Jesus, it's great to be back lads. Speaking as the only person who actually emigrated out of Ireland in 2001 (the lads at the airport almost bought me a cake), it's lovely to be home, especially if it's for the Cat Laughs in Kilkenny.
I suppose like any returning emigrant, I can't but be struck by the recent and monumental changes in Irish society. Changes I couldn't have imagined way back in late March when I turned my back on the country, sick of its backward ways, its parochial passions, the strangling yoke of the Catholic Church. "You'll not see me again in this hole," I roared, much to the surprise of the rest of the departure lounge. Back then, the rain was heavy and the mood grim. Nine weeks later, so much has changed.
In a very real sense, Ireland is in summer now. Of course, Ireland is in summer now, like the rest of the northern hemisphere, but seriously, like, I'm trying to make a point here.
I left to travel, I left to grow, I left to see the world. Mainly though, I left so that I could come back and write newspaper articles about how much the country has changed since I left. There's a lot of good money to be made writing about how much Ireland has changed. And the property prices! Jesus! That's another article right there. I've got to be able to bang out 600 words about that.
And haven't we sold our souls? Somebody was a little bit rude to me in a shop the other day. That never used to happen before. Money's just gone to their heads. Must remember to get 1,000 words out of that sometime. There's probably a Late Late appearance in it as well. Cha-ching!
If this sounds cynical, then you should've seen the whoring I was doing on your behalf outside the country. The whole Oirish factor gets cranked up to ninety for the immigrants. Right from the title, out comes the green card. The Good, the Bad and the Irish, Here come the Irish, Cream Of Irish, I've done them all. Of course, we rebel against this toora-loora stuff. Comedian Eddie Bannon has always insisted on introducing Cream of the Irish with the words: "Cover your eyes missus, here comes the Cream of the Irish."
It's not a pleasant image, but it was our little way of fighting back. At every turn we got hit with the Shamrock. We did radio interviews on Paddy's Day, where the nice man kept asking us if we celebrate the day in the same way back home. How's that we asked?
"Oh you know," he says, "drinking green beer and telling Irish jokes". Err, no, we patiently explained, we don't celebrate the biggest festival of the year by discolouring our drinks and telling stories about how stupid we are. They should know better, of course, since half of Ireland is wandering around Melbourne and Sydney at the moment, taking advantage of the generous one-year visa program. In the midst of the uproar about immigrants here, it's always funny to visit a country where we're the illegal ones. I always open the shows in Melbourne with a hello to the micks, leading to interaction like the following from this April.
Dara: "Any Irish in?" Hands go up Dara: "How long have you been over?" Punter: "Ah, you know yourself." Dara: "No, seriously, how long have you been here?" Punter: "Ah, a little while." Dara: "You'll have to do better than that with the lads from immigration, y'know" Punter: "Ah, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." It's a fairly laid-back visa anyway, and available up to the age of 31, if you're thinking of heading over. There's a lot of menopausal Irish out there already looking for one last big foreign trip to complete the set. Munich at 17, a J1 visa to the States at 20, off to Bondi at 28.
And if you want to find Irish, Bondi Beach is still the rock to look under. They can be found amidst the body surfers, improvising their own version of the sport. If you're an Aussie, body surfing involves rising in time with the wave and having it carry you to shore. If you're Irish, it just involves jumping up and down and getting splashed and then remembering that if you weren't here you'd be in Moate. The Irish version is a lot more fun.
One young Cork lad in the surf put the appeal of Bondi in even more basic terms. "During the summer man," he panted, "the Aussie birds just walk around in G-strings and cowboy hats." Staring off into space, he seemed to be getting a little stirred by the memory so I backed away and left him to it.
If the truth were told, I couldn't wait to get home. Even Australia gets a winter eventually. We spent the colder, last few weeks sitting in Adelaide, a mouldy cow town with tumbleweed for fun. Adelaide doesn't really get much of a sexy young immigrant crowd coming through, so our demographic shifted dramatically.
Dara: "Anyone in from Ireland?" Hands go up. Dara: "How long have you been over here" Punter: "Since 1954." Dara: "I have absolutely nothing to say to you. Thank you very much, goodnight." I'm a professional, but it's no use trying to drag laughs out of a crowd who came to see Frank McCourt. For example, we all got collared by a roaring old dear outside a theatre in Sydney one night. "You lot are a disgrace to your country," she hollered, "There's no need to be rude. You weren't raised like that." What Irish comedians do you like? "Brendan Grace. My husband kept asking to leave. We only stayed to see the Irish dancers."
Oh, I'm sorry, had I not mentioned the Irish dancers? Brought in by the organisers for the opening, doing yet another Riverdance rip-off. I'm standing backstage watching Irish dancers open the show for me and seeing the rest of my life flash before me. Ladies and Gentleman, please welcome on stage Dara ╙ Briain, Hal Roach for a new generation. To my credit, I opened with a routine about the mothers of Irish dancers being psychotic bitches, always just off stage roaring "Smile, smile, don't make a show of me out there." Then I met all the mothers afterwards backstage. Awkward, awkward, awkward.
A lovely moment