My brother (Pat) Patrick Mc Cabe’s writing is heavily influenced by music with many of his book titles taken from songs. His novel Breakfast on Pluto (named after the Don Partridge hit song) was brought to the screen by Neil Jordan. A story about a young man wanting to be a woman in a small border town in Ireland. It was a groundbreaking story as was the performance of actor Cillian Murphy in the lead as Kitten Brady. At the beginning of 2006 it premiered in the Savoy cinema Dublin. All the Mc Cabe siblings were invited. The premiere was hosted by RTE presenter Gerry Ryan on behalf of the charity UNICEF. We watched the movie in awe at Cillian’s tour de force. I was sitting beside a lifelong mate of Bono, namely Gavin Friday, erstwhile frontman of The Virgin Prunes, a post punk Dublin band. He played the singer Billy Hatchett in the movie, singing a cover of the glam rock band The Sweet’s Wig Wam Bam.
In truth, he looked nothing like a virgin, more like a cross between Mystic Meg, Alvin Stardust, Elvis and Gary Glitter, but possessed a similarity to a prune in that he was dressed all in black. Black leather jacket, trousers, shirt and scarf. He was also plastered in gothic make up including mascara, sporting thick rings on all his fingers including his thumbs. It’s fair to say he wasn’t at all impressed when I nodded at his hands asking if he was a plumber in his spare time. My joke about his having a crystal ball in his pocket or getting that week’s lottery numbers went down quicker than a premiership footballer in the penalty area.
After the movie and speeches the siblings ended up in Lillies Bordello nite club just off Grafton Street. It was the in vogue locale despite its compact and bijou size with the sticky carpet shining like a bus driver’s trousers. We were able to secure a table for all siblings. Very soon we were allstar struck as all the cast was present. In attendance also, was the ubiquitous troubadour Shane Mc Gowan who was getting a lot of attention, especially as he was carrying a plastic supermarket bag that he allegedly kept money in. I say allegedly because I watched him frequently through the evening. To my knowledge he didn’t buy a drink all night, so I assumed he had strong Co. Cavan connections. However, the biggest reception of groupies was reserved for Ralph Fiennes who was at the time in the Gate Theatre performing Brian Friel’s Faith Healer. That’s until the diminutive Bono arrived. He was swarmed like a ticket tout outside Wembley Stadium, his minders having to take him into the anteroom for his safety.
Standing outside the toilets I was approached by a woman of indeterminate age who had the physiognomy of a emeritus professor of archaeology. I wanted to remove her jam jar spectacles and stand on them. She looked at me like she lost a Viking chalice, ‘are you Eugene Mc Cabe?’ I nodded, expecting her to either stab me with a trowel or tickle me with a sand brush ‘I’m such a fan, I love your work on the north’. Immediately the penny dropped. She thought I was the writer with the same name, from the same Co. Monaghan town of Clones, but no relation. His plays about the Protestant/Catholic tension on the border were universally acclaimed. ‘Your trilogy, especially Cancer are both emotive and persuasive’. I wanted to spoil her party but I decided to run with it, ‘thank you so much, but I think my novel Death and Nightingales is by far my pièce de résistance, have you read that?’ Her reaction told me that she wasn’t that big a fan after all, immediately scurrying into the toilets like a mongrel stealing a string of sausages out of a butcher shop.
Later the finger food was distributed while we were still congregated at the same table. Cillian Murphy passed us. I ran after him to get a signed photo from the premiere. He did so reluctantly but informed me he was trying to enjoy the night privately with his family. I told him that he should appreciate people asking as one day they won’t want his autograph (a prediction which consequently has been somewhat blown out of the water). When I got back to the table the imbibed Shane was lying supine on my sister Dympna’s lap, eyes closed, but still holding on to his plastic bag like a time bomb. She was dropping cocktail sausages into his pouted toothless mouth, reminiscent of a scaldy in a nest. When his appetite was sated he eventually recovered informing us that he had a new album coming out. My brother Barney enquired ‘is it a stamp album Shane?’
Somewhat perturbed at the one liner he segued toward a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes disappearing into the ether.
Pat then told us we were invited to Bono’s hotel, The Clarence on the quays. Outside, Bono’s limousine was waiting but he decided to let Pat take his seat, opting to walk to the hotel with his minders along with the UNICEF official, Barney and me. I spent most of the time talking to the minders who were the antithesis of regular bouncers, being as small as their employer. In the hotel Bono asked the night porter to get us all a drink before he went upstairs. On his return he noticed that I wasn’t drinking. ‘Your Pat’s brother and you don’t drink? That’s an oxymoron’. I assumed it was a rhetorical question so I didn’t reply. ‘And where did howdie come from? ‘It’s Houdi, Bono after the great Harry Houdini, I can talk my way out of tricky situations’. I informed him that I asked for a black tea with lemon, but the kitchen was closed. ‘We can’t have that now howdie can we’. The night porter couldn’t be found so Bono went to the kitchen himself.
Unbelievably, he personally made my tea serving it in a porcelain teapot, cup and saucer. He poured my tea ‘sorry howdie, it’s just English breakfast’. When he discovered he had forgotten the lemon he retreated behind the bar returning with two slices. He watched me take the first sip. I gave him a thumbs up ‘cheers Bono, you have my approval. If your next album fails there’s a job for you here’.
He slapped me playfully on the shoulder before returning to Pat to finish a previous dissertation on Ulysses.An hour later we decided to go back to our hotel, greatly encouraged by the now omnipresent hotel porter. Pat was already in the limousine, with Bono and Gavin Friday about to join him. I said, ‘Bono if you ever get a burst pipe, Wig Wam Bam Gavin is your man’. Bono looked at me completely puzzled wondering what he had put in that tea. The Virgin Prune didn’t even remember me.
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