No matter how well you plan your attack on the Fringe, no matter how clear your run-up, it will always find a way to surprise you. It doesn’t even matter if you’re one of those people off the telly we all complained about, or the hot new flash in the pan, at some point, you will have a meltdown.

Reasons:

1: Your show’s not good enough. You didn’t work as hard on it as you could. It really wasn’t finished and you knew it. You took a risk bringing it to the show-off festival and it didn’t pay off.

2: You didn’t plan your marketing campaign properly. You forgot to have posters done or tell people you were coming and are only now realising your mistake.

3: You’ve gone way outside your budget, on taxis and baked potatoes alone. You meant to cook back at the flat (another financial haemorrhage outlet) and even bought a bag of spuds in the first week. They are now green. You can’t remember where the cooker is, and it’s right beside the spuds.

4: The starers come in. People who don’t like your show, or you, but do like keeping their eyes on you – unblinking and miserable – for the entire thing. This is perhaps the most demoralising of all the potentially demoralising occurrences. If you’re unlucky to have more than one in per show (e.g. my second Monday, where there were about 5 of them) then it’s hard not to find hurling yourself off George IV Bridge onto Cowgate appealing.

5: None of the above. You worked hard, you had a plan and had paid people to help you implement it, the response of the people that did come was great, but things just didn’t take off. That seems to be the story of the majority of the foot-soldiers I’ve chatted to.

6: Women aren’t funny. Again. Oh, fuck off. Really now, fuck off.

I could go on. I have; I’m surprised I have any friends left. For the acts at the more well-known, successful end of the Fringe, the meltdown can come from too much attention too fast, too much pressure to live up to expectation. But rest assured, it will come. And this year, for most of the people that I know, the melting was worse than I ever remember it.

I still love the Fringe, but I’m deeply saddened that it’s morphed into a TV-or-web-based popularity contest. I’m sad that a friend of mine – a really good comic – had their show pulled by an audience member: there were 3 of them in that prospective audience, 2 being a couple. “We don’t want to be in an audience of 3,” said the man. So, no show. Now that’s enough to break your heart, especially when the average audience across the Fringe is 3.

I had to pull one of my own shows, on a Sunday near the end. The only ticket buyer? A BBC TV producer who’d come on a recommendation. He was very kind, and said that at least in the final week, telly people would come and it might be good for work. I thanked him, but told him what he already knew: if they came, and it was my turn to have 3 – or 0 – people in, they would automatically think it was shite. He had to reluctantly agree: industry types, critics and now even punters, have all come to view quantity over quality. It’s hard, but not impossible, to see through a small house to a big show if you’re discerning enough: but it is almost impossible to get what a review might call a “4-star laugh” out of 4 people.

There’s no point in being nostalgic – as I say in the show “things have always been shite”. But I do remember when the Fringe was about seeing not the Big Thing, but the Next Big Thing. It was about taking a random punt and seeing someone great in a room behind a pub, someone who was not yet well known but damn well would be soon. They didn’t have the money for a publicist, or hadn’t been on TV, but they put themselves and their work out there and took a chance. The acts are still doing that. The audiences aren’t. To my mind, it’s the audiences’ loss.

Gone are the days when you could flyer all day and grab someone on the way to the Box Office and change their minds: now, they’ve bought their tickets online. They already have a show to go to before they hit town. Even if your word of mouth is good, the deed is already done: they’ve spent what they’re going to spend before they ever hear about the little shows. Even this year’s nominees for the whatever-it’s-called award didn’t sell out post nomination. Now this is a brand new world.

The only way I can stop myself grieving for the way things used to be is to view the Fringe like the English language: the very reason it’s so brilliant is that it is so vast and amorphous. It will always change. It can’t be contained. Try and push it into a box – reject text-spk or attempt to insert commas where they no longer wish to be inserted – and you’re the one who looks like a jerk. But at least, with English, it’s happening organically and over time. No one bought up all the poster sites and telly spots and told us we had to say “should of”, NOW, when most of us still have a little grammatical voice inside, screaming its incorrectness.

While I didn’t expect the change to be this complete this soon, this is how it has been going. I was somewhat braced, and yet I, too, melted. I don’t think my husband will ever recover.

I said it before the Fringe, and I say it again at the end. Please, please don’t be a sheep. Go and see some live comedy near you this weekend. Someone you’ve never heard of; make that the point of the exercise. All of you, stop being sheep. NOW. Thx.

London, September 1st: come to the post-Fringe Big Noise one-off at The Phoenix, Cavendish Sq. W1G 0PP. Tickets £5 at door. 8pm.

Here’s what they said about the Edinburgh run:

“Deserves to be a far bigger star than she already is…What did not go on long enough for us was the duration of the show.” One4Review ★★★★

“The lyrics are jarringly surreal and inventively silly. It’s the Boosh-like oddity that clinches it.” Andrew Collins

“Delightful set of musical comedy…wonderfully twisted sense of humour…frequently had  her audience in stitches…well worth seeing” ThreeWeeks

“Well written and funny… very entertaining”  Australian Comedy Review

“Reminds me of NYC Antifolker Phoebe Kreutz …both play ‘funny songs’ but through the sub-text and performance style reveal a vulnerability and open-approach to life that elevates their work and makes what they do as valid as so-called ‘regular songs’. Smart, funny and a real treat!” Lach

A few clips:

The Fog (from the film The Fog)

Quirky

80s Fears

Words and music by Tara Flynn.

Backing tracks arranged and performed by Paul Boyd, Damian Coldwell and Charlie Round-Turner. Thanks, lads. Thanks also to James Hingley for recording expertise.

(Edinburgh Fringe run of Big Noise was at the Gilded Balloon from August 4th – 29th 2010.)

Edinburgh Fringe run of Big Noise, 20.15 at the Gilded Balloon August 4th to 29th is now on sale. The show comprises 13 comedy songs, each in a completely different style. Words and music by me (Tara Flynn, that’s me); backing tracks arranged and performed by Paul Boyd, Damian Coldwell and Charlie Round-Turner. Thanks, lads. Thanks also to James Hingley for recording expertise.

Here are a few clips to get you started:

Quirky

The Fog (from the film The Fog)

80s Fears

Tickets to the live show are available here. If you think you might like to buy an album when it’s ready (probably September), drop an email to tara@taraflynn.ie to register your interest.

(Please. Thank you. Bye!)

Just back from honeymoon (lovely, thanks) having seethed for most of it about the ending of Lost (grrr…sentimental, pseudo-religious, literal nonsense detracting from what should have been properly powerful moments like the final one with Jack and Vincent. I read Philosophy for a year at Uni: I love unanswered questions, me, but this was schmaltzy drivel with woejus dialogue. I’ve been fuming since the awful “Across the Sea” ep. Awful. Awful. Grrr…).

But now I’m back and straight into Edinburgh mode. It’s really soon, you know. Eek!

So, there still isn’t much time to blog. Huge apologies to those of you who’ve taken the time to be cross with me about that. You’re lovely grumpy people and I’m forever in your debt for reading.

I’m fully aware that today’s isn’t really a blog, more of a plug. It’s a plug-blog. A Plog.

This Plog is to let you know that I’m not doing very many previews of my new show of comedy songs, Big Noise (too many musical ends to tie up, not very much time), but here are two in London you might like:

June 26th, I’m at the New Players Theatre (tickets/ details here) and

July 5th, I’m giving the show a run at the wonderful Fat Tuesday, while Kevin Eldon gives his new show a go, too. Intimidated by greatness? Moi? Oui.

Tickets and details for that one are here.

Please come along. I love you. Byebye.

In 2002, I was doing 2 shows at Edinburgh. The first was an improvised show called Text in the City; in a move almost as killer as my opening line above, that was the name of a show where the audience would text in their suggestions (do you see?), those suggestions would appear on a screen behind us and we would do them. It was all about embracing the new-fangled texting craze and putting a new spin on Improv. Yeah, man.

The spin ended up being that it didn’t work. Not the concept (that had worked in Dublin and might work again; I believe some young children in their twenties are trying it this year), but the technology: the people behind the show didn’t realise that – way back then – Edinburgh still had several pockets of zero mobile phone coverage. It seems the epicentre of this zero coverage was our venue. It was the only place in the world that actually sucked coverage away. With a mixed cast of the Comedy Store Players, Dublin Improv plus guests, the show could have been great (and there were some excellent moments in the techno-free shows we managed to cobble together). But punters were inevitably disappointed, as the bars on their phones faded almost as quickly as their trust. Shame.

The second show was Cream of Irish or Best of Irish or Something of Irish at the scary Caves on Cowgate: Kevin Gildea and I were the staples in a show with a rotating line-up of whatever great Irish comics were in town, or felt like an extra gig after or before their own. It was a good show, good times – except I’d only been doing stand-up for about 3 months. There were some pretty cruel reviews – probably completely accurate – and you can’t ask for mercy if your name’s on a poster alongside the words “best” or “cream” (or even “something”). Plus there was no point in pointing out that I was doing my best: that wasn’t the kind of best anyone was after. Including me. So, I spent a month feeling like I was letting everyone down. Twice.

To make matters shit, I was going through a break up with someone else who was at Edinburgh, a comedian with whom I shared dozens of mutual friends, and we’d already planned our accomodation; there was a hasty scramble for new digs at the last minute and silent, telepathic negotiations as to who should leave which too-small backstage area first. Awkward. Awful. But I lucked out accomodation wise: I landed a share with two other Irish comics (they really were cream of) but, suffice to say, I shouldn’t have any happy memories of that Fringe at all.

Except…

Straight after Something of Irish (let’s go with that. I like it), there were some Kiwi guys on in our venue. We met them at our tech run on the first day and later, flyering outside the venue. They were doing two different shows, back to back. They were really lovely, but having a tough time. They had photocopied their flyers in black & white and were approaching people themselves, not having much luck because they hadn’t been on the UK circuit, this was their first Fringe and they hadn’t been on the telly. Only a handful of people (mainly the Kiwis who already knew them from home) were coming to the show. Out of same-venue-support, we went to see them on maybe the 2nd night. Both shows. We didn’t have any expectations, but what we got was a top surprise.

The first show was a series of insanely brilliant sketches written and performed by two of the guys, while the other did the lights. In the second show, one of the guys stayed on as performer, but the other two swapped so that the second performer in the first show was now the lighting guy and vice versa. Seamless.

The second show was – well, if I say it was funny songs or musical comedy, you won’t get the full picture. It worked musically. Not just worked: “legit”, po-faced songwriters would have killed to come up with stuff as cool as this. And funny? They lyrics were already great, but regularly changed up or ad-libbed to make them even better. And the banter between the two clearly very old friends was hysterical. It was obviously something special…for the ladies (and men), because, my friends, that little combo were Bret and Jemaine, otherwise known as Flight of the Conchords. (The “other guy” was Taika, who’s now a successful director – including some eps of the FOTC TV show. Go, T.)

By that time, I had already written some of the songs that will feature in my Edinburgh show for this year, but FOTC were so musically brilliant and SO funny, I shelved those songs. For ages. When it’d been done that well, what was the point?

I think there were just 2 nights during that month that the Something of Irish crew (and me) didn’t stay on and watch and we told everyone we met about the shows. Everyone. We couldn’t believe that such a gem might go unnoticed. “If there’s any justice,” we’d rail,  shaking our fists at the sky, “people will come to this!” Might as well shake our fists at the sky – there was no mobile phone coverage and so no-one to call. A bit of railing is very cathartic and you never know who might hear.

Well, last night, it was obvious just how much justice had been served: roughly 12,000 helpings a night. The first bank of seats at Wembley Arena probably seated the same amount of people that came to see FOTC in that entire first Edinburgh run – except for the last week. By the last week, people were coming. In droves. And I guess they all told someone who told someone, or maybe the coverage issue was resolved by then. All I know is that it’s right and proper.

And the rest is history.

This is the best and the worst question in the world. All you’re thinking about is the show. All you want to talk about are your ideas for the show. Even your bloody subconscious helpfully gets in on the act and sends you dreams about the show during your fitful sleeps. But you know that (a) no one is as interested as you are in your show at this stage and (b) talking about it won’t be anywhere near as productive as getting home and working on it. There follows a half-arsed genuine conversation about a nebulous thing, for not as long as it’d need to be to be informative and way too long for it to have been passing. Both parties are left feeling like the other’s concealing Osama bin Laden or ET or the end of the rainbow or something. You want to tell them. There are bits you could tell them. But you make your excuses and leave: after all, you have to get home and feed/ water/ torture your secret thing for information or it’ll die.

So your eyes glaze and you tell them a bit about something. Anything. Like how you typed it all out today. Or you showed it to someone. Or you finally sorted the tune on a troublesome one. Anything but the actual content. Not because you’re shady, but because you’re scared. You’re scared they’ll laugh at your endeavour or – worse, in this case – that they won’t.

There now exist tracks for 3 songs, a skeleton for another to be recorded early June, and 4 more to be demoed tomorrow. That means that today will be spent making sure that those four scan and rhyme where they’re supposed to, don’t go on too long (even if I like them) and genuinely have a right to be in the set. I’ve got 21 to work on: the set for the show will contain about 15. The fun bit, just writing the songs, listening to lots of varied music for research (that was a lovely bit), humming things on the bus and bashing out chords on my keyboard (headphones in; I didn’t want anyone to hear me), is over. Now it’s like a mixture of maths and critical analysis – two of my least favourite subjects. Ever.

But how exciting is it to hear someone who really can play an instrument (thanks Damian and Charlie) playing something you’ve til now only heard in your head and can’t play? Very exciting. That’s how exciting it is. Then to come home with a CD in your hot little hand that you can actually rehearse to – well, it all just seems a little closer and possible, somehow.

Bloody hell! I’m doing the Fringe! No wonder my head feels like it’s about to explode.

I was a comedy fan for 5 years before I did any. Oh, I did the odd Improv workshop and did the door at the Comedy Cellar a few times and got to know everyone, but I was way too intimidated to try it myself. Then it happened by accident. In April of 1995, I bumped into Anne Gildea and Sue Collins at a party, we started messing with a guitar and decided to meet the next week to write some songs. We did, we wrote 3 comedy songs, and we did them in the Comedy Cellar, and somebody gave us money to go to Edinburgh and the whole thing snowballed and The Nualas was born.

I was the guitar-playing one in the middle. But here’s the thing: I can’t really play the guitar. Despite hours of finger-and-brain-blistering practice, I was always nervous beyond measure and unable to fully focus on singing and being funny: I was constantly wondering where my fingers were. They were never, ever in the right place. We also got a lot of attention really fast – too fast for me – and that led to my wondering where my fingers were on live TV. The pressure was enormous and I couldn’t keep up. I had just got myself a career as a voice artist and was still hoping against hope that I might land an agent for acting work, so, one year on, I bowed out. As Anne says, there followed an “Spinal Tap exploding drummer” scenario with the rotating middle Nuala: despite frequent personnel changes, the idea was strong and they forged ahead doing great work for many more years.

But I had decided I didn’t love comedy enough to give up everything else for it. So, for many years, I did voiceovers and acting jobs and didn’t even go to comedy gigs – heretofore my favourite thing. And I didn’t regret it. But comedy had other plans: “Just when I thought I was out…” the Dublin Comedy Improv brought me back in. I filled in for one show (everyone else they could possibly have called was in Edinburgh) and I ended up staying. For Jaysus years. And doing shows all over the world and meeting the most amazing performers and getting to work with them. I was seeing comedy again and – although still quite cynical and jaded by anyone who was over-enthused by it – enjoying it.

People kept saying I should do my own songs. “You sing!” they said. “You do comedy! You should do musical comedy!” Well, I don’t like should. And – here’s an admission – I don’t like musical comedy. Sorry. For every genius act like Flight of the Conchords and Boothby Graffoe, there are 10 chicks in sparkly dresses singing about thrush to the tune of a current chart-topping hit. Or using lazy rhymes to put across a weak joke, in the knowledge that people will clap anyway as soon as they stop playing.

When we wrote for The Nualas, we worked and reworked every idea until it was properly funny, and had a build like every comedy routine should. If it didn’t work, after several goes, we chucked it. We didn’t do sexual stuff very often – we thought it got a cheap laugh and that we should work harder to earn that laugh. That’s why, when I see anything less than that level of hard graft on show, it’s not just that I don’t find it funny; I feel deflated. I see a wasted opportunity and someone who’s ruining it for the good ones. Bastards.

So, instead of doing what everyone expected (and what I possibly should have done), I set out to prove I could get the laughs without the songs. I did stand-up for 8 years. I got good at it, but I didn’t absolutely love it. Something was missing. There was a spark, a mischief, from the musical stuff and the Improv that I’ve done that I wasn’t getting across “just talking”. Logic and I don’t go together very well, which is one of the reasons why I’ll never be a topical comic (besides, at the moment, I just find the news plain ol’ depressing).

But this year, I’m doing it. I’m going back to my roots – about time, seeing as the ones on my head are starting to glint silver. Yes, 14 years after The Nualas, I’m doing an Edinburgh solo show of songs. Just songs. A little bit of material in between, but largely songs. It’s going to be called Big Noise, and the amazing, Perrier award-winning (with Rich Hall as Otis Lee Crenshaw) Damian Coldwell will be putting my ideas to backing tracks. Score! I only have to play the guitar once or twice. Phew.

I’m meeting Damian tomorrow to sing them all for him and assure him that they’ll work. I really think hope they will: I’m exhausted and not there yet, but I’ve loved working on them. Better late than never, eh?

London Comedy Improv, Wednesday May 12, Phoenix Cavendish Sq., London. 8pm. Not all songs, but you should still be there.

Part 1

Jacinta took the eggs from her furled apron and hurled them at the hen-house wall.

“Soufflé,” she muttered, “I’ll give him soufflé.”

This was a lie; she wouldn’t be giving him soufflé. The yolks slithering down the hen-house were testament to that. The fact that she had hurled something from a furled thing wasn’t lost on her, either. This was war.

She had met Kevin on organichumans.com, a dating website for singles with an environmental leaning, and she’d thought he was perfect. Handsome, but on the wane; solvent but not rich (rich was too exhausting); had been married (good enough for someone else) and divorced (too good for them); outdoorsy and an animal lover; perfect.

On the first date, he’d told her she was a goddess. He paid for dinner at the best raw place in town (there was nothing Kevin didn’t know about an enzyme). He drove her all the way home – four miles from anywhere – and when he came in for dandelion coffee he didn’t laugh at her loom; he said he had been wondering all night if they couldn’t possibly weave some dreams together? It was a cheesy line, but Jacinta liked cheese. She was thinking of getting into it, and had already bought a goat.

Kevin stayed that first night. Jacinta was much too old to make coy, but very excited about making breakfast. Besides, Kevin seemed genuinely impressed with her hen.

Part 2

If you’d hooked Kevin up to a lie-detector, you’d have quickly ascertained that he didn’t like looms and he wasn’t impressed by hens. He wasn’t really training to be a yoga-teacher for deaf-kids; he worked in Buckingham Palace – a Chinese restaurant that had been successfully sued by the Queen. Kevin was the guy who read the newspaper in the window until an order came in. He delivered the order on a scooter. This was especially insulting, because he loved his car. He was not allowed to use it for work. He would have been, if he’d agreed to have the Buckingham Palace logo (HRH QE2,, smiling and holding a pair of chopsticks…this had been the subject of the lawsuit) painted on the doors; he would never agree. He didn’t feel safe on the scooter, so he always got lost, and the Egg Foo Yung was always cold. Kevin didn’t like his job.

But there was nothing Kevin didn’t know about an enzyme. That much was true. Raw food was meant to be cold; he wished he was delivering it. Researching it became a passion, and it was on such a research mission, one night at home (he’d entered  Raw Passion – why cold is the new hot), that he’d stumbled upon organichumans.com.

He’d online dated before. It hadn’t worked out well. He always lied about his job, and they’d inevitably find out – usually when he chugged unwittingly to their homes with their order of Vegetables in Black Bean Sauce and Steamed Rice swinging from the handlebar – and once he’d been found to have lied about that, they found it safest to assume he was a serial killer.

But he’d always lied too big before. A round-the-world sailor needs to produce a yacht at some stage; surgeons don’t faint when they cut their own fingers making aubergine shavings. With Jacinta, he’d kept it small. He’d kept the work part vague, and focussed on the enzyme thing. She’d been very impressed, and when she told him early on that she was allergic to MSG, Kevin actually thought he might be falling in love. He wasn’t, but for the moment at least, the scooter was more bearable.

To be continued. Maybe.

PART 3

Jacinta hadn’t always been vegetarian. She hadn’t always been German either. With hindsight, picking an assumed name with a “J” at the start of it hadn’t been the wisest of moves for someone using an assumed accent that had no use for them. But in this kind of rural community, they were more likely to accept someone really, properly foreign than an ex secretary from Dublin, especially one with radical environmental ideas. Irish people weren’t very green. The irony wasn’t lost on her.

If she’d “come down from Dublin…with her loom” (the stress would have been so heavy on the last word, there’d have been creaking), she’d have been accused of “having notions”. This was a fate worse than drowning or burning at the stake; having notions about oneself was a drier, colder, slower social death. But arriving from Hamburg with a loom and dreams of a goat’s cheese cottage industry was welcomed. It was assumed that you would walk around naked a lot to make up for it.

Of course, Jacinta had never been to Hamburg. The name slipped off her tongue one day when she was asked to fill in some of her background-blanks. She didn’t know if it was North, South, East or West, but she did know she’d been craving minced beef patties that day. She rarely even thought about meat these days, but every now and again when she was stressed, a fat, juicy burger with all the trimmings called to her. Since she’d met Kevin, she hadn’t had one stressful day and the ketchup had remained firmly in the cupboard. There had simply been no need for buns. Until now.

Part 4

All this time, Jacinta had refused to use a mobile. Phone, that is. She had numerous mobiles hanging around the house, made from blown-out eggs, dyed, painted and threaded-through; they reminded her there was a hen outside and that made her very happy. She made pin-holes in both ends, and blew gently but firmly til both whites and yolks globbed gently into a bowl. Then she made omelettes, while dreaming of what design she should do. A lot of them had love-hearts on, but not all. She didn’t want to lose her edge.

Jacinta loved omelettes. They were honest and simple – the way she liked to see herself. But the MSG allergy was only the tip of the iceberg. Jacinta was high maintenance. And as for honesty, well, she’d left that behind in Dublin along with her Irish accent. In fact, even Kevin was now calling her “Yass”, according to her coaching. Sometimes she didn’t know if he was calling her by her abbreviated name, or making a meal of replying in the affirmative. “Yass,” he’d say. “Yes to vat?” she’d enquire, Germanly. “Yass, you. Yacinta. I was going to ask you if you had any ketchup. My omelette’s a little…well…dry.”

This was last Thursday. Jacinta had paused, her eggy fork halfway to her mouth. She was a mess of insecurities: she knew her limitations as a weaver, and she hadn’t yet found the right goat. None of the ones she’d “met” gave her the right vibes. Also, she’d known Kevin for 3 months now, and although he stayed most nights, there was a lot she didn’t know about him (except that he probably didn’t love her; goats weren’t the only ones who gave her vibes). In short, her love and business-lives were far from set – but you could never, never say the same about her omelettes. They were perfect. Never runny, but never dry. And replete with enough fines herbes to negate the addition even of salt. But ketchup? That had come out of nowhere. He’d never questioned the seasoning before. Was he deliberately trying to wound her? Or was he just getting bored?

She replaced the suspended fork to one side of her plate without a word. The bit of perfect omelette on it cooled as she rose and rifled through her store-cupboard. There was an old glass Heinz bottle in there; she knew there was, although it hadn’t been used since the last stress-burger emergency. She moved essence of this and tincture of organic that to get to it. Then she moved back to the table, hammering the blood-red sauce to the top of the bottle, upside down. It was what she had to do, but she didn’t have to do it for as long as she actually did it. Kevin winced – mainly because his omelette was getting cold. Yet again he found himself wishing for raw food, but Jacinta would insist that nothing be wasted, and that hen would insist on laying daily.

Before he knew what he was doing, the words came out of his mouth.

“Why don’t we cook something else next time? I mean, you can make lots of things with eggs. What about…I  mean…what about…soufflé?”

Just at that moment, Jacinta’s hand connected – hard – with the bottom of the upside down bottle, and a huge pool of ketchup glopped onto the centre of Kevin’s plate. Jacinta felt as if her heart had glopped out of her chest. She wondered what she could make with the remains: she really did hate to waste anything.

To be continued.

Saturday April 24: Good Day. Last day in London for a week. We got a brilliant wedding present from a friend who’d ordered us, in the nicest way, to keep that date free on pain of death. He called it “The Occurrence”. The Occurrence turned out to be tapas in the sun, followed by the final matinée of Jerusalem at the Apollo Theatre. Astonishing. Not the tapas (although they were pretty great) but Mark Rylance’s performance. Actors! Give up. Someone’s sussed how to do it properly. Thanks, B & A. Top pressie.

Sunday April 25: Bad Day. Flew to Cork early. Discovered that Sunday Tubes didn’t start til way too late to get me to Heathrow on time for my flight. Why? Because I’m an eejit. With knowledge that I’m an eejit, there followed a wacky races-style dash across a deserted London. I made the flight – just – and landed in Cork in a bog of sweat, still an eejit. I went to pick up the rental car I’d need for my week to-ing and fro-ing from Kinsale to Cork University Hospital and beyond, and the car they had for me…was a Volkswagen. Not pleased. I drove from the airport to the hospital feeling distinctly uncool (although I must say, it drove brilliantly. What a let-down). Missed husband.

Monday April 26: Super Good Day. Got up at 6. Worked on songs for my Edinburgh show for hours. Went for a run. Came home to phonecall from husband: the Home Office had finally given us the COA (if you missed it, more about our saga here) and returned his passport. He would book his flight and be in Ireland tomorrow. Much rejoicing.

Tuesday April 27: Great Day. More 6am writing. Husband arrived. Hospital visit went well (i.e. was uneventful). Drove to West Cork to see family and celebrate the fact that – in 3 weeks’ time – husband and I will be married according to the government and not just to ourselves, our friends and the producers of Mock the Week. Terrific company, amazing food and lots of laughs. The family’s had a tough time lately, so this was really cathartic – not to mention great craic. Unfortunately (fortunately) I’d got an offer of a job in Dublin the next day and had to curtail any imbibing of bubbles I’d like to have done by about half. That was the only thing keeping Tuesday from being super-great. Bed by 10.

Wednesday April 28: Drivey Day. Sat into the uncool (although extremely reliable) car at 7am. No hospital visit today, just checking out the vast expanse of new motorway between Cork and Dublin. Nearly an hour off the last time I did that drive as a result. Result! Stopped in the now by-passed Urlingford for breakfast and was slightly sad to see that it had all but ceased to exist. The horrible truck-stop restaurant was gone. It had always been horrible, but it was still sad to see it empty and grubby and cold. I mean, I’d seen it empty and grubby before (no offence to employees, but the Ladies’ would never have won any prizes for sparkliness) but completely empty was a first. There was a Grab ‘n’ Go, so we grabbed and went back to the car to eat because it was warmer. Besides, it had just passed 9am and Gerry Ryan was on the radio. He was talking about plastic bags. He made my American husband – who’d never heard him before – laugh til he nearly choked. “Who is this guy?” he spluttered, through sprayed sandwich and OJ. I told him. I told him about how, a million years ago, my sister and I would listen to Gerry on RTÉ Radio 2 (as it was then known) every single night. How he was on a TV pop quiz called Number One and did all the Beat on the Street gigs in the 80s. How he moved to the 9am to midday radio slot and everyone thought he would too bold* for daytime, but it worked amazingly well. How, when I started working in the station myself in the early 90s, I got a real kick out of seeing him dashing in and out of the canteen. How, when our professional paths finally crossed around 2004, he had been incredibly kind and supportive, throwing me a gig or a plug where appropriate, or a warm compliment for stuff he’d seen me in. How I didn’t know him well by any means, but that he was always nice to me. And yes, he was bold – very bold – but he was fantastic on the radio. By the time the husband and I reached Dublin, Gerry had moved on to talking to an ex-Vatican cleric about exorcisms. So, just your typical G Ryan show. The drive back down south a few hours later wasn’t nearly so exciting.

Thursday April 29: Blarney Day. Hangover. Got back to Kinsale the night before just in time to meet my best friend from school. We started primary on the same day in 1974 (yes, 74BC. Get over it). We had drinks. So, on the Thursday morning, I must have been under the influence of nostalgia (at the very least) when I suggested that, after the hospital run, Mum, husband and I head to Blarney. It’s only a short drive from Cork, so seeing as we’d already be there… I was surprised when they agreed. The American among us was particularly excited about kissing the Blarney Stone. I warned him about the height of the castle in which it’s lodged, right at the very top, over a grid that looks all the way down to the cold, hard, splatty ground. I warned him that they hold your legs and you have to kiss it upside down and backwards.  I warned him about the layers and layers of his countrywomen’s lipstick that lay between him and his goal. He shushed me. He’d be fine. And he was – until we ascended the stone spiral staircase and came up for air. The castle’s just 4 storeys high, but they’re 4 decent storeys and what they forget to tell you is that those 4 storeys are built on top  of a big old outcrop of giant rock. It seems miles down. Neither of us is great with heights. There was no way he was kissing anything upside down, even if there was great show by the “organisers” (two blokes in hats) of sanitised lipstick removal. There was great lamentation and vowing to come back. I can’t imagine what he’d have been like had he actually kissed the thing received the magical Gift of the Gab.

Friday April 30: Bad Day. Back to England. Left Mum waving in the driveway. Hard, knowing she still has hospital visits to do. Still, at least we’d have a final blast of Gerry Ryan on the radio en route to the airport. We tuned in. He wasn’t there. Oh well, I told the husband, this was not unheard of on a Bank Holiday weekend – for GR to be “unwell” and nab himself a Friday off. Probably in New York. Probably with U2. What a chancer. We changed to a music station. The queues at the security check were unbearable, although the rest of the airport was empty. At the foot of the stairs out to the aircraft, there was a massive delay. Finally, a steward came down and said “Sir! You can advance to the aircraft!” The first passenger in line had not wanted to cross the tarmac without guidance. What an eejit. The steps where right there! Now we were on board but, with only one other visible plane on the ground, we were held on the tarmac for 50 minutes – the length of time the whole flight would have taken. Thank God for lots of work to do. Landing in London, the weather was awful. We were now cold and tired and grumpy, knowing we still had to get to Brighton that night. Still, the first leg was almost over, and we got off the seemingly endless Piccadilly line and onto a bus home. Almost there. My phone buzzed. A text from my sister. Four words: Gerry Ryan is dead. My ears started ringing. I couldn’t speak. My eyes pricking with tears, I had to hand my phone to the husband to explain why I couldn’t. “The radio guy?” he said, in disbelief. I nodded. This was the last thing in the world I expected to hear. He was supposed to be in New York. With u2 or the Clintons or someone – that’s where I imagined he was “unwell”, the chancer. The phone buzzed a lot more as the news got around. In Ireland, people were crying in the streets; Gerry could be childish and puerile and bold as brass, but he was one of a kind. The idea that he was gone now, forever, at 53, was beyond sad. It was inconceivable. One friend messaged me that “it must be hard to be away when a bit of home dies” and that really isn’t putting it too strongly. Love him or hate him, he was part of the fabric of Ireland. Good luck on the road, GR. And thanks. I hope that, wherever you are, there’s a fabulous dessert wine.

Saturday May 1: May Day Day. Arrived in Brighton the night before about 10. Had takeout in the room and crashed. But on the Saturday night I saw/ heard my good mate Damian Coldwell’s score to the silent movie Tol’able David at Bom-Bane’s restaurant as part of the Brighton Fringe. The score was fantastic and the film was really entertaining. They say they’re not doing it again, but they must. And if they do, you should be there. Keep an eye out.

And so, I’m back in freezing London. Exhausted. What the flippin’ flip is gonna happen this week?

* For a blog about definition of “bold” as it’s used in Ireland, click here.

For RTÉ’s tribute to Gerry Ryan, click here.

Yesterday (most of it) was also a time before the second British leaders’ debate, all the way from Bristol. That’s why I’m going to write about it now (then), before it happens; way more interesting than commenting on it after the event. You know how you’re going to vote so you don’t care what I think…or, at least, you shouldn’t.

So, this debate in the near future (past): polls point to Nick Clegg having won the last one, but – as it’s still the past as I write – I have no idea what will have happened in tonight’s (last night’s – you get it now). Maybe Clegg will have come out on top again, simply by not being too slimy or uncharismatic. Or maybe a desperate David Cameron will have reached across, unzipped the back of Clegg’s head and revealed a lizard beneath. Wouldn’t that be cool? If all 3 leaders were aliens and had to fight to the death, all claws and tongues flicking, for the right to be PM? Yeah, that’d be cool.

Maybe someone in the assembled crowd of concerned citizens will have smuggled in some kind of weapon – like a magic truth mirror. All 3 would have had to speak their policies at their own reflection and try to keep a straight face. Whoever cracks, loses. My guess is that all 3 may have declined the offer but that’s not the game! There’s no passing!

The real truth is that, although this is the most exciting, closely run campaign for many years (and the TV debates are a long-overdue, essential piece of theatre) watching 3 blokes try to top each other verbally is all a bit dry. The outcome is intensely interesting, but I last found debating sexy in my Leaving Cert year. They need to move on: there should be arm-wrestling: shirts off, dirty wrestling. Or a cook-off! Imagine if the new British top man had to prove himself based on his basting skills? That would be awesome.

A rap battle would be embarrassing and possibly inappropriate, so I would be all over that. I love the smell of desperation and I wouldn’t put it past one of them to try it. Then the gauntlet would be down for the other two. Come on! Rap it up, you guys.

A vote is a serious thing. You have to earn it. Dance for us, monkey boys. Dance.

Maybe they did. I wouldn’t know. In the past, it hasn’t happened yet. Tea?