BARRY MURPHY has lost count of the number of comedy clubs he has opened in Dublin throughout his career. He s not sure, he thinks it s nine, but admits it could be more. Of those he remembers, one has survived: The Comedy Cellar, upstairs in Dublin s International Bar.
His pride in this achievement can be gauged by the fact that throughout our interview, the only time he seems utterly at ease is when he is reminiscing about the good old days in The Cellar, not least the opening night with Ardal (O Hanlon), Dermot (Carmody) and Kevin (Gildea), and a guy called Gerry Brett who MCed, and set the agenda for the club by wearing a swimming hat to make up for a complete lack of jokes.
That was in 1988, and today The Cellar enjoys a mythical status among comedians and punters alike. A fair achievement for a club that is as small and pokey as a promiscuous pygmy s pecker. To what does Barry attribute The Cellar s longevity?
I think it s down to the style of humour that came out of it at the beginning, and the fact that it s produced so many successes, he ruminates. As well as that, there s the fact that The Cellar is run by comics, whereas all the other clubs that sprang up in its wake were half-arsed affairs where businessmen said Oh, I can make a quick buck on comedy , and then didn t invest in it properly.
That was then of course, and now the consensus is that Irish comedy is booming, with an array of talented new young stand-ups being aided and abetted by scrupulous agents, sympathetic journalists, and the hard cash from the corporate coffers of businesses such as Murphy s, Carroll s and Tetley s.
For all that, Barry Murphy feels that something special special has been lost along the way.
I don t think Irish comics are as supportive of each other now as they were, he muses. People are doing it now with an eye on the future, rather than for the fun. In the past, all the way up to Dylan (Moran), none of us knew what we were doing. Nobody intended to be a stand-up. We were just doing it because we enjoyed it. We d make a few pounds, about #10 or #12 a week, that s all, but you d be on the dole as well.
On our nights in The Cellar you d have Mr Trellis doing sketches, Dermot doing songs, a stand-up and some improv. Now it s just stand-up after stand-up after stand-up. I suppose it s good in a way, because it prepares guys for that inevitable trip to London to ply their trade. And that s what it s become, a trade.
There s too many clubs at the moment too, he continues, and they ll be gone in two years. I think the balloon is going to burst because the balloon is bigger now than at any time over the last 10 years. It s like what Sky Sports are doing to football. You ll have The Premiership: your Olympias and your Gaietys putting on more comedy, and as a result The Comedy Cellar will get smaller. There s too many people who are only half-interested because comedy is fashionable.
dodgy journalists
Journalists, it seems, are as culpable as anyone else in this regard. Barry makes no secret of his contempt for the media attention currently being lavished upon comedy.
I hate it. I hate the whole media side of it, he affirms. I just like doing a job and going home. I despise all the publicity that goes with being a comedian in Ireland these days. I don t know why I m doing this interview, to be honest, in a rock n roll magazine that has taken comedy on board because it s trendy. It s going to be really boring, because the interview is with a comedian, but without the laughs.
Comedy is big on the back of Father Ted, predominantly, and there s a lot of people trying to capitalise on it. There s agents popping up all over the city and there s journalists specialising in it. I think it s fair enough if the agents are honest or the journalists are honest, but you re going to get cowboys in both departments. I think you re aware of one, if not two, dodgy journalists who are cashing in on comedy at the moment.
Murphy is unwilling to name these desperadoes, but I ask him to venture an opinion on the work of Sunday Independent journalist Brendan O Connor, a man who has incurred the wrath of lesser known Irish punslingers, by engaging pen before brain and gratuitously vilifying them in what appears to be an attempt to boost his own professional profile. Barry thinks long and hard before answering.
He s a prick, he finally declares. I could tell you loads about him, I saw him starting off doing MC stuff in Cork . . . he s just a prick. He s been moulded by a newspaper probably. To be honest, I don t really care. Anyone who thinks Kevin Gildea isn t funny isn t worth bothering about.
Barry himself has featured prominently in the newspapers this year, having made the front page of The Star following an inspired stint as a pundit during RTE s coverage of the FA Cup Final. Monkey Business screamed the banner headline, in response to reports that Eamon Dunphy had been insulted by a sketch involving Barry, his cohort, Risteard Cooper, and a rubber monkey mask.
I just went out and bought the paper and laughed. It was the biggest laugh I ve had in a long time.
And was Dunphy genuinely upset?
I believe he was yeah, very upset, which is why I don t really want to talk about it, he replies with a grin.
my underpants
Best known to the general public for his over-the-top, but hilariously funny impression of Frank Stapleton, Barry admits that he has never actually had to face this dour object of his ridicule.
I ve never met him, but I d like to, he admits bashfully. I feel a bit nasty. It started off as him, and then it became based on him, Stephen Roche, Steve Collins and all these people, but everyone still says it s Frank.
I was worried about it to be honest. The weirdest thing happened after we did the European Championships first. We did about 10 or 12 three-minute sketches. I got a telephone-call from my agent about three days after we d finished them saying Frank Stapleton wants to meet you . I was like What ? And she said Yeah, I don t know where he saw you, but he wants to have a chat. It s a new film he wants you to try out for .
It turned out to be a film director named Frank Stapleton, but for that moment there was a very cold wind blowing through my underpants.
Worshipped by most young Irish comics, Barry is regarded as the benevolent uncle of the Irish circuit. He remains unmoved, however, by the Godlike esteem in which he is held by other Irish gag-merchants.
I find it a bit patronising, he contends, but it is complimentary in a way. Although, I must admit, if I see the word Godfather written anywhere again, someone is going to get a smack.
Or wake up with a thoroughbred s head in their bed, perhaps? n