Read Online The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll by Brian Beacom - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brian Beacom
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you had to play the part of the waiter completely and put yourself to one side.
‘When I’d get a complaint I’d always agree.
‘“Waiter, this piece of steak isn’t quite right . . .”
‘“Quite right? You’re right, sir. It looks like shite. Let me take it back for you.”
‘“Well, it’s edible, I suppose.”
‘“Edible? No way. It’s fit for the bin! Let me sort it.”
‘What I learned was that the customer wasn’t always right. But he was always the customer. And your job is to make sure his experience is the best you can make it.’
And so he learned how to please people. Brendan would never forget this when it came to creating the Mrs Brown stage show. Early on, when he wrote gags, there were times when the audience didn’t laugh. But he’d try to stick with them because he believed they would work. And they wouldn’t, no matter how they were presented. Brendan came to realise the audience is always right. The job is to please them, not your own ego. But at times it was hard. Indeed, one experience could have resulted in less robust people spending fortunes on a treatment couch.
‘The German hotel manager lived in a suite with his wife. And Mrs Herr would have room service every day. But the waiters hated to serve her because she was a horror.
‘One day, I placed this lady’s order on her table, all perfectly prepared, and she was about to dismiss me. But before doing so she dipped her finger in the French dressing, which every waiter prepared, including me.’
‘“And vast ees dis?”
‘“It’s French dressing.”
‘“Dees is not. It ees deesgusting.”
‘And she walked away, got a piece of paper and a pen and wrote out a recipe for French dressing, which she then pinned to my jacket. She told me I was not to enter her apartment for the next six months unless I had the recipe pinned to my lapel. And so it remained there. I worked at cocktail parties with this recipe still attached. People looked at it and laughed. And it was humiliating. But I knew that if I reacted she would win. I wasn’t going to let her win.’
Brendan had a way of dealing with the ignominy.
‘I decided that the recipe wasn’t pinned to me, it was pinned to my jacket. You can always take off the jacket.’
At the end of the six-month sentence, Brendan unpinned the recipe. And that afternoon as he carried a tray across the restaurant, he was apprehended by an angry Mrs Herr.
‘“Where is dat recipe?”
‘“Mrs Herr, the six months is over. And unless you can think of a very good reason why I should pin it back on, I won’t.”’
Brendan had learned a great deal in his first year as a waiter. But life was soon to serve him up problems that he’d really struggle to cope with.
Teenage Kicks
BRENDAN and his two Finglas friends John and Jimmy were always on the lookout for new ways to have fun. One night Brendan ‘sourced’ a vehicle. That didn’t mean he stole it; he just borrowed it for a night.
‘It was a Mini,’ he recalled, as he chatted to me in a Glasgow bar late one night, having just appeared as Mrs Brown on stage.
‘And I drove the three of us all the way over to Cavan – 65 miles from Dublin – with me driving, in second gear all the way.’
The getaway driver could barely see over the steering wheel.
‘We went to Cavan because there was a fairground there and so we all got onto the helter-skelter, and slid down the mats. But at the bottom John got up, and then collapsed. And he was white as a ghost. So we said, “Are you okay?” And he wasn’t, so we headed home. And on the way back, I said, “John, that was so scary. We were worried for you,” and he said, “Yes, but don’t tell me mammy. She won’t let me go to school tomorrow.”
‘Now, can you imagine a kid saying that? But he was so bright and so eager, and the best footballer I’d ever seen. And he was a really good-looking bastard. If there were three good-looking girls around, he’d get the three
‘When I’d get a complaint I’d always agree.
‘“Waiter, this piece of steak isn’t quite right . . .”
‘“Quite right? You’re right, sir. It looks like shite. Let me take it back for you.”
‘“Well, it’s edible, I suppose.”
‘“Edible? No way. It’s fit for the bin! Let me sort it.”
‘What I learned was that the customer wasn’t always right. But he was always the customer. And your job is to make sure his experience is the best you can make it.’
And so he learned how to please people. Brendan would never forget this when it came to creating the Mrs Brown stage show. Early on, when he wrote gags, there were times when the audience didn’t laugh. But he’d try to stick with them because he believed they would work. And they wouldn’t, no matter how they were presented. Brendan came to realise the audience is always right. The job is to please them, not your own ego. But at times it was hard. Indeed, one experience could have resulted in less robust people spending fortunes on a treatment couch.
‘The German hotel manager lived in a suite with his wife. And Mrs Herr would have room service every day. But the waiters hated to serve her because she was a horror.
‘One day, I placed this lady’s order on her table, all perfectly prepared, and she was about to dismiss me. But before doing so she dipped her finger in the French dressing, which every waiter prepared, including me.’
‘“And vast ees dis?”
‘“It’s French dressing.”
‘“Dees is not. It ees deesgusting.”
‘And she walked away, got a piece of paper and a pen and wrote out a recipe for French dressing, which she then pinned to my jacket. She told me I was not to enter her apartment for the next six months unless I had the recipe pinned to my lapel. And so it remained there. I worked at cocktail parties with this recipe still attached. People looked at it and laughed. And it was humiliating. But I knew that if I reacted she would win. I wasn’t going to let her win.’
Brendan had a way of dealing with the ignominy.
‘I decided that the recipe wasn’t pinned to me, it was pinned to my jacket. You can always take off the jacket.’
At the end of the six-month sentence, Brendan unpinned the recipe. And that afternoon as he carried a tray across the restaurant, he was apprehended by an angry Mrs Herr.
‘“Where is dat recipe?”
‘“Mrs Herr, the six months is over. And unless you can think of a very good reason why I should pin it back on, I won’t.”’
Brendan had learned a great deal in his first year as a waiter. But life was soon to serve him up problems that he’d really struggle to cope with.
Teenage Kicks
BRENDAN and his two Finglas friends John and Jimmy were always on the lookout for new ways to have fun. One night Brendan ‘sourced’ a vehicle. That didn’t mean he stole it; he just borrowed it for a night.
‘It was a Mini,’ he recalled, as he chatted to me in a Glasgow bar late one night, having just appeared as Mrs Brown on stage.
‘And I drove the three of us all the way over to Cavan – 65 miles from Dublin – with me driving, in second gear all the way.’
The getaway driver could barely see over the steering wheel.
‘We went to Cavan because there was a fairground there and so we all got onto the helter-skelter, and slid down the mats. But at the bottom John got up, and then collapsed. And he was white as a ghost. So we said, “Are you okay?” And he wasn’t, so we headed home. And on the way back, I said, “John, that was so scary. We were worried for you,” and he said, “Yes, but don’t tell me mammy. She won’t let me go to school tomorrow.”
‘Now, can you imagine a kid saying that? But he was so bright and so eager, and the best footballer I’d ever seen. And he was a really good-looking bastard. If there were three good-looking girls around, he’d get the three
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