On a celebrity scale of A-Z, with Tara Palmer Tomkinson being A-list, and the crusty old Irish bum who skulls cans of lager on the same bench in Clapham Common every day occupying the lowest rung of London s luminary ladder, I don t even register. After all, Paddy O Specialbrew makes more people laugh hysterically every day than all the comedians in London put together.
Therefore, it was with considerable surprise that I took a call recently from a journalist who writes for that glossy magazine contained within The Sunday Times, in which minor celebrities describe days in their lives or talk about their relatives. She was writing an article about how the Irish in London celebrate St Patrick s Day, and wanted to use me a new stand-up comic in the Big Smoke as the hook upon which to hang her story, which would be appearing in New London, a supplement which appears monthly in the newspaper s London edition.
Would I be interested in being interviewed, then travelling around with her and a photographer, visiting various Irish restaurants, pubs and other places of interest, having my picture taken with a few other London-based Irish folk? Silly question. Free food, free beer and the opportunity to feel far more important than I actually am of course I d be interested. Now, after two seemingly endless days of diddly-aye music, largely bad porter and more gormless grins and poses than you can shake a stick at, I have decided that if I ever do hit the big time, I shall be one of those haughty celebs who never deigns to do press. Why? Because it s bloody knackering, that s why.
I m told there s over 300 Irish pubs in London, and if we didn t quite get to visit them all over our two-day odyssey, it certainly feels like we did. Along the way we hooked up with comedian Ed Byrne, actors Bronagh Gallagher and Pauline McLynn (two lovely ladies who could talk the gable end off a stable jammed with donkeys) and Michial Coughlan, editor of Rm Ra, a magazine catering for the Irish in London. Our photographer, a gas man called Hugo, was kept busy snapping everything in sight: Barry playing pool, Barry having a pint, Barry having another pint, Barry staring down the camera barrel with Ed, Barry beside an Oscar Wilde plaque, Barry making silly faces with Pauline, Barry in his Offaly shirt, Barry dancing, Barry doing Bronagh s make-up in the dressing room of the Royal Court Theatre and Barry and Michial looking somewhat the worse for wear in SW9 s notorious Irish nightclub, The Swan.
I ll be interested to see how those last few snaps turn out, as by that stage even Hugo The Lens, now technically off duty, had succumbed to the generous hospitality being lavished upon us at our every port of call and was shooting with a hand that was anything but steady.
On the gigging front it s also been a busy couple of weeks. I d entered a new act competition in Hammersmith s Cosmic Comedy Club and was lucky enough to win. Having said that, any comedian will tell you that stand-up competitions are a complete and utter load of coal, even if you do win. David O Doherty said it best in these pages a few months ago, when he compared such joke-offs to figuring out which is better, music or jam. Nevertheless, they seem to be a necessary evil for newcomers to the London circuit, and winning them however Mickey Mouse they may appear can only help one s chances of making an impact.
Elsewhere, I did a Saturday night at the Comedy Cafe, which also went well. I ve been booked for a couple more shows there and the owner has nominated me as his club s representative in some national newcomers competition (I m not making this up, such an event actually takes place!) to be held in Leicester in the next couple of months.
So, with my gong on the mantelpiece and immortality in the pages of The Sunday Times assured, the only thing left for me to do in this town is to try and make some bloody money.