpty doll tucked behind his back, he assuredly stared into a camera marked one and smiled. "Hi everyone! My name is Rob and welcome to Play Time."

He playfully put his finger on his chin and gave a quizzical look. I’m glad you’re here because I need some help. I’m trying to find my friend Humpty, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere. Rob turned to his left and Humpty could clearly be seen tucked into his overalls.

Have you seen him? Rob turned to his right. Maybe I should look this way? He quizzically looked at the camera again and excitedly proclaimed, Wait a minute! At that moment, Rob enthusiastically yanked Humpty from behind his back and proudly cuddled him. Yay, Humpty! We found you.  Thanks for your help at home.

On cue, a grand piano started to play in the background.  The melody was the classic children’s nursery rhyme. I think Humpty wants to sit up on his wall. Can you sing along with me? Rob launched into the Humpty Dumpty song.  He had a good singing voice and was able to hit some of the melodramatic lower notes in the song.  Rob was never a particularly accomplished vocalist, but he could manage.  A few years of intermittent vocal coaching certainly helped. Going back further, lead roles in high school musical productions gave him the confidence to back his voice. 

At the end of the song, one of the panellists yelled out cut and a polite, brief round of applause could be heard.  Rob took a breath and as he exhaled, he looked relieved and exhilarated all at the same time. 

Great effort Rob, one of the panellists announced from the darkness. You are confident, yet mischievous in front of the camera.

Thanks, I appreciate it, Rob embarrassingly replied, surprised by the positivity, and unsure who to address given he still couldn’t see who was speaking.

You are a good blend of athletic and handsome, yet your presence is not overwhelming or intimidating, another voice stated. 

Luckily, I haven’t been to the gym for a few weeks, Rob replied in jest as the panel politely chuckled.

Like all views on beauty, handsomeness was a subjective thing.  Rob was handsome, but not in a square-jawline, olive complexion, six-pack kind of way.  His handsomeness was more the bloke next door quality, rather than an underwear model on a Times Square billboard.  There was a certain warmth to his facial features.  Perhaps it was his large blue eyes or his broad smile.  Sure, his nose was slightly larger than proportionately required, but that was the sort of imperfection that made his looks seem less intimidating. 

Brian Jacobs stood up from the darkness of the panel and walked slowly towards Rob.  As he eventually stood in front of the bright lights of Studio 21, Rob instantly knew who was about to address him.  Although Rob had not previously met Brian in earlier stages of the audition process, he was aware of the man.  Attempting to remain calm, a feeling of intimidation hit Rob firmly in his guts.  Brian was infamously a big drinker and smoker, and so it was hard to figure out his age.  Rob suspected he looked far older than he actually was.  Rob waited patiently as Brian collected his thoughts. 

Robby, our aim here is about balance, Brian spoke with wisdom and authority, like a coach addressing his players at halftime.  As he addressed the panel and Rob concurrently, his broad, thick, and somewhat uncouth Australian accent reverberated around the studio. 

"You see, we want the mums watching Play Time to fantasise riding your erect donger. Yet, we want the dads thinking you’re still a good bloke.  Even if they’ve walked in on you growling down on their wife.  Get me?" Brian asked as he stared intimidatingly at Rob.  Some shocked gasps could be heard from panellists in the background.

Rob replied uncomfortably, I think so, but I’m not interested in the mums...

Brian cut him off, As for the children, our audience, he said making quotation marks in the air with his fingers, as long as you don’t look like you socialise in public toilets, we’ll be fine. 

Brian strode back to the panel and picked up some paper from the desk which he quickly glanced at.  Rob nervously squinted into the shadows to see what Brian was up to.

You studied law, Rob?  Brian asked curiously.

Yes, that’s correct.  I got halfway through my degree and decided it wasn’t for me.

Being an opinionated, overpaid, scumbag fuckwit wasn’t for you, hey?  Brian asked seriously.

Something like that, Rob replied calmly hoping the conversation would change soon. 

Brian sensed this was a topic that made Rob uneasy, You are either brave and smart, or weak and dumb as shit. I wonder which it will be.

While maintaining strong eye contact, Brian paused and continued his study of Rob who remained perfectly still before him.  Brian nonchalantly dropped the papers back on the table and then briefly turned his attention to the other panel members sitting nearby, blatantly ignoring their looks of confusion and frustration.

Rob, we’re going to play a little game called Apple or Banana. Ever played? Brian asked as he walked back from the table towards Rob.

No, not exactly, Rob replied anxiously.

Sensing Rob’s continued unease, Brian who was now standing back by Rob’s side, put his arm affectionately around his shoulder.

Don’t worry. It’s a cute little game where you say the first thing that pops into your head.  There’s no right or wrong answers, so relax, Brian said compassionately, but then leaned closer into Rob’s personal space. Just some answers that will get you the job, and some that won’t, Brian firmly, yet encouragingly, patted Rob on the back a couple of times.  It was a subtle way of suggesting that Rob should relax.  The gesture did not seem to work. 

Murmurings from the table of producers and Human Resource people could be heard from the shadows behind Brian. Eventually, one of the voices spoke up uncomfortably, Excuse me, Brian.  Can we have a word? We don’t really see this in our selection criteria.

Thanks. You’re all excused, Brian fired back without turning around to address those sitting on the panel.

Another voice spoke up with a strong objectionable tone, Brian, this is highly unorthodox.  We have certain HR protocols which we must adhere to in the selection of all staff.

Brian cut her off, You can take your protocols, and insert them into whatever orifice that provides you the most pleasure.  Off you go, I need some quality time with my boy here. 

The fellow ABC staff sitting on the panel looked at each other blankly in a moment of strange hesitation.  One of the panellists begrudgingly stood up, muttered expletives under her breath, and stormed off.  She was followed by the rest of the panel, who turned to Brian giving him stern looks of disapproval.

Brian, who was oblivious to the looks of disgust taking place behind him, clapped his hands in excitement. Let’s play. 

Rob, who was still watching the procession of ABC senior staff walk away in the background, turned to Brian, Are you sure that was wise?

Fuck ‘em. They wouldn’t know talent if it slapped them across the face with my ex-wife’s droopy boobs, Brian replied before his brain quickly kicked back into gear. Now, remember, the first thing you think of. 

Brian started to walk around Rob and inspected him like a judge at a kennel club dog show. 

Tits or ass? Brian blurted out.

Rob, who didn’t think he could be shocked anymore, sought confirmation nervously, Um, did you say, tits or ass?

Quickly, Brian snapped his fingers.

Tits, Rob blurted out like a child saying a swear word for the first time.

Some hesitation there Robbie. You’re not holding back on your Uncle Brian are you?  Brian said with another cheeky smile.  Maybe I should have started with, chicks or dicks?

Rob, again shocked by the question, shot back without hesitation, Chicks, definitely chicks, but as soon as Rob said it he backtracked awkwardly. Not that I’m implying that there is something wrong with liking the other thing, it’s just that...

Brian warmly put his hand again on Rob’s shoulder, Don’t worry big guy, HR have gone.  For the first time in the audition, Rob smiled and felt a sense of comfort wash over him.

Your homophobic secret is safe with me, Brian joked and pretended to zip his mouth closed. He jumped back into his line of questioning, Single or married?

Married, well, engaged actually, Rob replied proudly with a smile on his face wishing he could show photos of the engagement ring.

Brian again put his hand on Rob’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, You may want to consider a long engagement, son.  Housewives on tap.

Rob coughed with embarrassment, I don’t think...hmm...that will be necessary...

We’ll be in touch, Brian suddenly announced. Before Rob could even process if the audition had finished, Brian had started to walk away.  Rob stood there, again motionless and unsure.  The sound of Brian’s leather soles on the hard concrete floor echoed around the now empty studio.

Thanks for your time, Rob yelled out as Brian disappeared into the darkness and the sound of a door slamming could be heard in the distance.

Rob stood in silence processing the unusual events that had just transpired.  He exhaled a deep breath, letting all the stress and anxiety out of his body into the atmosphere.  Rob curiously lifted his arm and inspected his armpits, hoping his sweat-drenched torso was not obvious to Brian.  As he inspected both arms, Rob was shocked.  The sweat had dried up.  The 48-hour anti-perspirant, anti-stain, anti-odour, anti-ozone layer spray had obviously kicked in.  Rob smiled and took a moment to look around the studio and take in his surroundings with a sense of pride.  It was March 2005, and for the first time in his young adult life, Rob had a deeply entrenched feeling of where he belonged. 

ONE

...the fucking Beatles...

Rob pulled up outside of the Double Bay community kindergarten in his Mercedes. His four-year-old daughter, Chloe, happily sang along to the Play Time Singalong Volume 9 CD from the back seat. The particular song pumping out of the immaculately clear stereo system was called, Hop, Jump, Skip and Chloe knew the lyrics by heart. So did Rob for that matter, as he was the very voice singing the song, as well as all the other tracks on the CD. 

Chloe knew her father was the voice on the recording, she just didn’t appreciate that was somewhat peculiar. Surely all dads had their own albums. Surely all dads were on television every afternoon singing with toys, reading fairy tales, and making crafts from old cereal boxes. Rob rarely participated in the singalongs, unless specifically requested from the rear seat.  He had sung these songs hundreds of times during his ten-year stint on Play Time, plus many others from the five CD volumes released during his time on the show. 

Despising lovable children’s songs was a strong stance for anyone, but after ten years in children’s television, Rob was certainly in the despising camp.  He despised hearing his own voice and the silly lyrics.  He despised the stay-in-your-head-all-day melodies.  Rob was starting to despise a lot of things about life in general.  Maybe he was becoming one of those grumpy, jaded men he had always hated.  Shit, maybe he was becoming his father.  But if he was, at least he drove a better car than his father ever did.

Rob wasn’t overly precious about his eight-month-old Mercedes Benz C250 coupe. It was by no means an expensive vehicle in the context of other Mercedes in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney.  It wasn’t a self-driving, plug into a power socket, carbon fibre NASA space station on four 19-inch low profile tyres.  It was a poor man’s Mercedes, one befitting a quasi TV celebrity employed by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.  Nevertheless, Rob avoided parking his car at the kindergarten, due in part to the overly narrow parking bays and a disproportionate number of Range Rovers attempting to park next to him.  Normal practice was for the kindergarten children to brashly exit these oversized leather-bound tractors with a reckless, joyous zeal.  Nobody wanted to deal with an insurance company if it could be avoided.  As such, Rob avoided it by parking 100 metres down the street.

Despite this, the true reason for Rob’s car park phobia was more linked to his chosen profession and supposed celebrity in this demographic.  Four-year-olds and stay-at-home mums were right in Rob’s sweet spot of fame.  To be fair, it was his only area of fame. Children older than four had moved on to something brasher and less gentile in the highly competitive, yet fickle, world of children’s entertainment.  Likewise, unless you were at home with an infant searching for a moment’s respite, adults weren’t exactly setting their DVR for the latest Play Time episode.  Consequently, when the only two cohorts of the population that consider Rob to be someone were momentarily housed in a small brick building in Double Bay, it was easy to see why Rob took precautions. 

As Rob finished reversing the Mercedes into a tight spot down the street, Chloe reached over from the rear seat and handed Rob a faded Yankees baseball cap.  She knew the drill.  He grabbed it from his daughter with a smile and tightly pushed it down on his head, ensuring the permanently bent brim hid his face.  A little hand then silently passed over a scratched pair of old Oakley sunglasses, which Rob slid over his eyes, completing the kindergarten transformation.  For within the confines of this small community educational facility, Rob was a King. He was the fucking Beatles!  Of course, Rob had no idea that a text message he would receive in a few hours would have the potential to dethrone him from the Top of the Pops.

ROB WAS WEARING A CHEAPLY assembled spider costume when his phone chimed with a text message from Brian Jacobs, Head of Children’s Entertainment.  It was strange to receive a text from Brian, full stop, as the man was hesitant to fully adopt or accept technology. If he had it his way, a fountain pen would be a staple of any form of communication. 

In true form, Brian’s text was brief and on point— Come now! Despite the apparent urgency of the text message, Rob was left sitting alone in Brian’s vanilla office upon arriving. Drumming his fingers on his knees in the bland, third-floor office of the ABC’s Sydney headquarters, Rob burned in self-conscious fury. He’d run straight from rehearsals upon receiving Brian’s text message, and as a result, was still wearing the unflattering and testicular-restrictive spider costume from today’s filming.  The black leotard was about five sizes too small and clearly intended to be worn by a petite teenage girl.  The addition of black tight leggings, which although would assist in the prevention of DVT on a long-haul flight, did not help Rob’s plight.  Of course, the piece de resistance of the costume was the presence of eight spider legs, comprised of black stockings stuffed with newspaper and pinned to Rob’s leotard with oversized safety pins.  It had taken several minutes of battling for Rob to even sit down comfortably without any of the protruding spider legs either blinding him or causing damage to his vital organs.

As Rob patiently waited, he glanced around Brian’s office.  But for the adornment of a Play Time poster, the office resembled a public servant’s office from the 1970s.  There was little paraphernalia on his desk, except for the dust-covered family photo from about 15 years ago.  With minimal paper on his desk and a collection of old coffee-stained mugs near his Dell laptop, it was often joked that the man did little during the day.  Sure, Brian was highly regarded within the Australian television industry, but it seemed he swanned from one meeting to the next, and rarely produced any evidence of tangible work. But when you’ve been the boss of the most lucrative area of the ABC’s television department for eleven years, he’d earned the right to be the man he was.

Brian hurriedly barged through the door.

Sorry Rob, that’s my fourth piss of the morning, Brian said, double checking the fly on his worn Pierre Cardin trousers as he hobbled towards the desk. Years of rugby and surfing had taken a toll on Brian’s middle-aged joints. 

Not a problem, Rob replied.

I told those fuckers in maintenance to adjust the air conditioning. But of course, they want me to fill out a form, Brian sunk into his chair and leaned back. It’s colder than my bloody beer fridge in here, he grumbled.

At least you’re not wearing stockings and a leotard, Rob said, pointing to his spider costume. Don’t want the kids seeing my nipples.

Brian chuckled, followed by an awkward pause while he perused his laptop.

How’s Erica doing? Wasn’t she presenting a paper in bloody Asia or somewhere?

Yeah, Erica’s....Erica, I guess.  Super busy. She just got back from a Global Tax forum in Singapore.  I don’t know, it’s all above my pay grade, Rob was uneasy and anxious. So, your text....

And how about beautiful Chloe?  She must be three now? Brian continued the chit-chat.

Chloe? Rob begrudgingly went along with the banter. Chloe’s great, although she has her moments.  She’s actually four, going on fourteen.

Make the most of this time Robbie. Before you know it, you’ll catch her stealing your MasterCard to pay for ecstasy, booze, and value packs of the morning-after pill.

Rob was shocked, as he glanced at the old family photo on the desk, Your daughter does that?

My daughter? Oh, no, our princess doesn’t believe in fun.  She’s a spiritual guide up on the Central Coast with her cult-leader boyfriend, Zenith.  Kind of wish she stole my fucking MasterCard now, if I’m honest, Brian said matter-of-factly.  There was another awkward pause.

Brian, look, your text, Rob asked hoping to bring the conversation back on track.

Ah yes, Brian shuffled the small pile of papers on his neat desk as a blatantly obvious time wasting device.  "We need to talk about Play Time."

"What about Play Time, specifically?"

Specifically, the future direction of the show, and, Brian collected his thoughts, your specific role going forward.

TERMINAL 3 OF THE MELBOURNE Domestic Airport looked like any other airport terminal for Erica Streeton.  They all blurred into one when you did as much travel in a week as Erica tackled.  Not that Erica spent significant amounts of