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For you are dealing with an entertainer, exemplified by the ABC's Good News Week, who trades on a sharp wit, sarcasm and a merciless intolerance of anyone who is not travelling at the same cerebral warp speed.
It's no wonder then that Triple J's Mikey Robins, whom he shares radio breakfast duties with, is into early double strength short blacks to keep pace.
We confronted the oddball duo during their recent visit to Melbourne for the comedy festival, during which they took part in the Great Comedy Debate and a live taping of Good News Week at the Town Hall among other things, as well as a southern version of their national breakfast radio show.
We met at Florentino's. The two boys (McDermott is 34, Robins 35) had had a very late night, a very early morning, and were well into black coffee. It was now late morning, so someone was having a straight double scotch.
Outside, strange people kept recognising Robins in his window seat, eliciting some strange behaviour. A man in his late 30s made faces. A gay man was giving him the eye. Then a teenage couple performed impromptu silly walks.
If this is daily life for Paul McDermott while he is keeping company with Robins, it is no wonder he starts the day a bit testy and mellows down from there.
Having McDermott back in Melbourne was a treat. He is long missed since his days with the Doug Anthony Allstars, first as regulars on the Big Gig and later with the trio's own anarchic series DAAS Kapital coming out of the ABC's studios in Ripponlea.
These days the only member of the DAAS team fixed to Melbourne is Tim Ferguson, who is on a Nine Network contract (since Don't Forget Your Toothbrush), finishing a political satire novel, and doing those wonderful television ads as the stuntman in the Nintendo video games. Third member Richard Fidler is working for Pay TV in Sydney.
McDermott, although he projects himself as a Sydney person, was enjoying his return and the infusion of local gag material into the morning breakfast show.
There were Jeff Kennett jokes of course. And how could the pair resist quips about importing their own smallgoods, or endless tacky suggestions regarding Phar Lap's temporary resting place while we are building our new museum.
Melbourne's comedy festival, says McDermott, reminded them of how stereotypical stand-up comics can be. "There are a lot of bright sparks out there, but basically it seems there are only three subjects worth talking about- sex, death and religion."
McDermott and his regular Good News Week panelists, Robins and Julie McCrossin, have created a solid niche for the show in ABC programming. It usually top scores in Aunty's Friday night prime time ratings, despite the fact that the game show format, with it's jokes built around contemporary news items, begs cult status ahead of a mainstream audience.
Consequently, the show almost did not make it into 1997. After struggling a bit last year for a number of reasons, among them Friday not being a great night for the 18-39 demographic, Good News Week was widely tipped to be an early victim of the ABC's $50 million budget cuts.
In the end, it squeaked into the new year, and a second series, thanks in part to some heavy lobbying from friends in high places.
"When it came to the projected cuts," says Robins, "I think people were thinking last in, first out sort of thing. But in the end taking Kerry O'Brien's green pens away from him probably saved our show,"
McDermott reckons he was never really concerned about the shows future, although Robins jokes he was on the phone to the Nine Network the same day.
"I always thought the show was good," says McDermott. "We all believed it was good."
Surprisingly, he reveals that his contribution to the show is pretty tightly scripted. He also says he doesn't do much of the writing either- the show has five writers.
"He's a facilitator," chips in Robins, "although if anyone scores over ten points he has to take his shoes and socks off."
The coffees have kicked in, the cerebral motors are almost whirring.
McDermott, previously overlooked as a TV presenter because of his confronting DAAS persona, is rapidly becoming the ABC's man for all seasons and shows.
If there are people out there who are still not sure, they should catch him on the radio with his jolly mate.
Is he good to have as a partner, we ask Robins. "He's a joy." he says. "Not very funny, but nice."
"That's very nice of you to say," retorts McDermott, "but it is a medium that rewards adequacies. Just look at your career."
When we left them it was high noon, in more ways than one. But not for Good News Week, not this year, at least!
By the time Richard Fidler, Tim Ferguson and myself got through customs and hit Convent Garden it was 10am.
It was a Saturday in 1987 and the place was filled with people because we happened to hit on a festival. The sun was shining and it was just a classic image. You couldn't hope to have a more beautiful day - and they wouldn't let us busk because of these bylaws.
We had to apply to a buskers' association two months before we intended to play, then it would invite you to perform before it's broad. It as an absolute farce. We were just off the plane,. Had nowhere to stay, nowhere to go, still had our packs on our backs and were pleading with these people for a chance to play and show our mettle.
They were saying no and - this is the fantastic part- Tim used his not inconsiderable talent at flirting to convince someone to forgo the usual formalities. The other buskers were furious because it had taken them two months to get their licences and we got one because Tim's attractive.
It was four in the afternoon by the time we brought them to our way of thinking, but when we finally set up it was fantastic; a joyous atmosphere. We had this crowd of about 1000 around us, and the surrounding pubs had balconies. We performed for about 45 minutes.
We had this gag where people threw coins at us; if they hit my head on a full toss they got double their money back, took an eye out and they took all the money., We ended up with about $1000.
The other buskers came up and said they hadn't seen anything like it before and we were instantly part of a fraternity, The took us down to the pub and bought us drinks. Some of the people we met on the first day are still at Convent Garden. Whenever we return, there's still a feeling of comradeship.
Back in his Canberra childhood, teachers moved the "slow and stupid" (his words) Adelaide born boy to the back of the classroom.
There he sat meekly until they discovered that he was short-sighted. How was he supposed to learn when he could not see anything through the dark from the back of the room?
That planted the seed of the cynical, nasty streak which has put him on the celebrity map as a comic icon. His angelic singing voice provides a good counterpoint.
So, is he nasty in reality? "Hideous," he says. "Canberra breeds nastiness."
Doctors deduced that his poor sight was the result of reading "by the light of the moon" so he stopped reading completely at the age of 10.
What was he reading? "Hard core pornography, of course," he jokes.
No, what was he reading, really? "Myths and fables."
The now 35-year-old former Doug Anthony Allstar ringleader has almost become respectable after a year of hosting the ABC's Good News Week. He quit the Triple J breakfast team last year to try to get more sleep.
Good News Week is a ritualistic Friday night purge of gloom created by a week's worth of news, current affairs, gossip and nonsense.
McDermott has released a compact disk of the monologues which open Good News Week, Paul McDermott Unplugged - The Good News Week Tapes Vol 1. Later this year he will be doing a variety show for the ABC when Roy and HG take a break.
McDermott's Good News Week monologues are written by a team headed by Ian Simmons.
"Without them I'm nothing, a hollow shell, they fill me up," he says.
McDermott says Good News Week is an important news show.
"We are just entertainment and we usually have more truth (than the news)," he says.
"Most of the news services are more entertainment based than anything else.
"It's becoming more shallow - fire, explosion, car accident around the corner, watch us in the next four seconds and we'll show you a cat up a tree."
His regular panelists - comedians Mikey Robins and Julie McCrossin - are joined by four guests who range from Tasmanian poet Margaret Scott and Sir James Killen to Richard Fidler and Kate Fischer.
One of McDermott's favorite episodes from last year was when Good News Week scooped Fischer's engagement to James Packer.
In defending the Packer family from insult, she made a fatal slip of the tongue in calling Kerry Packer her future father-in-law.
"It actually felt like we were making the news," McDermott says.
Prince Edward is a fan of McDermott's. He attended a DAAS concert in Canada and afterwards went up to McDermott to shake his hand.
"I didn't know who he was," McDermott says.
"He was saying: 'I love your work'.
"I was thinking 'Nice blue eyes, shame about the bald patch.
"He had about six bodyguards and someone came up to me when he walked away and asked: 'Do you know who that was?'"
"I missed my chance."
McDermott enjoys the insular, solitary nature of painting. He does not exhibit his work. As he describes his pictures to me, he leans forward in his seat, crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks down at the floor. In a small voice, he tells me he paints cows, too. And skulls.
McDermott, 35, hosts the ABC's Good News Week, possibly the funniest show on television. Each week, he and his panelists rake over recent current affairs, serving the news back to us with a satiric twist. While the backbone of this glorified parlor game is its posse of writers, McDermott sets the tone as ringleader, simultaneously upping the energy levels and keeping the craziness in order. It's a job he seems made for: part suave host, part naughty schoolboy, part gifted ad-libber, part disciplinarian.
For a man previously best known as the nastiest piece of work in the Doug Anthony All-Stars trio, the Good News gig is a more mellow role. In contrast to the nihilism of the AllStars, the humor bristles with impassioned social comment, with some of the sharpest lines reserved for topics such as Wik and the republic. But McDermott sees GNW as continuing a process that began with the vicious, anti-establishment satire of the AllStars. He is no longer a "huge, evil, monstrosity", but he is still provoking people. The show attracts about 750,000 viewers nationally. From tonight, the GNW gang will do a second expanded program while Roy and HG are in England.
McDermott is a complex figure who defies categories; an end-of-the-millennium Renaissance guy. Publicly brash, privately shy, his output is prolific: a TV show, music (he has an absolutely beautiful singing voice), the paintings, writing, a morning radio stint. Despite having worked in comedy for more than a decade, he says it is not something he is really passionate about. "Apart from the viciousness 1 have never showed any aptitude for it. I was just really nasty and that seemed to be funny ... so I have just had to adapt."
Away from the camera, McDermott is intense, intellectually rigorous and quietly spoken. The contrast to the aggression of his former AllStar character is startling. Good News Week producer Ted Robinson describes him as a conundrum, a man with a mania to create who becomes morose and unhappy when not doing so. McDermott's friend Tony Ayres - they met at art school - speaks of his perverse sense of humor and fascination for the grotesque. "You'll always find him around the edge of good taste."
On a Wednesday night at the ABC studios in Sydney's Gore Hill, McDermott wanders around in a black suit and chunky patent leather shoes. He chats idly to a few people, then runs on stage to warm up the audience before Good News Week filming begins. His oversized shoes make him look like an angry clown. He's in comic autopilot, poking fun at old people and the dress sense of audience members.
The show kicks off. Jokes about Indonesia, Northern Ireland, the GS'F and Brooke Shields' brush with the law. The only problem is while the audience love the quips about bottoms and breasts, they don't seem to be getting the hard-edged political satire. Remarks McDermott in frustration: "The clapping you are great at ... It's just understanding the humor you're sort of lacking."
The next morning, we talk over a pot of tea. McDermott has a wicked half-smile, which functions on television as a form of visual punctuation. In conversation, it surfaces when he is saying one thing but perhaps thinking of something more interesting. He seems wary about revealing too much. After telling me his parents' Christian names he observes, "I think that is the first time 1 have ever mentioned their names in an interview. I feel like I am dragging them into the horrible conspiracy of my life."
McDermott grew up in Canberra in a large Catholic family. He has a twin sister and four other siblings. His father, John, rose to the position of assistant tax commissioner. His other, Betty, was a homemaker and to children". Paul went to a Marist Brothers school. He wasn't the sporty type, lost interest in school and retreated into himself. He had no social skills and hated small talk.
After HSC he went to Canberra School of Art, where Tony Ayres remembers him as a shy man who performed in an over-the-top cabaret group and loved to party. During one visit back to his parents' place, McDermott took a phone message on a pad containing minutes from a meeting about the Australia Card. While he'd been spraypainting No Australia Card graffiti around town, it turned out his dad was one of the architects of the scheme.
In his final year at college, McDermott saw the All-Stars perform. He hated the act ("sweaty parody songs, busking on the street corner") but liked its members, Richard Fidler and Tim Ferguson. He joined the group and at first performed as a shy retreating type who sang Charles Aznavour songs an aspect, he says, of his own personality. But the act needed something edgier. McDermott turned angry.
The All-Stars were foul-mouthed, cartoonish minstrels who invaded the audience's personal space and joked about everything from domestic violence to getting cancer. When McDermott joined the group, his parents were dismayed. John McDermott only saw one live performance, but Betty loyally went along whenever they were in town. The trio played to huge crowds at six Edinburgh Festivals, appeared regularly on British television, did two series on the ABC and performed at the opening of the Barcelona Olympics. There are still Web sites devoted to them today.
In 1994, the All-Stars broke up, just as fame beckoned in the form of a television series on Britain's Channel 4. Suddenly McDermott no longer had the group as an outlet for his music, writing, performance and painting. Over the next two years, he wrote two film scripts, created Mosh, a musical for the Irvine Welsh generation, and got together with Robinson to shop around ideas for a television show. One of them was Good News Week.
Robinson, who has worked with him on and off since 1990, describes their relationship as "slightly prickly." While acknowledging he often gets annoyed at things, McDermott does not regard himself as a particularly angry person. "I know I tend to scare people," he reflects. "I don't really understand why that is. They tell me years later that I was really scary when they first met me ... I don't know if it was a fear of physical violence, because I was never physically violent. There was just, I suppose, something off-putting about my manner."
As a comic he enjoys finding the point at which humor becomes unacceptable. Comedy, he believes, should be thought provoking and promote dialogue. it is implicitly tied to the tragedy of the human condition, and it is always momentary. There is no comic equivalent of a "Guernica" or a "John The Baptist" - an awesome piece of artwork that has transcended generations.
When the All-Stars broke up, they were sick of the sight of each other. The relationship toxic. Last week, a reunion of sorts was scheduled. For the first time in four years, the three were going to lunch.
All are involved in a variety of projects. But McDermott has pushed this to the limits. Last year, says Robinson, he was burning the candle at both ends and in the middle - writing or painting until late at night, getting up at 4am to do a Sydney breakfast radio show (now cut back to one day a week) and squeezing in a TV job. His music has been less prominent. Robinson suggests he has a curious love-hate relationship with his singing voice.
In the end, perhaps his paintings offer the best insight into Paul McDermott. "They are fairly dark and very detailed," says Tony Ayres. "They are flights of fantasy and there's something tormented about them as well. Something twisted and beautiful at the same time."