Outside it's America

For someone who’s widely considered to be this country’s very best stand-up comedian, the normally industrious Tommy Tiernan has been keeping a fairly low profile of late.
There is a reason. The 36-year-old Navan-born, controversialist has his sights set on cracking America. What’s more, the campaign is beginning to take effect.
Having gotten about as big as it’s possible to get on this side of the pond, Tiernan has chosen not to rest on his laurels, but to instead go to the bottom of the American comedy food chain and see if he can make his name over there. For Tiernan, America is his Mecca – not just where it’s at, but where it’s always been at. After all, the US was home to most of his comedy heroes (Bill Hicks, Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor). For the 1998 Perrier Award winner not to dip his toes into the Stateside scene and be judged by his peers would be something akin to a rock band being content to boast about being “big in Japan.” Or so his press release says.
Jokerman – Tommy Tiernan Takes On America is a new documentary television series which tells the story of his U.S. invasion to date. Filmed and produced by Galway-based Power Pictures (the same company behind his last foray onto the small screen, the critically acclaimed Supertramp – Tommy Tiernan’s Walking Tour of Ireland), it follows him on a two-year journey which takes him from playing the biggest venues in Ireland and the UK to gigging as a ten-minute opening act in the small comedy clubs of cities like New York, Washington DC, Texas and LA. Or from virtually ubiquitous to virtually anonymous.
RTE will screen the first three episodes of Jokerman, beginning on RTE 2 on Monday, 8th of May, and running for three consecutive weeks. In the autumn, after he’s performed his full-length stand-up show in New York this summer, they’ll repeat the first three, with the fourth and final episode as a denouement.
So the pressure’s really on, but you wouldn’t think it today. It’s a sun-drenched Thursday afternoon in Salthill. Tommy greets me with a grin on the seafront balcony of the Galway Bay Hotel. He seems to be in fine fettle. He’s got the shades on – but, once we get stuck into this interview, it becomes obvious that the gloves are off.
OLAF TYARANSEN: When I interviewed you just over two years ago, you told me that you had absolutely no interest in ever making it in America. You’ve obviously changed your mind.
TOMMY TIERNAN: I haven’t changed my mind – I’ve evolved. Ha, ha! Yeah, I really worked hard in Ireland over the past two or three years. I was gigging maybe six or seven times a week – as in, I was gigging four nights a week, but maybe doing seven shows. It was kind of relentless. I went straight from Cracked and then had about six weeks to come up with Loose. So there was no real break or anything like that. I did a lot of driving, a lot of bad cups of tea in service stations, a lot of late night tramping across the country, a lot of desserts in hotels – the sweet tooth [pats stomach and smiles] – a lot of hard work and a lot of sweaty places. So I came to the end of Loose, which we more or less finished with a gig down in Cork in front of 5,000 people.
That was a huge crowd.
It was incredible. Stand-up very, very rarely gets to feel like rock ‘n’ roll. Because stand-up is small and you don’t have the paraphernalia. But that Cork gig was the one time in my life where I was going, "This is what it must feel like." The stage was set up for bands, so it was impressive. And coming off stage you went down this huge stairs, out the back of the marquee to the dressing rooms. I came offstage and someone threw a towel around my shoulders!
Oh, very rock ‘n’ roll!
Yeah! I’m sure I’ve seen it in a U2 documentary. Ha, ha! But anyway, I’d come to the end of that cycle. And I knew I didn’t want to go straight into writing another show and going on another Irish tour. So I was wondering what to do. So I took a little break – three or four months off. And I found the idea of England quite boring and uninspiring. So then I thought of America. Why not go to these small comedy clubs, where nobody knows your name, and make it exciting again? And America’s much more thrilling than...[pauses]
Than?
Em... than we’d like their government to know. Ha, ha! No, that was it really. It was just to keep it exciting, and to try and keep on having an interesting work life. And with only a vague sense of destination. Because I think that if you’re over-concerned about where you’re gonna end up... You know, 99% of your time is gonna be spent on the journey. I know that’s very Middle Earth talk, but...
The journey is the thing...
It really is, you know. And you have to enjoy each part of what you’re doing. So I’m really, really enjoying doing the American comedy clubs. I just did three weeks in Los Angeles.
I thought you looked kind of tanned.
Oh, really? That might be Salthill, you never know. Salthill is the LA of Ireland. Venice Beach! Ha, ha! I know that the hook behind the documentary is me trying to make it over there. And the idea behind going over there is trying to end up in a situation where I can go and tour in the States, and where enough people will turn up so that it’ll be lucrative, I suppose, and enjoyable and I will feel like a success. That’s where it might end up – but it may not end up there. But I’m really, really enjoying just doing these comedy clubs. There’s an energy in the comedy clubs. The first two I played in New York were kind of small and empty...
I saw from the documentary that there were a couple of people eating a meal right in front of the stage and totally ignoring you.
They’ve no manners, you know. You either grab them or you don’t. And you become used to that. You can’t take that personally. You go up and do your stuff and it’s all [starts noisily tapping a spoon off his coffee cup] and there’s a waitress going past taking orders off people. But that’s nothing to do with you. That’s the business of the venue. In the third episode we did comedy clubs in Nebraska, Texas, Washington DC and Pittsburgh. And they were fantastic.
Are you performing in front of many Irish people?
No, these are American comedy club audiences who’ve come to see the main act, and have no idea I’m even on the bill. I’m doing ten minutes and it’s just fantastic. It’s thrilling, you know. When I started off in Ireland, you’d do ten minutes in the International or be invited down to Cork to do twenty minutes. It has that sense of excitement about it. Brilliant!
Have you died on stage over there?
I have died actually – but then I rose again on the third day. Ha, ha! I died in one of the New York clubs. They were so not interested in what I was doing that it was kind of a beautiful, peaceful death. Stuff I was saying wasn’t that funny, they weren’t that interested, nobody seemed to mind. So it wasn’t like a sense of failure that made everybody awkward. They were just like, "Here’s somebody we have no time for. Let’s do other stuff while he’s talking." And I just talked and I finished and then I said, "Thank you very much and goodnight," and they kinda went "Alright, yeah."
Did you not feel like throwing a strop and shouting, "Don’t you fuckers know who I am?"
Ah, no. But I do sometimes feel bad for any Irish people in the audience. If there’s an Irish person there, in amongst the 12 Mexicans, and I’m not doing very well, I always think from the Irish person’s point of view. They must be going, "Wow! I never realised that he was actually shit!" Ha, ha!
Your American agent and tour manager both seem very driven.
Oh yeah! But that’s their business. They’re exactly what it says on the tin, aren’t they? Americans, and the American style of comedy, is very upfront. American comedy is all about boiling it down to the most economical way of saying things. American stand-up is very sharp. There’s no fat. It’s very pointed, there’s no waffle. Same in business. That’s what makes them interesting to talk to. They just bang it out [clicks fingers]. We’re more general. We ramble.
Less rehearsed.
Yeah. I did some work in America a few years ago on a sit-com. And they actually think we’re depressed. There’s a psychotic pressure in America to be happy. And to appear to be happy. Which is why there’s the whole "Have a nice day!" thing. And it’s all about projecting. Projecting happiness. And if you project enough, it might become a reality. At the same time, they go home at night and watch these TV shows which are all about fucking murder and rape. Hollywood is the biggest death factory since... the Nazis! Ha, ha!
We’re very suspicious of happy people.
Incredibly happy people are actually uncomfortable to be around. They don’t have an energy that fits in with the general melancholic air in Ireland. But the business people are easy to deal with. Our attitude is more, "Ah yeah, sure we’ll do that." But they’re "SO EXCITED!’ Or "IT’S GONNA BE GREAT! IT’S GONNA BE GREAT!" And I’m going, "Ah yeah, sure we’ll give it a go anyway." "IT’S GONNA BE GREAT!" And you wonder, are they going, "What the fuck is wrong with these Irish? Why aren’t they up for it?" But this is the Old World and we’re entitled to our prejudices.
You’ve a reputation for taking risks. But taking risks in Ireland is a lot different to taking risks in the States. Do you think you’ll be able to handle controversy there?
Well, the impulse in the stand-up will always be the same, and that’s not gonna change, no matter where I am. I haven’t really thought about it much. Tommy Tiernan trying to be funny is the way I always try to be funny. It’s curious to me, the reactions of different groups of people in America. The blue collar places – Pittsburgh, Omaha – they’ll laugh at anything. They’re fellas who’ve been working all day. They wanna go for a few beers, they don’t care what you’ve said. If it was funny – they’ll laugh. Sex, religion, whatever. The white liberals in California, they’re a bit different. They’re a bit more... almost like a Galway crowd would be a few years ago. You’d play Cork and people would just laugh. But it was almost as if Galway had notions about itself. So, it was as if Californians weren’t out to have fun, they were out to consider ideas. And if your ideas were funny, fine. But one thing that Californians do is they say, "That’s really funny," and yet, they’re not laughing – [American accent] "That’s soo funny, that’s rilly funny." So say I do stuff about the Indians and the Jews to the Californians. They’re kind of confused about it – where are you going with this? We’re not sure if this is appropriate.
What about black audiences?
They hated the religious stuff. Sex, family, children – they love it. Any notion of trying to get a laugh about Christ and they were actually looking away. They just didn’t want to know. There’d be a table with a guy and his wife. And the wife would be looking away. And the husband would be eyeballing me, kinda going, "Are you really going to continue with this for much longer?"
You did say that you preferred playing in front of black audiences.
Apart from the religious stuff, there’s a definite connection there. Maybe it’s a sense of family and the awareness of religion, and maybe some kind of historical thing of oppression, I don’t really know. So yeah, the black thing was really interesting to me.
I don’t need to ask your opinion on George Bush. I heard you calling him a ‘cunt’ on stage at the Radisson at the Galway Comedy Festival recently.
Did I? Oh yeah. That was interesting, on another kind of level. The material I did about Bush. I kind of lost the energy of it halfway through, but it was almost like it wasn’t that interesting to an Irish audience. It’s kinda like... [shrugs]. They much preferred it when I was talking about stuff that they could relate to. Like the one about your mother and father riding at night.
Actually, I was wondering how your parents feel about you doing a routine about their sex life.
My father has seen the show. Em, he didn’t mention it. Ha, ha!
In Jokerman, when you’re comparing job-stress levels between you and your dad [an agricultural advisor], you say that he’s at his happiest when he’s pissing into hedges with farmers.
He loves it! That’s what he lives for! Pissing into hedges with farmers!
Your cousin, Eleanor Tiernan, was on the bill with you that night. She also did a routine involving shouting out her dad’s name while she was having sex. So what’s all that about?
Ah, it’s just a Tiernan thing, you know. Ha, ha! No, I think Eleanor’s great actually. That night she started off with a character thing – about the ‘Normal Olympics’ – which didn’t really work that night. But once she started doing her stand-up, it was really clever. People were really getting it. But she’s great.
There’s a scene in the documentary where you read out a particularly vicious poison pen letter someone sent you. Do you get a lot of hate mail?
I don’t usually. But after the last Late Late Show, there were phone calls to my parents’ house. There were phone calls to the police station in Navan looking for my address. Which just shows the stupidity that you’re dealing with. Imagine phoning the cops – "Hiya, do you know where this guy lives because I wanna kill him."
Were the callers to your parents’ house threatening to kill you?
Oh completely, yeah. "Your son is a scumbag. He’s gonna get what’s coming to him." Stuff like that.
How did they react?
My parents were out, and it went onto the answering machine. But they phoned back and my brother took the call. So I phoned the police station and told them who I was and what had happened. And they said, "Oh, that’s funny now, because we had somebody from Tipperary calling here, looking for your address." But there was nothing they could do about it. But I do sometimes get email stuff. And every now and again, very, very rarely, you get somebody on the street – somebody eyeballing you or something like that. Generally, being well-known in Ireland is actually very pleasant. It’s only a hassle if you’re in Supermac's at two in the morning. Then, you might as well put yourself on a spit and be rotated for the general amusement of whoever’s there. But most of the time it’s actually really nice.
It might be a bit different if you become well-known in America.
It’s been my experience that people who get offended at my stuff are really in the minority. The last Late Late Show complaint thing, there were 300 complaints out of a viewing audience of something like 450 thousand. But they make a huge amount of noise. And I’d imagine that it’s the same in America. While I was there, I didn’t meet a dumb American. Everybody that I met was witty, sarcastic, intelligent.
Yeah, but you were probably hanging out with comedians all the time.
Ah, no! Ha, ha! But there are comics in America who do stuff that’s much more wild than my stuff. And they make a good living, you know. I think we have a notion of America as being the government sometimes. The government is conservative, the government is reactionary. But not all of the people are.
You called an American audience fat, didn’t you?
Yeah, but they loved it! They loved it! I went on and said, "You’re very nice people, but you’re the fattest fuckers on Earth!" And they were going [oinky laugh] "HA! HA! HA! HA!" Fucking twenty fucking chins clapping. They loved it. So stuff like that would say to me, "These people do like you. And you can take the piss out of them."
There’s another scene where you were talking about 9/11 onstage in New York. You weren’t exactly joking about it, but you were joking about not joking about it.
That was a gig in front of about 13 people, and I was panicking. So I decided to abandon whatever material that I had, and just talk to these people. And again, my impulse is always to go to where there’s tension and try to get a laugh out of that. So 9/11 was the most obvious thing. It’d be like being asked to do a gig in Germany now and kicking off with, "So... the Jews." Ha, ha! Do you know? But that’s what I drift towards, that kind of tension, you know.
Do you do that offstage as well?
Ah no, sure I’m very different. I don’t curse that much when I’m offstage. When I do, I’m really angry. So no, I don’t think so.
Your stated stand-up heroes are people like Bill Hicks, Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor. All guys who really lived on the edge...
Yeah, they did [nods].
But someone told me that you’ve just given up coffee.
I gave up coffee, yeah. I’m no craic. Ha, ha!
You still off the booze?
I’ve had no inclination. I do think that drink is a great adventure. And I think there can be wisdom in the drinking life. But everybody sails their own boat so I just reached a stage where I said, "Okay, I’ve done it." I had a decision to make. I was gonna keep drinking or I was going to lose a lot. Do you understand?
No.
Oh yeah. Ha, ha! That was an interesting Freudian slip, wasn’t it? I was gonna keep drinking or lose a lot – so I decided to lose a lot! Ha, ha!
You were going to keep drinking or lose a lot of drinking time!
Yeah! Ha, ha!
Did it get heavy for you?
I was a binge drinker. I wouldn’t drink all the time, but I’d go on fairly heavy binges after gigs.
What’s a heavy binge to you?
Ehhhhhh... I woke up in hospital one time. No idea how I got there.
Were you physically damaged in any way or had you just been pumped?
Yeah. I had a cut head and a drip in my arm. But this is the hero that I am. I remember arriving at an early house at seven in the morning. And I was flying! And I have a vague notion of leaving the pub – but I’m not very clear about it – and I woke up in the hospital, and I’d a cut on my head. And I’d no recollection of having got there. And I remember a doctor asking me a few questions, and I’d a drip in my arm and stuff like that. And I looked at the clock and it was half-past-two in the afternoon. Then I had a bit of a snooze and I woke up at five. And I got up out of bed, took the drip out of my arm, left the hospital, and did a show that night. There are other much more humiliating incidents than that that I won’t go into. But I got a couple of warnings. Like I wouldn’t be able to have a few pints during the day. Once I’d started drinking, I would drink to comatose time. And something like that would happen maybe... a good few times a month. I remember reading about Bob Dylan after he fell off his motorbike. He was doing heroin and amphetamines, and the way he phrased it was that he was sitting in Woodstock looking at the trees and he realised that something had to change. And so he said, "okay". And that was the same with me. I knew I had to change so I did.
Did you go for help?
No.
Does Yvonne [McMahon, girlfriend] drink?
She does a little bit, but she wouldn’t drink to excess or anything like that. And I enjoy being around drinkers. I enjoy pubs and everything like that.
When was the last time you had a drink?
Em... I won’t go into the last time I had a drink. That’ll be my secret. I remember I interviewed Christy Moore as part of the radio show and I asked him what was the last drink he had. And he said it was a pint of sherry. And I said to him, "What happened that made you give it up?" and he said, "That’s my secret!" Ha, ha! But I don’t miss drink really.
How about spliff?
I was never a big dope smoker. I was never a big fan of things that slowed me down.
You were quite fond of things that sped you up, though.
Yeah. But those were things that, again, it was an adventure and stuff like that. I have a 12-year-old son and I presume that, in years to come, he is gonna be curious about everything and I just hope that he is blessed with good fortune and wisdom. That if he does dabble in stuff like that, he’ll have the grace to come out the other side of it. Because a lot of people don’t. So I hope he comes out of it. Of course, I hope he doesn’t do it, but like every parent I... Em, every river has rapids, you know, and you wanna get to the far side of them.
How much coffee were you drinking?
I was drinking about six or seven espressos a day and a few of those would be doubles. So that was a real rush. It sounds like such a pansy drug, but it’s really not. They tested it on spiders. They gave dope to spiders, and they designed these beautiful webs, and then they gave caffeine to spiders and the webs were like smashed glass. So it has a mad effect on you. So I kicked that. But I’ll always drink coffee. I’ll always give it up for a couple of months and then I’ll start again.
You used to have a really great espresso machine at home.
There’s cobwebs all over that now. Very nice, beautifully designed cobwebs. Ha, ha!
Do you treat yourself much?
Em... I do, yeah. I shop a lot. Cars and stuff like that. Ha, ha!
Well, by all accounts, you’ve become filthy rich since our last interview!
I’m very wealthy, but it’s not an unending wealth. It’s like having a really good summer job, and you’re loaded for the summer. But you know that unless you keep the job up during the winter, you’ll be fucked for Christmas! Ha, ha! But things are great now.
So you’re not an astute investor then? No expanding property portfolio?
No. I’ve never felt very comfortable with the idea of owning houses – other houses – and then renting them out. It just doesn’t sit well with me. I guess what I don’t like is the idea of being a landlord. But I’m really enjoying the money.
How long were you on the dole?
Seven years. I was thinking about it the other day. I get to stay in all these really, really posh hotels, and I was starting to feel a bit guilty about it. And then I said, "Well, hang on – you’ve done the poverty thing. So now you’re doing the money thing. Go ahead and enjoy it. And it won’t be like this forever, so try and knock as much craic out of it as you possibly can."
Is money a big factor in your ambition to make it big in America?
I’m genuinely more interested in the idea of being able to fill a big room. Like if I could do Vicar Streets across America. I’d love that. And the feeling of that is much more important to me than any amount of money. I’m very bad with money. I shop a lot. Like I’ve got thousands of CD’s and fucking I-Tunes up to the hilt, you know.
Do you give much to charity?
Yeah, I do. Actually, I do. Again in a very... Em, I try to be flippant with it. I remember reading somewhere that money is an energy. And I know people who become very stressed out by having lots of money, because they worry about investing it and stuff like that. But I try to enjoy it, really. I lived for so long when money wasn’t important and, in some respects, it’s not important now either – but from a different perspective. The money you can earn from stand-up in this country is ridiculous. For one person you can get between ten and twenty grand a night.
Although you do tell an American comedian in Jokerman that Ireland is really only big enough for fifteen comedians to make a proper living.
Yeah, but that’s about right, isn’t it? About fifteen or twenty. But the money thing doesn’t... Em, it’s a good luxury.
Who do you rate as the best of your fellow Irish stand-ups?
I saw Des [Bishop] doing a show in the King’s Head as he was warming up for his TV show, which I thought was one of the best things that I’d seen in two or three years. I will always rate Dylan Moran – I think Dylan is, em, fingered with genius. Ha, ha! Dara [O’Briain] I think is doing really great work. I don’t really know too much about people who’re up and coming. I like Eleanor. I think she’s caustic and, again, she’s not afraid of shocking people. Another guy I like is Patrick McDonnell. And Dave O’Doherty who toured with me. I was actually blown away by some of his work. So it’s all the D’s really are my favourite people – Dara, Dave, Des and Dylan. Oh – and Deirdre [O’Kane].
What did you think of Des’s accidental “outing” of Derek Mooney?
That was scandalous. It’s slowly being revealed to us, the nature of the tabloids. They were dying to out Derek Mooney – dyin’ to. And Des shat in the jax and they flushed it down, you know. Ha, ha! We have a problem in this country with the tabloid press. I think the tabloids are the new Church. They decide who’s guilty and who’s innocent, and who’s behaving correctly, and who isn’t. And they decide who ought to be punished. And they create hysteria. If they decide that somebody is deserving of harassment then they will harass them. There’s not much difference between going into a newsagents every day and seeing headlines about particular people, and 50 years ago going into a church and hearing a priest give out about them. It’s such an unbalanced, wicked thing they’re doing. How do you fight back against them? I remember the last time we talked, I gave out about the Mirror, and when the interview appeared they decided to fuck me.
But that doesn’t hurt you, really, does it?
No, it doesn’t, really. But I think they’re arseholes. I think they’re cowardly. I think they’re scumbags. I hate them. I fucking hate them! I hate what they’re doing in our country. The reason why is the editors of these newspapers answer to the owners – and it’s all about selling things. There isn’t even a code of behaviour – there’s just a vague sense of what is and what is not a tabloid story. And if something happens – like, say, the Des thing or anything – they decide it’s a tabloid story and usually it’s negative gossip bullshit, you know. It wouldn’t take much for a whole host of wonderful new editors to come in and just change the nature of it.
But that isn’t likely to happen...
I’m not entirely sure what I want to say. I haven’t been able to formulate my anger into a coherent sentence. No, I hate them. I’d love to punch them. I’d love to kick the shit out of some of the tabloid journalists. I’d fucking love to [holds up clenched fists]. Oh, I fantasise about harming them! I really do. About fucking hittin’ them and punchin’ them. Coming up to them in a nightclub and saying, "Do you remember that story you wrote about me?" And they go, "Yeah." And knowing that that’s the last thing they’ll ever remember. Ha, ha!
So what papers do you ‘take’?
The Star is kind of alright, in a few ways. It’s not as bad as the other ones. But again, they hopped on that Des thing. And they’re dying to out people.
Just while we’re on the subject, have you ever had a gay experience?
I had a gay experience when I was about seven, when myself and a friend called Mark Owen kissed each other. Either he was trying to teach me how to French-kiss or I was trying to teach him – but one of us knew. But I think both of us were highly unimpressed with it. Em, I was on a sleepover in his house, and I remember it happening. And then I remember I was drinking with him about 20 years later. And he was working over in England and he’d come to see a show and we were in this hotel. And I pride myself on being a really good pool player, you know, and I was always better than Mark. But the two of us were hammered. And we were playing one last game and he said, "I’m gonna beat you," and I laughed and said, "No way! If you beat me, I promise I’ll run around this hotel in the fucking nip!" And he did beat me, and I ran around the hotel naked. I can’t remember where it was. Anyway we were laughing about it. And then he said, "Do you remember the time we were seven and we kissed?" And I said, "No!" Ha, ha!
So was that it? I remember you telling an audience member at a show you did in Athlone a couple of years back that you’d recently shoved a silver dildo up your arse, which surely indicates some curiosity?
Ah, no. That’s just one exploring one’s own body with, em, a manner of implement. Sure, having a bowel movement is doing something with your arse – and that’s not considered gay. Ha, ha!
How do you rate the Progressive Democrats?
I don’t understand how a party that has so little a mandate has so much power. I think that’s wrong. Like a lot of people, I don’t trust McDowell. I’m not entirely sure why. And I don’t trust the PDs either. I’d never vote for them.
Did you hear that Colm O’Gorman has just joined them?
Right – so the PDs are literally a fucking gathering of the wounded. And they want revenge! Ha, ha!
What do you make of Sinn Fein?
I don’t trust them either. No, I don’t trust them at all. They probably do great work in communities, but I think my impression is that each of those communities will probably pay a bit of a price for that.
If you were to join a political party in this country, which one would it be?
The Greens, I think. I think we’re really close to being fucked ecologically – really close to it. Especially living here [in Salthill], when you’re hearing about the sea levels rising by four feet in the next twenty or thirty years. I genuinely think that we’re screwed. I don’t know too much about it – I’d be the same as a lot of people. But there are interesting days ahead, aren’t there? It’s really scary. And things never go the way we predict them to.
Do you welcome Eamon Casey back to Galway?
I think it would be a great thing if he could just get on with it. He is getting on with it, you know. Let him off. I’ve no real desire to see him harangued.
Do you despise the Catholic church?
You know, I’m actually giving a talk about spirituality tonight in Cuba [Galway nightclub], organised by the Franciscans. But no, I don’t, because theoretically I think it’s an amazing idea.
When’s the last time you went to mass?
The last time I went to mass? Em, I went to a religious service in America actually. This guy called Joel Osteen. Again, it’s in the third episode of this thing. It’s based in Houston in Texas and they have a Friday night service which gets 22,000 people in. The church is going so well that they’ve bought the basketball arena off the Houston Rockets. And the basketball team moved and this place is full on Friday nights. They get about 5,000 people on a Saturday. But that was the last mass I went to.
Did you hear about the church that’s using U2 lyrics as part of their service?
Yeah. Bob Dylan lyrics now you could understand. Or a bit of Leonard Cohen. Nick Cave, even. But U2?
Not a Bono fan then?
Ah, no – I think Bono’s great. I read that book of interviews with him recently [Bono On Bono by Michka Assayas] and I was really, really impressed by the Bono who came across there. Like Eddie Izzard, he’s somebody who’s not afraid of the big idea, and launching himself for it. And if it fails, it fails, but the excitement and the thrill is going for it. No, I actually think about Bono a lot. I’m very curious about him.
Have you met him?
I’ve met him a couple of times, but only very briefly. You know, "Hiya – who’re you?" Ha, ha! But I’m very interested in him as a man, and some of the stuff that he does repels me, and some of the stuff I find very interesting.
What stuff repels you?
I couldn’t be specific, but I guess... Do you know the way sometimes you see something in the papers and you go, "Ah, would you ever shut up, you twit!" But I do like him. I think he’s a fantastic... Em, I’d be bewitched by him, maybe. The stuff they’ve achieved is phenomenal. I fantasise about walking across deserts with people. There are people that I wonder if I had to walk across the desert with that person, and the two of us spent a month where we were forced to know each other, what it’d be like to have to do that. I’d love to do it with Bob Dylan. Our lives don’t offer us the opportunity to get to spend time with people we’re really interested in. But I’d love to do that with Bono. More than the other three. What’re their names again? Ha, ha!
Are you a fan of Podge and Rodge?
I was watching them just before I came here to meet you, believe it or not. I’d recorded it.
Would you go on?
I asked them could I go on and they said they’d got the last two shows booked up, but they’d have me again.
When’s the last time you cried?
I cried at Anfield singing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ when Liverpool played Benfica.
I wouldn’t have had you down as a soccer fan!
I’m a season ticket holder at Anfield this year.
Is that because of your son?
No, it’s for me. I’ve been a Liverpool fan since 1977. Since they lost the FA cup final to Man United. But I’m a big Liverpool fan. So that’s the last time I wept.
When’s the last time you wept for a real reason?
Em... [long pause]. That’s a real reason! Ha, ha!
When’s the last time you threw a punch?
I threw a punch about a week and a half ago at kick-boxing. I was sparring with a guy a week and a half ago, and I threw a box.
Is that a new thing?
Yeah. I did it in America and I decided when I came back that I’d keep it up here. So three mornings a week I go out to this guy in the Ballybane Industrial Estate – a guy called Pete Foley, who runs the Black Dragon Kickboxing Club in Galway. It’s great! The one disconcerting thing about it was when we started off, he kept talking about streetfighting. You know, "If you’re in a street fight you should do this." But no, it’s great.
I saw you contributed to the Flann O’Brien documentary on RTE recently. What did you think of the finished film?
I thought it was quite serious for something on somebody who was very funny.
What did you think of the old footage of the drunken interview he gave to Conor Cruise O’Brien?
God almighty! There’s an amazing thing, isn’t there, between a person and their work? That he can create this. You know enough about Flann O’Brien from his work. You know the type of person he is. There is no need to meet him. And this goes back to the celebrity thing we were talking about before. We know what Nick Cave is like from his work. We know what Philip Roth is like. We know what Bono is like. But we still have a curiosity to meet the person behind it. And I guess our curiosity with Flann O’Brien was sated – and it was actually unpleasant to see him like that. Because he was fucking brilliant – a genius.
What keeps you awake at night?
Foreign movies keep me up at night. Last night was a documentary about Werner Herzog and Klaus Kinski called My Best Fiend. That kept me up last night.
Finally, do you have a motto in life?
Seek and ye shall find.