
Lego Masters star Ryan 'Brickman' McNaught reveals what it's REALLY like working with Hamish Blake
The Lego Masters star has shared the screen with Hamish for the past seven years on the hit Channel Nine game show.
On the cusp of the premiere of Lego Masters' seventh season - Grandmasters of the Galaxy - Ryan opened up about what it's like working with Hamish.
Speaking to Nine, Ryan admitted that, rather than displaying any diva-like behaviour, Hamish has always been incredibly genuine.
'I'm not surprised by how funny he is, because he's exactly the same guy off camera as what he is on camera. So there's nothing hidden from that perspective,' Ryan said.
From A-list scandals and red carpet mishaps to exclusive pictures and viral moments, subscribe to the DailyMail's new showbiz newsletter to stay in the loop.
'He's just incredibly genuine, like he's the same guy, so it makes it pretty easy to go to work I'll be brutally honest.'
The Lego doyenne added that when the pair first met eight years ago, they hit it off instantly, bonding over eerily similar hobbies and interests.
'Whilst I'm creative with Lego from a professional point of view, and he's obviously a comedian and media personality type guy, we both cycle every day to and from the studio,' he said.
'We're both into footy. We both play golf. There's lots of things that we do that are the same, which made for a pretty easy connection, and we have a very similar sense of humour.'
The chemistry has obviously translated successfully to the screen with Lego Masters proving quite the ratings hit for Nine.
The 2024 series finale boasted a national total reach audience of 1.9million viewers - a figure that remained relatively consistent throughout the season with the premiere bringing in 2.2million fans.
Ryan's ringing endorsement comes after Hamish was revealed to be one of the highest-paid TV stars in the country.
The Australian's TV Rich List report, released this week, places the comedian third in the top 35 highest-paid stars list at a formidable $2million.
He trails behind fellow Nine colleagues Scott Cam, who is on $2.4million and Karl Stefanovic who tops the list at an eye-watering $2.8million.
However, the Brickman is nowhere to be seen on the list, with the lowest-placed star, 60 Minutes reporter Amelia Adams bringing in $300,000.
Hamish recently revealed the celebrity interview that changed his life.
The radio star, 42, appeared on the ABC series The Assembly in 2024 and said speaking with billionaire business magnate, Richard Branson, 74, was a life-changing experience.
He recalled a time when he was left stunned by Richard's response to a producer who asked for $1,000 during an interview in 2010 on Hamish & Andy.
Hamish explained he was chatting with Richard on the comedy show he hosted with co-star Andy Lee when producer Jack Post asked the billionaire for some cash.
'Jack basically said to him, "You are a billionaire. Can we just go downstairs to the ATM, can you give me a thousand dollars? It's nothing to you but it will change my month,"' Hamish said.
'[Richard] was like, "I'll tell you what – there's something I'd give you all my money for," and Jack's like, "Really?" and [Richard] goes, 'Your age."'
Hamish went on to say Jack was penniless and 22 at the time while Richard was wealthy and 60, but the Virgin co-founder insisted he would love Jack's life.
'We were like, "What do you mean by that?" and he said, "I'd happily be broke and 22 than a billionaire and 68," or whatever he was at the time,' Hamish explained.
He added: 'It's true. I think that it will be true for all of us. As we get older, you're like, "OK, money's thing in life, a tool that can certainly take some bad situations and discomfort away, but it's not happiness."
'It's nowhere near the exhilaration of getting to live, and all the best stuff is free. I think about that all the time.
'That always stuck with me, that idea that we've got something immediately available to us, that in the future we'd give all our material possessions for.'
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles


Daily Mail
2 hours ago
- Daily Mail
Jay Leno blasts late-night comedy hosts over divisive content as Colbert gets the boot from CBS
Jay Leno is taking aim at modern late-night comedy shows, claiming the hosts are isolating half their viewers in an interview released just days after Stephen Colbert got the boot from CBS. The former Tonight Show host, 75, reflected on the shift in late-night culture during a sit-down interview with Ronald Reagan Presidential Foundation president David Trulio. The candid conversation was taped two weeks ago but was recently shared and quickly circulated online. They spoke openly about comedy, politics and what's changed in the late-night world. Trulio began by mentioning to Leno that his jokes had a reputation of being equally balanced in his time on air. 'I read that there was an analysis done of your work on 'The Tonight Show' for the 22 years and that your jokes were roughly equally balanced between going after Republicans and taking aim at Democrats. Did you have a strategy?' Trulio asked. 'I got hate letters saying, 'You and your Republican friends,' and another saying, 'I hope you and your Democratic buddies are happy' - over the same joke,' Leno said. 'That's how you get a whole audience. Now you have to be content with half the audience, because you have to give your opinion.' 'Rodney Dangerfield and I were friends,' Continued Leno. 'I knew Rodney 40 years and I have no idea if he was a Democrat or Republican. We never discussed politics, we just discussed jokes.' 'I like to think that people come to a comedy show to get away from the pressures of life. I love political humor - don't get me wrong. But people wind up cozying too much to one side or the other.' 'Funny is funny,' Leno said. 'It's funny when someone who's not….when you make fun of their side and they laugh at it, you know, that's kind of what I do.' 'I just find getting out - I don't think anybody wants to hear a lecture,' he continued. 'When I was with Rodney, it was always in the economy of words - get to the joke as quickly as possible.' He criticized comedians who inject their political opinions into every monologue and said he preferred making the whole audience laugh rather than pushing an agenda. 'I don't think anybody wants to hear a lecture … Why shoot for just half an audience? Why not try to get the whole? I like to bring people into the big picture,' he said. 'I don't understand why you would alienate one particular group, you know, or just don't do it at all. I'm not saying you have to throw your support or whatever, but just do what's funny.' His comments come in the wake of Colbert's dramatic departure from The Late Show. A media frenzy engulfed The Late Show after Colbert publicly slammed the CBS show's parent corporation, Paramount Global, for settling a defamation lawsuit with Trump for $16 million, calling it a 'big, fat, bribe,' in his opening monologue. Just days after the searing call-out, Colbert told his studio audience that the network was ending The Late Show in May 2026. Speculation has loomed over why the show was canceled, with A-listers and fellow talk-show hosts coming to the comedian's defense. Colbert won an Emmy for his work on The Colbert Report, a satirical show that ran on Comedy Central from 2005 to 2014. After he replaced David Letterman on The Late Show, the program was nominated for the most Outstanding Talk Series at the Emmys from 2017 to 2022. Meanwhile, other late-night legends have rallied behind Colbert in the wake of his show's cancellation. Jimmy Fallon said: 'I don't like it. I don't like what's going on one bit. These are crazy times,' Fallon said, referencing how 'everybody [was] talking about' the decision. 'And many people are now threatening to boycott the network', he said, setting up another punchline. 'Yeah - CBS could lose millions of viewers, plus tens of hundreds watching on Paramount+.' David Letterman also backed his successor and suggested CBS canceled The Late Show because he was 'always shooting his mouth off' about Donald Trump. The 78-year-old late-night legend created The Late Show in 1993 after NBC denied him the chance to succeed Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. In his first comment on the show's cancellation, Letterman noted that his show was more about political satire than his version of The Late Show but was still complimentary, calling the decision by CBS 'pure cowardice.' 'I think one day, if not today, the people at CBS who have manipulated and handled this, they're going to be embarrassed, because this is gutless,' he told former Late Show producers Barbara Gaines and Mary Barclay.


The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
The moment I knew: he arranged a stay at a motel. In 1969 this was very risque, but I had zero hesitation
I grew up in the bush, and in 1966, as soon as I was old enough, I ran off and joined the navy. I loved the job and was having a ball. Three years in I was offered a rare opportunity to train for a top-secret role at a base in Queensland. Me and the two other girls were to be deployed to Singapore 12 weeks later. That was before my radio broke down. One afternoon, midway through my stay in Queensland, I had some issues with my electronics and called for a technician. I'd expected to get my radio repaired and get on with the day, but then the most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen walked right in and changed the course of my life. John was as cool as a cucumber as he got to work and I was struck dumb, just in awe of this incredibly handsome man. I didn't know how I was going to get him to notice me, but I was determined. A few days later there was a social evening at the base. It was casino themed and I spent the night following John around, making sure I was always in his eyeline. It wasn't the most sophisticated tactic, but it worked. By the end of the evening he'd asked me out. Our first date was seeing Johnny (as he was then) Farnham sing at Lennon's hotel in Toowoomba and it was perfect. We stole as many nights out together as we could over the next six weeks and I was going more and more gaga by the day. As my time at the base came to an end I still wasn't sure if John was as swept away by our romance as me. He always played it so cool. As we approached my last night, he arranged a getaway at Noosa to go surfing together and a stay at a motel. In 1969 this was very risque, but I had zero hesitation. Somewhere in the middle of the night he asked casually: 'What would you say if I asked you to marry me?' If this was a hypothetical question, he had no hope of getting out of it. I flew right off the bed, jumped on top of him and yelled at the top of my lungs: 'Yes, yes, yes!' I didn't give it a second thought. We set the wedding date for October – just a few months later – and I had to request a discharge from the forces; back then women couldn't serve if they were married. The whole time I was back down south John wrote me letters – 30 in all. I still have them. They were so full of love and adoration and excitement about the future we were going to have together. It was like living in a dream. Then it was time for him to drive the 1,700-odd kilometres to Menindee, where I was from – a tiny, one-horse town on the Darling River and 100km out of Broken Hill. As his little red Datsun came up the dirt road, my stomach lurched. For the briefest second I was seized by uncertainty. I couldn't even remember how tall he was. But the moment he stepped out of the car, I fell into his arms and those worries dissolved. The love I felt for him was so overwhelming. I knew this was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I was so smitten with John, there's no doubt we rushed into things. We really knew nothing about each other. It turns out we're exact opposites, but are such a wonderful foil for each other's personalities. I think my lively nature has kept him interested all these years, while his calmness has kept me grounded. Our first child lived for just half an hour, and while it isn't always the case, that terrible time really brought us closer together. When our son and daughter arrived safely in the coming years, I felt like the luckiest mum in the world. At a time when not all husbands were so supportive, John encouraged my desire to study to become a teacher. And just like always, once I knew he had faith in me, I felt I could do anything. To this day I wonder about how I knew, or if it was just amazing luck. But either way I've been married to the love of my life for over 55 years, so my instincts weren't bad. He's still just as gorgeous to me today as he was that afternoon in 1969. Being with John has always felt to me like living under a lucky star – everything seems to work out just how it's supposed to. Do you have a romantic realisation you'd like to share? From quiet domestic scenes to dramatic revelations, Guardian Australia wants to hear about the moment you knew you were in love. Your contact details are helpful so we can contact you for more information. They will only be seen by the Guardian. Your contact details are helpful so we can contact you for more information. They will only be seen by the Guardian.


The Guardian
3 hours ago
- The Guardian
‘I spent a month sleeping in a cupboard': comedians on the true cost of the Fringe
Fringe festivals have always been cash guzzlers, not only for punters but for the performers, whose show costs far outstrip their earnings – and that's not including the money needed to eat, drink and find somewhere to crash. This is just how fringe festivals work. The performers have to pay to book their own venues, and rely on ticket sales to claw back their investment, all in a highly competitive market, with tickets for hundreds of shows a night going on sale. Spiralling costs certainly make performing at fringe festivals seem elitist. But are they really only vanity projects for middle-class comedians bankrolled by their savings, or worse still, the bank of Mum and Dad? Or is living on a diet of Pot Noodles and top-and-tailing with a total stranger all part of the charm? In solidarity with these increasingly cash-strapped performers, I had initially wanted to go to Edinburgh to see if I could attend the world's largest fringe festival without spending a single penny. Unfortunately, things I don't understand, such as 'production times', 'print deadlines' and, erm, 'the passage of time' mean it's not possible for me to attend this year's Edinburgh and have the piece published before it starts. So instead, to test the waters, I've been instructed to head to the Brighton fringe (which celebrates its 20th anniversary this year) with no money to see how long I can survive. I'll also meet working comedians there, who will tell me all about the realities of putting on a show. As for me: although I'm obviously hilarious on paper, I've got no experience as a standup comic, so I'm never going to make any money telling jokes. But can I earn a day's wage handing out flyers and helping out comedians with their day-to-day? I'm about to find out … If you've never been to Brighton, let me sum it up in a word: hilly. I walk (thankfully downhill) past a variety of cafes offering croissants, cakes and full Englishes that make me drool like Homer Simpson. But with no money, I can't even afford a sausage roll from Greggs. I'm stopping at the Theatre Royal to meet the fringe crew and ask them about the difference between a festival and a fringe festival. Brighton fringe and Brighton festival take place at the same time, and it's the same in Edinburgh. I also wonder if they'll have any biscuits. 'A fringe festival means we are an open-access festival, so anyone can take part,' says Brighton fringe festival director Amy Keogh over tea, but disappointingly no Rich Tea. 'We have 819 different shows this year. We don't curate, programme or commission. People have complete creative freedom. Brighton fringe is a charity, so we're not profiting in any way.' 'The fringe attracts up-and-coming comedians trying out new material, but they have to pay to hire the venues. It's a bottom-up approach,' explains Brighton arts marketer Caz Slota. 'The festival operates a more traditional top-down approach, where the venues book established acts and pay them in advance.' Brighton fringe coordinator Sarah French adds: 'We offer bursaries and the option to pay in instalments. We want to create a space where people can be creative and experimental.' The Brighton fringe gang have kindly lined up some comedians to talk to me about the least funny subject of all time: money. I take a seat at the back of the theatre to begin my comedian speed dating, while secretly hoping one of them will take pity on me and buy me a packet of peanuts. Ollie Yates, 28, works as a tree surgeon and is staying with their parents a 30-minute cycle away. Their show, Everyone's Dating Ollie, uses clowning to explore 'how ridiculous polyamory is in the world of modern dating'. 'I was lucky enough to win a £120 bursary,' they say. 'The venue costs £25 a night. I'm doing eight shows. With food, I might just about break even. I'm just here to see what happens.' 'I do this purely for the fun,' says Brad Jon Kane, who lives in nearby Hove and works as a pastry chef. He describes his show, Please Slow Down, as 'a series of slow, low-energy characters, like a cowboy vicar, a mime act and a substitute teacher. The shows are free, then I offer an optional bucket,' he says. 'Once I become a bit more of a name, I'll probably start charging. But I just love a good crowd.' Brighton-based cabaret act Pearl & Dean, both in their early 50s, met at teacher training college. 'The tradition of camp nonsense harks back to when gay people couldn't be out in the 70s. Like our costumes, our marriage is very much lavender,' Marsha Dean says. Their All Aboard! evening has won best new show at this year's Brighton. Even though it's a sellout, they only expect to break even. Unlike Ollie and Brad, Pearl & Dean will also be performing at Edinburgh this year. 'Back in 1994, I took out my third student loan to do Edinburgh,' Peter Pearl remembers. 'I spent £3,000 on accommodation, venue hire, food, travel and publicity, but still had an absolute ball.' With my stomach rumbling, I wonder if there's an ingenious way to make a quick buck flyering at Brighton. Flyering is discouraged for environmental reasons, but it's permitted here in the SpiegelGardens performance venue, where they sell drinks and – yes – food. I head over with my new comedian friends to meet Brighton-based 49-year-old NHS drag performer Sister Brandy Bex, who describes her show as 'a daft, chaotic, comedy cabaret' and has agreed to employ me to flyer on a zero hours, paid-by-performance contract. 'Brighton fringe is the best,' she says, handing me her sandwich board, which disappointingly has no actual sandwiches. 'I take four weeks off work and get totally involved. I did a comedy course during the pandemic and thought: wouldn't it be good to have a nurse character and take the piss out of the NHS?' By day, Bex works as a nurse. But performing at Brighton doesn't come cheap. 'I have to pay the other performers in my cabaret,' she says. 'The year before last, I lost £1,600. Last year, I lost a grand. This year I'll lose maybe £200. So I'm doing better every year.' Back to my flyering job, I ask what exactly I'll have to do. 'Flyering is great for chatting to people,' she continues. A bursary helped pay for her 2,000 flyers. Unfortunately, I'm not great at chatting to people. I'm also so hungry that I skive off to tuck into some pizza crusts I find on a paper plate in the bin. I get busted. It's a case for instant dismissal. Revel Puck Circus have their own tent at Brighton (and also at this year's Edinburgh), featuring 'high-wire walkers, teeterboarders, daring aerial skill and the only female wheel of death in the UK'. Crikey. 'We've got the tent and the props, but the real wow factor comes with the heartwarming moments, like when I get to fly over the audience' says French-Canadian acrobat Arielle. 'Everyone is just so friendly and natural,' adds fellow aerialist Imani from London. 'So we do our best to spread the love.' The circus tours six months of the year, so unlike the comedians I've spoken to, performers such as Arielle and Imani enjoy full-time employment on a proper salary. I've always secretly fancied running away with the circus, but as I'm strapped into a harness and winched into the air to see if I'd make a good acrobat, I'm not sure I've got the head for heights. I spend the rest of the day seeing what else Brighton has to offer: a couple of loose chips on a tray in McDonald's and a bowl of discarded onion rings in Wetherspoons. Ollie Yates kindly puts me on the guest list to their show, but I feel guilty I can't even afford the £10 ticket. Defeated, I take the train home, and think about what a nice vibe Brighton has. Bursaries help with the costs, and everyone helps each other out – something, I'm told, that happens far less in the competitive climate of Edinburgh. My rubbish experiment may be over, but I'm already beginning to understand the financial difficulties comedians face at fringe festivals. No one I spoke to expected to walk away with a profit – simply breaking even seems rare. Brighton tends to attract local comedians, saving them the need to rent somewhere to stay, but spiralling accommodation costs at Edinburgh risks alienating all but the richest comics, as I find out when I chat to comedians performing at this year's fringe. Matt Forde, who brings his show, Defying Calamity, to Edinburgh in August, recently gave evidence in parliament about how hard it is for working-class comedians to break into comedy. 'The reason why Edinburgh is so important, as opposed to, say, Camden, Brighton, Glasgow or Leicester, is that people from all over the world can put on a show and be discovered,' he tells me. 'It has the potential to make careers, but it's so expensive it's not just the working-class comedians who are getting shut out – so are middle-class comedians. If you don't intervene financially, Edinburgh is just going to become more elitist. Then comedy on telly becomes more elitist.' 'The trickiest part is striking a balance between trying to save money and remembering you have to live,' says Glenn Moore, who is bringing his show, Please Sir, Glenn I Have Some Moore?, to Edinburgh. 'I once spent the month sleeping in a cupboard. Another time, I stayed with 15 other people in a three-bedroom flat, sharing a bed with two of them, with about an inch of free space. One of my bed pals was someone I'd never met and haven't seen since.' 'This will be my first time in Scotland,' says US comic Zainab Johnson, who brings her show, Toxically Optimistic, to Edinburgh. 'I searched Airbnb. Flats were listed for over £8,000. I hadn't even looked for flights. As a vegan, I was also warned that I might not enjoy the food. As my show is called Toxically Optimistic, instead of focusing on the negatives, I'm going to lean into the positives. I'll get to see a beautiful country I've never been to. As a black Muslim woman, I look forward to hopefully making people laugh who look nothing like me. If there's no good food, that at least cuts my expenses.' 'My first fringe, I was in my early 20s and properly broke,' says Kate Dolan, set to perform her show The Critic. 'I was in a puppet show. We stayed in a flat, an hour's bus journey away. I shared a bed with another woman, the lads were on the floor, and the puppets had their own room. I'm still a bit of a Del Boy. This year, I'm renting a room, making my own props and will happily eat Pot Noodles for a month.' 'Pursuing an accountancy qualification was potentially the worst decision I could make,' says James Trickey, whose show is fittingly called Don't Count on Me. 'Not because it was immensely dull, but because it made me all too aware of the financial irresponsibility.' 'My first three runs at Edinburgh came while I was working as a locum GP,' says Paul Sinha, of show 2 Sinha Lifetime. 'There was simply no way the contract for a junior hospital doctor was ever going to be elastic enough to allow four consecutive weeks away from the frontline. My first solo show in 2004 was a misjudged affair. After three years as a GP, I'd saved up enough for a 11.15pm slot in one of the hottest rooms in Edinburgh. It wasn't an especially notable show, nobody came, and I lost £5,000. Thanks to medicine, I could just afford miserable failure. But the vast majority are not so lucky.' All this leaves me wondering what the solution might be. One reason accommodation at Edinburgh is even dearer this year is that Oasis and AC/DC are playing the city slap bang in the middle of the festival. Last year, the Marriott hotel advertised a job as a live-in breakfast jester to amuse guests over their Corn Flakes. The position was paid and came with free accommodation. It seems a funny idea, but I also wonder if this sort of thing makes a mockery of comedians, pitching them as performing monkeys who will do anything for money. Then again, I'm a man couldn't even cut it for a day in Brighton. So what do I know?