I didn’t know Michael Colgan from Adam before we sat down for this exclusive interview. I had been told, by theatre insiders, that he was loud, full of himself and wouldn’t let you get a word in edge–ways. The man I met defied that stereotype completely. I liked him a lot.

Originally from the South Circular Road, he grew up around the corner from Gay Byrne and Brendan Grace and went to school in the Christian Brothers in James Street. He may subsequently have flown high in the world of the arts, but – as readers will see – he never really lost touch with those working class roots.

Regardless of what you might think of him, the legacy of his 35 years with the Gate Theatre is a rich one. He pulled what was a faded Dublin theatrical institution out of the proverbial fire – and in the process brought the likes of Samuel Beckett out of the wilderness and into the mainstream. One of his great achievements was filming those 19 wonderful stage plays, with directors of the calibre of Neil Jordan, artist Damien Hirst, John Crowley, Anthony Minghella and Patricia Rozema behind the cameras, and the likes of John Hurt, David Kelly, Michael Gambon, Julianne Moore and Kirsten Scott Thomas turning in stellar performances. It could also be said that he helped to rejuvenate Harold Pinter’s career, helping him to scoop a Nobel Prize in the process.

As the interview winds up, the 66–year–old quips, “This will be my very last interview.”

Unless you write a no–hold barred memoir, I say. There’s clearly a twinkle in his eyes at the suggestion. But this interview will have to do for now...

Jason O’Toole: What’s your earliest memory?

Michael Colgan: I was born into a spotlight! I was premature. So, they went down to the Coombe. The nurse said, ‘Oh no! We are full out the door’. It was an extraordinary coincidence. They had mattresses on the floor.

Sounds like nothing has changed!

My granny – a really strong Dublin woman – did a number and said, ‘No grandson of mine is being born on the floor! He’s going to be born in a bed in my house’. They sent a junior doctor up to the house. He was jet black. No one had seen a black man in Dublin before 1950. And when he got in the door, the lights went out. They went out all the time in Dublin then. So, they had a torch and some candles. My mother’s younger brother was instructed to stand in the corner of the room with a torch over the shoulder – so, I was actually born into a spotlight!

A perfect start to a career in theatre!

I know. And there was no theatre or anything in my family. It was just a coincidence.

Your parents didn’t have much money – so it was a big moment when you became the first family member to attend university.

I remember being with my Dad, as a child, passing Trinity and there was a guy with a jockey cap. I said, ‘Can we go in there?’ and I remember him saying, ‘We’re not allowed. You have to be a Protestant and you have to be a student’. And I said, ‘What’s that then?’ And he said, ‘Oh, you have to be very clever’. And then I got my Leaving. I rang him and he said, ‘You have done well. What do you want to do’? And I said, ‘I want to go to Trinity’. He said, ‘You’ll get excommunicated because you have to get permission from John Charles’. And I said, ‘If they excommunicate me I’m not going to turn up for the ceremony’. He said, ‘No. It’s automatic!’ I said, ‘I’ll take that chance’.

Growing up, how important was chasing girls and sex for you?

It was huge. I had a very big libido! I loved women – I still love women. My first girlfriend was from first year at Trinity. She’s still alive. We still send birthday cards and Christmas cards to each other. She lives in London.

So you would’ve been 18 when you lost your virginity?

Yeah, yeah.

Would popping your cherry at 18 have been seen as a big deal back then?

No. In 1968/69, the Pill had just been invented and we were between syphilis and gonorrhea – and HIV/AIDS. So, there was no real threat of sexually transmitted diseases. And the thing was, posters around Trinity and other universities had this big slogan because of Vietnam: Make Love Not War. So, making love was a cool thing to do: to have sex with someone was good because you were making love not war. It was all about peace. It was all about loving. So in that sense, it was a great time. The moon landing had just happened and ‘69. The Beatles had just walked across Abbey Road. The Rolling Stones played Hyde Park in London in ‘69. I was at it. It was a very good time.

Have you ever tried marijuana?

In college I didn’t drink, eat meat, fish, or eggs. I didn’t do it to be cool or a vegetarian. I was just like that since I was a kid. A reluctant hippie, I once tried marijuana – it made me very ill, so I believe I’m allergic to it. I became a little bit hippy. A bit of a guru. And then there was all the stuff with the Maharishi going on with the Beatles. Mysticism. Vegetarianism.

What happened to the first girlfriend?

I went up to see her in Harrogate in the summer of 1969. And her parents took an immediate dislike to me. They forced her, in a way, to give me up. She dumped me.

Where you heartbroken?

I was absolutely distraught. I was a teenage cliché. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Of course, she was not the most beautiful woman. She is a beautiful woman, but she wasn’t going to be a Vogue model. But I thought she was and that’s the way it is when you fall in love. You think, ‘Every man seeing her walking past them on the street wanted to jump on her!’ I had fallen helplessly in love.

Apart from her parents disliking you, did she give any reason?

She said, ‘Are we going to just spend every day together for the next four years in Trinity – not join any societies and not do this and not do that?’ It made perfect sense. I didn’t believe it at the time, but she was right. And then when she left, it was that summer when we went back into Freshers week in second year, that I joined Players. And then I became chairman of that.

Did others look down on you at Trinity because of your working class accent?

Trinity wasn’t an easy place for somebody like me. There was a lot of snobbery. But, at the same time, Trinity as a university was a very welcoming place. And I love that. Trinity was the making of me.

Before you joined The Players, you were a bit of a card shark.

I paid my way through college by playing. But I wasn’t at the high table all the time. I was there a couple of times. But I was doing a steady, earning around 12 quid a week.

That would’ve been a week’s wages back then…

Yes, it was. I was doing really well. I was playing the numbers game. I wasn’t bluffing. But I had a dreadful run of luck and I had three two-shilling pieces – florins they were called – and I needed to go into the loo, which was just where Trinity Players were. And somebody was giving out free biscuits.

So you joined The Players for the free grub!

It could’ve been the Elizabethan Society; the Theological Society; the Boat Club: it could’ve been anything. But I went downstairs into Trinity Players– and there was a girl I fancied. They were all posh.

Did these posh types turn you off?

Some of them tried to give me a bit of discouragement over the accent and things. Anyway, I went on. I fancied this girl and I came back. And then I put my name up to get a part. So I got the part. The part consisted of walking from here to the door and back with a wooden rifle. The other black shirt – we were supposed to be the heavies – was Paul McGuinness.
Neither of us ever got to grips with the acting! We were pretty good at looking fierce! And we were for the rest of our careers!

I heard you two weren’t the best of mates…

McGuinness and I became sort of enemies. I went there with his girl and we were in the play together. I went on a few innocent dates with Kathy Gilfillan, but she wasn’t having any of it. She started dating Paul McGuinness, married him, is still married to him and they remain my closest friends. I was staying with them in the South of France for Easter.

Why did Paul take an initial dislike to you?

I told him he couldn’t act! And then the following year he decided to become Chairman. And he went around telling people he’d pay for the membership for Trinity players if they voted for him (laughs). And it was five shillings he was dishing out. They voted for me. So I became Chairman of the Players.

Who else was involved?

James Morris, who founded TV3. He’s brilliant. Paolo Tullio was there too. For Christmas, we did a Robin Hood play. He was my best friend. We both wrote it and I directed it. It was very funny. Paolo played Robin as a gay. There was a sign saying, Robin’s Camp! And underneath somebody had written, ‘No, he isn’t!’ and ‘Where is Robin?’ ‘He’s out riding. Horseback’ ‘No, not yet!’ Terrible jokes. It became a huge hit.

And was Paul McGuinness in the mix?

McGuinness was trying to act – he couldn’t act for toffee. I decided to make it difficult for McGuinness. We made him play a Frenchman. And we said, ‘You have to get the French accent.’ He kept trying it. And I said, ‘No. You better work on it.’ And then when Paolo and I were writing the script – we’d get him to say ‘round the ragged rock!’ ‘What’s this? Paul said. I said,‘It’s part of the fucking plot’. He said, ‘No, it’s not. You’re throwing in Rs for me because I have to do the French thing!’

You met the love of your life with The Players.

Susan (Fizgerald). And she was the best actress around. Paolo Tullio was the best actor, without any question.

Was it love at first sight?

She was (the type to be) going out with Belgian dukes! Anyway, I don’t know what she was doing with me! I wasn’t her physical type. We were mates for a bit. In our final year, we decided to do an essay together – and that afternoon we ended up in bed. And that was March 1972. She was a real talent.

Do you feel any guilt about your relationship with Susan not working?

I’ve never come clean about this – but I felt like I fell in love with the newness of her, that she knew things that I had no clue about. She took a diamond in the rough and she polished it up and made it something. I feel a bit guilty about Susan, because there was something about her…

It sounds like you had a lot of pent up guilt...

Only when she died. No, not when she died – years and years later I felt a bit because what Susan did, I mean, was magnificent. She was my minder. My head of taste: when I got a new play we would sit in the kitchen at two in the morning reading it. She was terrific. And she gave me excellent advice. When I think back, I feel bad about it in the way that... I remember when we were much older her telling me, ‘I would do this if I were you. You should do this.’ I said, ‘Oh, Susan you don’t know what you’re talking about. Honestly, love. Leave me to do this now.’

The roles had reversed…

Because I have grown in stature and confidence. And then I wasn’t talking to her. I remember thinking,’Oh fuck! She’s right, you know? She’s probably right.’ So, I got that sense where I was taking advice without giving enough credit and I feel guilty about that.

What were the last few years of your marriage like?

In the last years of marriage, I couldn’t live with Susan. Now that she’s dead – particularly now that I’m retired – I’m finding it hard to live without her. So, that song ‘With Or Without You’ by U2 is particularly potent at the moment. It was a strange thing, you know? We got divorced. She died in my arms. We became closer once we were divorced.

Why did you break up?

(Sighs) It’s very hard to give that answer. And the reason is not because I’m trying to avoid the personal. It’s very difficult because she’s not here to defend herself. And I think she – to quote Mr Pinter – would give a different account. But I got obsessed at work and feel that Susan became obsessed with the children. And I think they put a wedge between us. She was an magnificent mother. She was extraordinarily maternal.

You found it difficult to live with her near the end of your marriage?

Yeah. Look, this is in her favour: I am now 66 years of age and I haven’t lived with anyone since I lived with Susan and that’s 16 years. So when I say I found it difficult to live with her, to be absolutely precise about that, I would’ve found it difficult to live with anybody. And to this day (laughs) I’ve lost great girlfriends because I don’t want to live with anyone. What happened is – a great Dublin expression – I became set in my ways. And I became set in my ways quite early on. She just happened to be a victim of that dressed up selfishness.

Was it also that you had a wandering eye?

Yes. Well, I did have a wandering eye. I fancy women.

So you had girlfriends?

No, I didn’t. I did have one affair. But I never did again.

Why not?

Ah, it’s not a proper way to lead your life. It’s very dishonest and it’s uncomfortable. I suppose people find it exciting. As Mr Pinter said, those innocent hours: that you met people at 11 in the morning or at four in the afternoon.

Pinter wrote my favourite play about infidelity…

(Enthusiastically) Betrayal, is it? Magnificent. Even though that is the play that was hammered! I could spend hours talking about that. He was very close to me, Harold, as you know. But then Susan and I became very close, particularly close in her last years. Very, very close.

How did Susan handle the news about her cancer being terminal back in 2013?

Susan was an extraordinary woman. She was a saint. I suppose that’s why I couldn’t live with her – because I’m far from it! But when the oncologist said that she didn’t have that much longer, it could be a matter of days, Susan said, ‘What? How many?’ She said, ‘Maybe six.’ They don’t normally give you predictions. Susan said, ‘Six weeks – is that all? I have to do so much’. The oncologist said, ‘No it might be six days.’

Your daughters were expecting babies at the time…

My daughter was sitting on the bed and I remember – I’ll never forget – the tears were hopping off her nose. And Susan leaned forward to the oncologist and said, ‘Oh, You poor thing! You having to give me that news.’

It speaks volumes about her character…

Doesn’t it? ‘You poor, poor thing having to give me that news.’

You help nursed Susan through her illness.

We were separated. And I would be driving her to the hospital. I remember my daughter saying, ‘Why can’t you be like other people who break up?!’ It’s just like when I was a kid. It’s exactly the same. Somehow, we never broke up.

Can you remember your last conversations with Susan?

At the end, she was on a lot of morphine and she got confused, which I found very difficult. I remember when we used to hold each other’s hands in a certain way when we were dating – and we were doing that again. She turned to me, some weeks before she died, and said, ‘Darling, do you think we got back together too quickly?’ I said, ‘Maybe! You know, these things happen. Maybe we did.’ I thought that was the best way to deal with it.

It is a really difficult thing to go through.

I remember saying two things to her: one was, ‘Don’t you worry about the children’.’ And number two: ‘I’m not making light of it – you are doing what you’ve always done all your life: you’re just leaving the party a bit early, having got the best bits’. So, that’s what I said to her: ‘You’re leaving the party early, having got the best bits’. Because when you get older, it’s like the 1 o’clock/2 o’clock time at the party. She didn’t have pain. Thank God, she didn’t have that.

Do you think a lot about death yourself?

My father died in my arms. And Susan died when I was there with her. Paolo Tullio died too. I was very close to him. I think I am in bonus territory here. I don’t think I’m scared of it so much. The only thing that makes me scared of it is that my children and I have always been very close. Really close. But since their mother died the closeness to me has gone up to industrial strength. It is a different type of closeness. It is absolutely glue. And we see each other every day. And we talk every day.

Paolo Tullio’s death hit you hard…

To be honest with you, I knew Tullio had about a year or two years. It was kidney failure. I knew he was worse than he felt. He was in denial about his illness and he felt that being on dialysis would just keep going. But my GP said, ‘No. You don’t last forever on dialysis – you die.’ I asked, ‘How long has he got?’ He said, ‘I wouldn’t put it past a year and a half!’ I also knew, from talking to people, that Susan, I felt, had about two years. It was an instinct.

Did all of this play a major part in your decision to retire from the Gate?

You get to 66 and you go and get a check-up. And the doctor comes into the room. He puts the glasses at the end of his nose and he says, ‘Those results aren’t great, but we’re going to do another test just to be sure. But don’t panic!’ And I’m sitting there thinking, a) about my children and b) if this is bad news and I get about two years left, it’s gonna take me about two years to get out of The Gate.

None of this was mentioned in any of your farewells…

When you ask me that question, to be as honest as I can with you, I have to say that is a big part of me leaving The Gate. Because of the Tullio factor and the Susan factor and both coming so close – besides other people who have died. But these were two of the closest people to me and died around the same age, at my age. And they both had about a two–and–a–half years sort of shelf life. I just said, ‘I don’t want to be working in the Gate and knowing that I’m working for my last two years on the planet – I’m not doing that. I don’t want my last years to be trying to get out of the Gate’. I have finished up now – and it’s great. I could walk out of here after this interview and be hit by a bus (laughs). But that’s the way the world works. Or worse, I leave the Gate and I live until I’m 97 – so what am I going to do now?

Are you religious?

No. I’m not against religion. A lot of people are because of child abuse and all this sort of thing. I’m not really against the Catholic Church. I’m not against organised religion in that way. I’m not evangelical like some atheists! I’m very happy for others to believe in it, if they are happy for me not to.

The Gate was practically dying when you took it over back in the mid–1980s.

It was on its knees, there’s no doubt about it.

You gave interviews when you took over the job. I’m not being negative, but reading them now, you come across like the Michael O’Leary of the theatre world with all the boastful promises!

That’s very positive! I said what I wanted. If things didn’t make sense, I would say that out loud. The truth is that in 1982/1983 when I took over it wasn’t in a good place. The roof was leaking and there were four people in a tiny office. So when I went in it was very bad. The staff was bad. The sets were bad. Everything was bad. So, I just set about changing it.

One actor who had a well–documented problem with alcohol was Donal McCann...

Donal was the best actor that this country ever produced. He said he’d do Juno, but then during rehearsals, I got a phone call to say, ‘You’ve got a problem with Donal! He’s been on the piss. He’s been arrested!’ It was the divorce referendum and Donal had been with a woman – I don’t mean sexually; he was just having a drink with her. Donal – pissed – went round to her house, probably to try to go to bed with her. She didn’t answer the door. And Donal, like all people who are drunk – it should be the title of my autobiography: It Seemed like a Good Idea at the Time! – decided to kick the fucking door in. So, he broke into the house with the front door hanging on one hinge. And she called the police. And Liam Devally – he was a singer and a barrister – rang me and said, ‘We’ve got a problem here.’

You found Donal sprawled out, drunk, on the stage floor one night.

No, what happened was that I went to rehearsal the next day. We had a great cast – including Maureen Potter and John Kavanagh and they went to rehearse. They were just standing over him – he was flat out drunk in the middle of the floor at 12 o’clock in the morning! I said to the director Joe Dowling, ‘It’s not good for morale when we pretend we’re doing work. We should all take a long lunch. I’ll talk to Donal.’ I said, ‘Donal, I need to talk to you.’ He said, ‘I’ll only talk to you if you bring me to Kavanagh’s.’ So I went to Kavanagh’s and I bought the pints. He was pissed already. I knew his day was over, he said, ‘You must love this, Michael. This is great fodder for new vogue producers.’ He was quite nasty and I said, ‘I don’t have a problem because you’re on the piss and I know you can get sober. But you’re not going to be able to do the play if you’re in prison!’

What was his response?

I said: ‘And I have news for you, pal. I know that unless that the director of the Gate Theatre gives some affidavit – you’re fucked. You’re going to prison and your mother will go fucking mad. He says, ‘Fuck you! Don’t you threaten me’. I said, ‘Finish your pint, sunshine.’ So I left him and went back to rehearsals. He didn’t come to rehearsal – so my bluff failed. Joe Dowling and I went to where he lives and I waited in the freezing car until he came in that night. He came to rehearsal the next day. I told him that wasn’t good enough. ‘You have to go to Pat’s.’ I got him off the charge for the door and I collected him every morning from St. Pat’s.

Why did you go through that for him?

Because he was our best actor. Probably the best actor in the world. And his Captain (Boyle) was extraordinary. We could’ve run for three years, according to the picture computer predictions when we went to Broadway. We did it in Jerusalem. We did it in Edinburgh. He was extraordinary. He was both a saint and a devil.

How did you keep him off the booze…

The deal was with was one condition: that on the last performance – nobody could say to him, ‘You should give up the drink now that you’ve done it for six weeks?’ I had to have a pint waiting for him in his dressing room when he came off having done the last night. That was my idea. People said, ‘Don’t do it.’ I said, ‘No – a deal’s a deal.’ I promised him.

John Hurt, another actor who worked with you a lot, was also a heavy drinker.

John broke my heart. John was a very dear friend, a highly intelligent man of the theatre. Richard Harris promised he’d do Krapp’s Last Tape and then he went missing! At a party, I said to John – we were all fairly pissed – ‘I’ve got a proposition for you. You can’t go to the BAFTAs the day before and have them take your face out of the soup! You really need to be sober for this.’ ‘Okay, I’ll do it’. The next day, I said, ‘I’ve solved my problem – I’ve got John Hurt.’

Did you have any second thoughts?

My wife said, ‘He’s a lush.’ I said: ‘I’ve done it with McCann. I know how to handle these boys.’ So, the next day I rang John Hurt and I said ‘Can I meet with you?’ He said, ‘We are having a party tomorrow night. Come down.’ I said, ‘I want to meet you during the day.’ I went down to John and he said, ‘You wanted to see me?’ I said, ‘You said you’d do Krapp’s Last Tape!’ He said, ‘I know. We shook hands on it. So, what’s the problem? Are you gone off the idea?’ ‘No, I love the idea, John. It’s just that you were pissed!’ He said, ‘I’m pissed now!’ ‘Now?!’ ‘Absolutely! I’m hammered’. I said, ‘You’re hammered now?’ ‘I’ve been hammered for about three weeks! I’m cool man – but I’m doing it (laughs)!’ He was brilliant. He started getting a lot of movies after that.

You got into an altercation with the playwright Tom Murphy.

I was out celebrating. We met a girl from the Irish Times and she said she was going to Colm Toibin’s fiftieth birthday party. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I went over to Tom and he said something which was offensive – but not as offensive as it appeared to be. He said, ‘How are things up at the museum?’ And I said, ‘We’re doing very well with Conor McPherson. It’s great. He’s only a kid. He’s so successful. And he’s been on in London and New York and everything’. You know, jealousy in the parochial world! My departed dear ex-wife used to say, ‘Michael, sometimes you use a sledge hammer when you can use a flyswatter.’ And then he broke (laugh) a delph plate over my head!

Legend has it he poured a bowl of hot curry over your head…

No. That’s a myth. Actors and people working in the theatre never waste food. Never! He broke it and blood came down my face and I became like the crucified Christ with a crown of thorns. I had an image of it in my imagination. And then I thought he tried to take my glasses off. So, he put his hand out – and hit. I think he fell at the knees of Nell McCafferty. And I think she was at the bottom of the stairs.

Did you kiss and make up?

A week later I was at a play in the Project and I found myself in the interval with Tom at the men’s loo, facing the wall. I said, ‘How’s it going, Tom?’ He said, ‘Great’. I said, ‘What do you think of the play?’ ‘Terrible.’ I said, ‘Are you going back?’ ‘Oh, I have to. And so do you’. ‘Ah, I suppose we both do.’ It was one of those things – a flare-up had happened, but because it was at a very high profile party it went into the English papers.

The media took an interest when your marriage broke–up and you stepped out with a woman 30 years younger.

She was 33 years younger. We won’t mention her name. I’ve had more unfair praise than unfair criticism. So, I got a bit of that. We’re in that world. Take it. I don’t worry about it. It was tough because it was tough on the girl’s parents who didn’t know about it. So, that was a bit tricky.

What did you see in a woman that was so much younger than you?

That girl, at the very least – and I’m flattering myself now – was my intellectual equal. She was brilliant.

How did it feel to have a young woman in your life?

It felt very good. There was no problem. I think relationships can work if you can find somebody who is there or thereabouts your intellectual equal – and that’s what she was. She was one of the most brilliant people I’ve met.

So, why didn’t it work out?

The thing is: you’re not travelling on the open highway, you know you’re in a cul–de–sac because she wants to have children and she wants to get married. When I meet a woman I always say the same thing, ‘I don’t want to marry again. I don’t want to have children again.’ And that has left me, Jason, as a non–claimed treasure (laughs)! I’m an unclaimed treasure for sure – I wouldn’t say I was a national treasure!

What are some of your own career highlights?

I think doing the 19 Becketts was the big thing for me. And then the Pinter festival, and then hanging out with Harold. Getting to know Beckett. Being friendly with Friel. Getting Three Sisters off the ground was huge for me. I Go On, the one-man show with Barry McGovern, was huge. Hey Joe with Gambon was just a knock–out. No Man’s Land would be a favourite of mine. Betrayal. I did three productions of The Homecoming with Ian Holmes. Oh God! I used to watch that night after night.

You revived Harold Pinter’s career.

Oh yeah. The English didn’t want him. That’s why I got an OBE. In 2005, it was all over the English papers that no one in England would touch him. There were no shows, except one over a pub. It was a 20–seater play. He was 75 in October and I decided to do a festival.

You struggled to get the cash together to put on the Pinter shows…

When we did the festival for his birthday nobody would touch him. The British Embassy had just dumped me; I didn’t get any money from them and I was depending on it. Giorgio in the Unicorn Restaurant gave a party, paid for everything. He got onto the cover of The Guardian and The Telegraph the following Monday, and then on the following Thursday – three days later – Harold won the Nobel Prize.

Did you enjoy any good going away celebrations yourself?

My board didn’t get round to a party for me because of the period between the old chair and the new one coming in. I was like Christ lost in the temple! But Luna – the restaurant – said, ‘We’ll have a party for you’. On 19 March they opened up the restaurant, all the staff came in free/gratis, and for nothing gave a party for me. And all the actors who were in the Beckett, Friel and Pinter plays were there. And then on the 26th, the following Sunday, Chapter One gave me a party for 60 people.

Do you feel snubbed by The Gate?

Well, certainly surprised (laughs)! I feel great that Michael Holland, who owns the Fitzwilliam, said, ‘I’ll give you a party for 200 people. And I’ll pay for it’. And he supported me all the way through. He owns the Fitzwilliam and the Bailey. John Farrell who owns Luna, which is a new great restaurant said, ‘I’ll open up. Give it to you’. So that is gratifying, so I don’t feel let down.

But I meant ...

Ah, I know what you mean. But I have these people who are supporting me.

What about the way they announced your departure by advertising a vacancy for your job?

I was surprised. I was surprised by a lot of things. I was surprised that I learned about it by accident – that the ad was going out. It was the chair telling one of the actors, Dee Keogh who said, ‘You’re not retired’. He said, ‘Oh, he is – the ads going in tomorrow!’

Were you upset?

Just surprised. I believe that the energy of an organisation has to go into what’s coming next. I believe that they need to make that work. My board has made it very clear, in a complimentary way, they said, ‘We are trying to fill very big shoes. So, much as we want to give you energy and spend a lot of time saying cheerio, we really want to spend more time saying hello and to helping the future of The Gate’. I understand that. I think it was time for me to leave. I’ve certainly got up to my ‘best before’, or certainly my ‘use by’ date.

Do you think there should be other changes too?

It’s time for the board to change. Peter Crowley is going to take over as chairman of the board. They’ve been there for too long – some of them. But the ones staying: Jim Cleary, James Morris and Peter Crowley – they’re really brilliant guys. And I think The Gate is, with those three, in great hands. And I also checked – whether you like it or not – about waking the feminist, about gender equality.

I was going to ask you about that – the war between the sexes.

Yeah – it’s out there. I don’t think I am sexist. Probably 80% of the women working in the theatre might think I am. Certainly 80% of the directors and writers do. But now that there’s a female in there, I think there will be more female writers and more female directors.

So, why didn’t you champion them during your tenure?

I didn’t spot them – or I didn’t have the nerve to take the chance. I know she will and I think that’s a good thing.

You’ve been criticised for not staging many plays by female writers.

I wanted to do classical plays and I was willing to debate it with anybody. I’ll do a list: Harold Pinter, Samuel Beckett, Oscar Wilde, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Arthur Miller, David Mamet. Where are the classical plays by women? They are by men – don’t tell me that Caryl Churchill qualifies. Or Charlotte Jones. I wanted to do classical plays and if you want to do that, just look at that list. They are all men.