The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll
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Authors: Brian Beacom
The Real Mrs Brown
Brian Beacom
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Brian Beacom 2013
The right of Brian Beacom to be identified as the Author
of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 444 75452 0
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
This book is dedicated to all the mammies out there who make sure their kids are okay. Especially my own, Florence, who although she still can’t operate a DVD player manages to perform miracles every single day.
Contents
Preface
I NEVER wanted a date with Agnes Brown, the Dublin granny with the arthritic knee, baggy cardigan, mouth like a blocked sewer and more than a hint of facial hair.
Neither did I relish the idea of meeting up with the creator of the mighty matriarch, Brendan O’Carroll.
Yes, the Mrs Brown theatre shows were now established in a clutch of theatres in the UK, including my home town of Glasgow. But, despite it being part of the job to interview the stars of touring shows, the arrival of Mrs Brown and co. didn’t set my keyboard fingers twitching.
Why? I’d had enough of drag acts. I felt dressing up as a woman was a device best left back in the 1960s. I’d seen the best of the men who’d provided huge laughs as a woman, from Stanley Baxter to Alastair Sim, from Les Dawson to Dick Emery. They’d all done great jobs in dragging up, mimicking female traits, but without being feminine.
Now, here was a little Irishman doing the same thing. What did he have to offer that was new?
There was another factor. The Mrs Brown shows were playing at Glasgow’s Pavilion Theatre, about which I’d come to feel slightly snooty. Not in a full-on Hyacinth Bouquet way, but I’d seen too many ‘earthy’, home-grown comedy plays containing clunking stink-bombers of lines. I’d feared Agnes Brown was a close relative of this level of nonsense.
Yet, how could I ignore this Irish intruder? The Mrs Brown shows weren’t simply successful; they were a phenomenon in this corner of the city, playing to sell-out crowds for two-week stints. And the success was down to word of mouth. The show wasn’t hugely advertised and the star had done very few interviews.
So I researched Brendan O’Carroll. Friends in Ireland said he was essentially a (very) risqué stand-up comedian who wrote funny plays. He certainly divided opinion. Newspaper critics reckoned he was either a genius, reworking the old comic styles into something cutting edge and contemporary, or he was a crude little bollix (to use local terminology), rehashing ancient gags and reliant upon double entendres and innuendo.
I learned he liked to work mostly with family and friends, and could throw out one-liners faster than a north Dublin barmaid could eject late-night drunks. But ‘funny’ is subjective, isn’t it? What makes one audience in Dublin or Glasgow laugh doesn’t work for everyone.
Regardless, I agreed to interview Brendan on the phone, just before the show was due to arrive in Glasgow. And there was real friendliness in his voice. And a half-hour chat ran to a couple of hours. And he told me little stories about his childhood, about growing up in a large Dublin family, and about his life before breaking into showbiz.
I think we had only reached the teenage years by the time the chat came to an end. And that was only because he had to head off to get ready for his show that night.
But as well as sounding likeable and clever, and very warm, what came across was that here was a man with a fascinating story to tell. And I asked him, ‘Why haven’t you written your autobiography?’
‘I guess I have had a bit of a life, Brian. You don’t see it yourself, though. It’s only when it’s pointed out to you that you realise it is something out of the ordinary. You think everyone’s been through the sort of adventures I’ve had. But that apart, I’m too busy with the plays.’
‘Hasn’t any Irish journalist ever suggested writing your story?’
‘No. I guess they always figured I’d write it meself.’
‘Here’s a thought, Brendan. Would you be interested in me writing it?’
‘Well, I would. But look, let’s talk about it. Let’s meet up next week when I’m in Glasgow.’
Before that, I went to see his show. The result? I’ve never laughed so hard and so often in one single sitting. I vowed to spread the word that this man was indeed a comedy messiah.
This certainly made the prospect of meeting the writer/performer so much more interesting. And the following Saturday we did meet up, in a theme bar.
My first reaction? I smiled. Brendan looked as though he’d tied a blindfold round his head, covered his body in glue and run through someone else’s wardrobe. Someone with little taste – or a huge sense of humour.
He was wearing a red T-shirt under a yellow jumper, pale blue trousers, green socks and white trainers. He looked like Robin Williams in
Mork and Mindy.
(It was a relief to discover later that he is in fact colour blind.)
Then Brendan O’Carroll revealed himself to be an Olympian-level hugger. Now, Scottish people, traditionally brought up on a diet of repression and porridge, don’t hug anything other than babies and heavy winter blankets, and this display of huge affection came as a great surprise.
I later learned the southern Irish are incredibly European in this way, but this little Irishman particularly so. Yet, his accompanying ‘Howareye, Brian!’ and huge welcoming smile made the hug seem natural even for me.
‘It’s grand to meet ya. You sound like an interesting fella, so let’s talk about a book.’
We didn’t start by talking about the book, as it happened. We chatted. About anything and everything. And it was hard not to like the man. He talked a little about life on the road with a touring company, and even when he was complaining, he was hilarious. Even when he spoke about the huge difficulties in taking 20-plus people around the country, his description was funny. He spoke about working with difficult theatre managers, and the way he shaped his criticism was pure Agnes Brown.
And underpinning everything he said was a warmth in his voice. When he explained his troupe was made up of family and friends, you could see his eyes light up. He spoke of his home in Florida and how much he loved Disneyland and you could see the child in him. This was a man who really didn’t want to grow up. Brendan’s world seemed a very happy one indeed.
But my new pal didn’t simply sit and sip cappuccino and talk about himself.
He enquired about me. He wanted to know about my politics, about what I’d studied at university (Politics); he asked about my family. He asked my thoughts on everything from New Labour to Scottish Presbyterianism to Nationalism. He asked what I knew of Irish history, about the Irish connection in my family, and smiled when he discovered my grandfather was a freedom fighter who’d fled to Scotland in the 1930s.
Brendan’s curiosity didn’t stop there. He asked about my partner, he asked about my job as a showbiz journalist, he asked about my literary heroes, and we spoke at length about playwright Neil Simon and Oscar Wilde and comedy. He asked about favourite TV shows, and we both revealed a love for Bilko and Lucille Ball. He asked about spirituality, about how all our lives connect, and he asked a great deal about my mother; he wanted to know about the woman who’d brought up three kids on her own, and I guess he was making comparisons with his own mother.
He wanted to know about the experiences that had formed and informed me. We talked about schooldays, about awful teachers, about hopes and dreams for the future. But none of it came in the form of a grilling. It was gentle. It was born out of curiosity. You sense he cared. And he listened intently. I realised quickly that Brendan O’Carroll has the ability to make you feel you’re the most important person in the world. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever met an individual with such a power.
At the same time, he wasn’t about to bare his soul to a new acquaintance. Yet, he seemed really happy we’d met up.
‘I feel we’ll be friends,’ he said over the last cappuccino several hours later. ‘But if you’re going to write this book, you’ll have to come to Dublin. Come to Finglas, where I grew up. Come on the road with me. Meet the family, come to the house in Florida and see how we live. We’ve got a great crowd with us.’
And he laughed. ‘You’ll have a great time, and it will all be worth it because one day, Brian, I’ll be a huge feckin’ star.’
And he was right.
But then he added something at the end of the conversation that made me think either he had some incredible foresight, a sixth sense, or that perhaps this genial Irishman was a couple of Guinnesses short of a party box.
‘I get a really good feeling about you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know exactly what it is, but I know us coming together will produce something special.’
