Willy de Wit has written a book, Drink, Smoke, Snort, Stroke. Photo / Brett Phibbs
Willy de Wit starred in some of New Zealand's best-loved comedy shows, from Funny Business to McPhail & Gadsby as well as spending over a decade on Radio Hauraki's breakfast show. In more recent times, de Wit has battled depression, addiction and had a stroke but, rather than turn up his toes, he wrote a book. Drink, Smoke, Snort, Stroke is out now.
My childhood was very happy. We were four kids and two adults, and I was the youngest, so spoiled rotten. I was reasonably bright, but also lazy, and I completed my education at Auckland Grammar with a total lack of distinction. This was the 1970s. John Graham, the late great All Black, was headmaster, there was an emphasis on corporal punishment, and if you were in the First XV you automatically became a prefect, because rugby players were lauded as gods.
In my early teens I took up ballet, much to my father's disgust and my mother's confusion. It wasn't that I wanted to scale the dizzy heights of the corps de ballet, I just wanted to appreciate it, to understand the music and learn how you make dance happen. I kept it to myself at first, but because we were in Ōrākei and lessons were in Titirangi, I had to ride my pushbike all that way, twice a week. I also befriended some of the ballet mums. They were fiercely protective and overtly proud of their children, with many of them living vicariously through their offspring. By my mid-teens ballet fell by the wayside and I fell more into line with dad's idea of what I should be.
I learned early on about the power of humour. That if you could make people laugh, they liked you. Looking back, I can also see that depression was a thing for me, I just didn't know what to call it. Because some days at lunchtime, I'd be sitting on a seat crying my eyes out, not knowing why I was crying. But back in the 80s and 90s, depression was stigmatised so you didn't talk about it and if you did, you were told to harden up. There was certainly no counselling. I did try happy pills for a while, and they tempered things a little, but depression has always been in the background for me.
In the early 80s, the only people doing comedy were Billy T James, Peter Rowley and McPhail & Gadsby. There was no live comedy culture either, until Scott Blanks started a comedy night at Retro Nightclub. I rocked up one night on my own, and just three other guys were there. The place was empty, so we performed to each other. That's how we learned the ropes, and we ended up becoming Funny Business.
Back then, the audience attitude at comedy gigs, people sat back with their arms crossed as if to say, "make me laugh". You had to prove you were funny. In spite of that, we took on a night at Windsor Castle, the music venue. The cantankerous old owner Noel gave us a couple of Wednesdays, the quietest night of the week, to have a go. We worked out some sketch and solo stuff, and on the first night we had a grand total of six in the audience. Slowly word got out that we were good, and the next week there were eight in the audience, then 10, then 20. After six months we'd be half full and after a year it was standing room only. Then Tony Holden the TV producer came to talk to us about doing a pilot for TVNZ, and that's how I got my first television series. That was Funny Business.
There were only two television channels back then, so everybody watched, and people responded positively because it wasn't political or negative or racist, it was just observational slice-of-life comedy. We also toured and did corporate gigs. Mark Wright, one of my partners in crime, he had all these big clients and we'd do shows to captains of industry and head honchos. I have a raft of wild anecdotes from those days, but for legal reasons I'm unable to share them.
For a long time I was very happy, and when Radio Hauraki came along, that was the most amazing 10 years of my life. By the end of my tenure, we'd launched 16 stations nationwide, taking classic rock from Whangārei to Bluff. I loved the tight camaraderie of that team, as well as meeting some of my heroes like Mick Jagger and Meat Loaf. We were also doing Comedy Central and Pulp Comedy and because I was creating and being successful, my feelings of depression were few and far between but, whenever things turned sour, it was "hello old friend".
After 11 years with Hauraki, I was given the boot and everything came crashing down. I entered a huge insurmountable depression so, to make it better, I turned to alcohol. I was living by myself in an apartment at The Heritage, and I distanced myself from the people who cared about me. The phone stopped ringing, gigs dried up, everything stopped and in my infinite wisdom, I drank more. When I was at what I thought was my lowest ebb, I was put on to meth by a person I thought was my friend – although dealers are never your friends, and it was their intention to get me addicted.
Methamphetamine started innocuously, but very quickly I was hooked. From there it was a slippery slope. I did things I'm not proud of and life got much less funny. I remember the moment it hit me, that I was addicted. That I didn't have the fortitude or desire to stop. For a long time I was either high or I wanted to get high, and when that was achieved, there was brief elation before going down again.
Eventually I pulled myself together. I'd actually been clean for a while. I had a job as brand manager for Suzy H Skincare, and things were looking up, so I thought I'd have one last night. I bought a little half of a quarter of a gram and I was doing the thing ... then I stood up and I collapsed to the ground. I stood again, and I collapsed again. I heard a noise like a circus clown, like a tyre going splat. That was the sound I heard when I stroked.
I lay on the floor for 12 hours. From 10pm to 10am I was gone, but I was still breathing. The next morning, when Suzy, my boss, couldn't get hold of me, she became concerned and came over. She had a key, so let herself in and found me on the ground, grey and barely breathing.
It was a fine line between life and death. Doctors told my friends and family that they shouldn't expect me to survive. But I did. I've since come to terms with my physical limitations. I was wheelchair-bound at first. I had to learn to speak again, to practice my consonants, to push my face up so it didn't droop. When you can't put your clothes on properly, or shower, or do all the things you used to take for granted, the key word is patience. There was a year and a half of slow comprehension as it dawned on me that I was, for want of a better word, disabled.
I now walk with a stick but that's cool, because I couldn't walk at all for a while, so to be able to walk is a win. Two years on, I've learned other key words. Like acceptance and understanding. There's also frustration, but most of all there's acceptance.
I started the book three years ago as a labour of love, when my friend David Downs started humouring me by encouraging me to write. It's been a slow process that started as stream of consciousness, then it got more serious, as I became more lucid. I didn't want the book to be preachy, but to tell a story that says, I'm here and I'm happy to help others if I can, to advise, empathise and hopefully put back some of what I took out.
I have been sober now for seven years and I am full of hope. Throughout my 40s to my late 50s, I often thought of suicide, but those thoughts disappeared after the stroke, because in spite of all the mistakes I've made, I was given the chance to start again with a fresh mindset. I now want to be the best person I can be and that is incredibly satisfying.
Even at my lowest ebb now, I have more appreciation for things. I'm on a much more even keel because I am grateful for this second chance, because It's not until you have things taken away from you, that you realise how much you have.
Where to get help:
• Lifeline: 0800 543 354 (available 24/7)
• Suicide Crisis Helpline: 0508 828 865 (0508 TAUTOKO (available 24/7)
• Youth services: (06) 3555 906
• Youthline: 0800 376 633
• What's Up: 0800 942 8787 (11am to11pm)
• Depression helpline: 0800 111 757 (available 24/7)
• Rainbow Youth: (09) 376 4155
• Helpline: 1737
If it is an emergency and you feel like you or someone else is at risk, call 111.
•Willy de Wit is also available for public speaking engagements. www.essentialtalent.co.nz/talent/willy-de-wit
Rushdie described the pain as 'a 10' and lost vision in one eye.