Read Online The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll by Brian Beacom - Free Book Online
Authors: Brian Beacom
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afford to send him on to secondary, that he’d simply be festering for the next two years in Gaybo’s.
Regardless, Brendan wasn’t prepared to go back to learning Latin verbs.
‘I protested I was doing what I wanted to do. And I argued my brothers were chefs, and if working in a hotel was good enough for them . . . And I so desperately didn’t want to go back to school.
‘So, reluctantly, she agreed. But she said that if I were going to be a waiter, it would be in the very best hotel where I could get training.’
That was how Brendan came to work for the Intercontinental Hotel, now called Jurys, and he was in his element.
‘I just loved the life. Who knew there were so many wondrous things about becoming a waiter, about the history of food, about culture, about artistry, about how phrases like Romanoff Sauce came about. It was creative; it was fantastic.
‘How could I not be captivated by this whole new world that had opened up to me?’
Brendan has always believed that if you take a job on you should do it to the best of your ability. Later, when he cleaned windows, he’d be an excellent window-cleaner. And if he goes into politics, as he has intimated he might, he may well go right to the top and become President of Ireland. (And who would bet against it?) Back in 1967, however, he vowed to become the very best waiter imaginable.
‘I created an original coffee, Café Diablo, which was amazing,’ he says, the pride in his voice audible.
But there were important things he hadn’t yet learned.
‘There were about twenty kids there at the time, like me, training to become waiters. Yet, after six months, I went home one night and realised that I hadn’t made a single friend. I’d look at myself in the mirror and think, “What is wrong with you?” I thought I was a nice enough guy, and I was a lot of fun. But then it dawned on me. I realised that I had too much to say for myself.
‘I just seemed to know too much. I was this little boy who, if someone had said to me the moon was made of green cheese, I’d have to rebuke them and say, “No, actually that’s a myth, it’s made of an iron core with a collection of cosmic particles . . .” and then I’d find myself sitting in the canteen on my own.
‘But once I realised why this was happening, I changed. If someone said to me, “Didn’t the moon look like a big piece of cheese last night?” I’d say something equally daft like “Cheese? No I thought it was made of ice cream.”’
Brendan was learning to downplay his intelligence. And, in coming up with gags, he’d win over even more people. Thanks to his new-found pragmatism, he made some new friends.
But no one could have mistaken Brendan for a shrinking violet. One holiday, Brendan took off up to the woods of Finglas, on the other side of town, to make his mark. Literally. He was carving his initials BOC on a tree when a gang of likely lads from the McKelvey area appeared (Brendan would later cheekily describe the area in Finglas East as an estate for ‘problem families’). The lads read him the riot act for his encroachment, telling this ‘little scud’ he should get back to his own area.
One member of this junior territorial army was called Gerry Browne, a boy who would later play a massive part in Brendan’s life.
‘My nickname as a kid was BOC,’ says Brendan. ‘Kids just called me by my initials. You can imagine what Finbar and Fiona had to go through.’
Meantime, he worked hard. He learned waiting skills. He learned that people eat with their eyes, that 80 per cent of eating pleasure is in the aesthetics, in the presentation. It’s a lesson he’s taken forward into comedy.
‘If you’re going to be a waiter, look like a waiter. If you work in a circus, look like a clown. If you’re playing an effete character, then give the audience a hint with a walk or whatever. Let them in on that, so’s they can work it out and feel clever.’
The young Brendan understood
Regardless, Brendan wasn’t prepared to go back to learning Latin verbs.
‘I protested I was doing what I wanted to do. And I argued my brothers were chefs, and if working in a hotel was good enough for them . . . And I so desperately didn’t want to go back to school.
‘So, reluctantly, she agreed. But she said that if I were going to be a waiter, it would be in the very best hotel where I could get training.’
That was how Brendan came to work for the Intercontinental Hotel, now called Jurys, and he was in his element.
‘I just loved the life. Who knew there were so many wondrous things about becoming a waiter, about the history of food, about culture, about artistry, about how phrases like Romanoff Sauce came about. It was creative; it was fantastic.
‘How could I not be captivated by this whole new world that had opened up to me?’
Brendan has always believed that if you take a job on you should do it to the best of your ability. Later, when he cleaned windows, he’d be an excellent window-cleaner. And if he goes into politics, as he has intimated he might, he may well go right to the top and become President of Ireland. (And who would bet against it?) Back in 1967, however, he vowed to become the very best waiter imaginable.
‘I created an original coffee, Café Diablo, which was amazing,’ he says, the pride in his voice audible.
But there were important things he hadn’t yet learned.
‘There were about twenty kids there at the time, like me, training to become waiters. Yet, after six months, I went home one night and realised that I hadn’t made a single friend. I’d look at myself in the mirror and think, “What is wrong with you?” I thought I was a nice enough guy, and I was a lot of fun. But then it dawned on me. I realised that I had too much to say for myself.
‘I just seemed to know too much. I was this little boy who, if someone had said to me the moon was made of green cheese, I’d have to rebuke them and say, “No, actually that’s a myth, it’s made of an iron core with a collection of cosmic particles . . .” and then I’d find myself sitting in the canteen on my own.
‘But once I realised why this was happening, I changed. If someone said to me, “Didn’t the moon look like a big piece of cheese last night?” I’d say something equally daft like “Cheese? No I thought it was made of ice cream.”’
Brendan was learning to downplay his intelligence. And, in coming up with gags, he’d win over even more people. Thanks to his new-found pragmatism, he made some new friends.
But no one could have mistaken Brendan for a shrinking violet. One holiday, Brendan took off up to the woods of Finglas, on the other side of town, to make his mark. Literally. He was carving his initials BOC on a tree when a gang of likely lads from the McKelvey area appeared (Brendan would later cheekily describe the area in Finglas East as an estate for ‘problem families’). The lads read him the riot act for his encroachment, telling this ‘little scud’ he should get back to his own area.
One member of this junior territorial army was called Gerry Browne, a boy who would later play a massive part in Brendan’s life.
‘My nickname as a kid was BOC,’ says Brendan. ‘Kids just called me by my initials. You can imagine what Finbar and Fiona had to go through.’
Meantime, he worked hard. He learned waiting skills. He learned that people eat with their eyes, that 80 per cent of eating pleasure is in the aesthetics, in the presentation. It’s a lesson he’s taken forward into comedy.
‘If you’re going to be a waiter, look like a waiter. If you work in a circus, look like a clown. If you’re playing an effete character, then give the audience a hint with a walk or whatever. Let them in on that, so’s they can work it out and feel clever.’
The young Brendan understood
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