Gráinne Maguire On Losing in Front of Your Home Crowd

“I don’t know whether headlining a Sinn Féin gala would be good for my brand.”

Wotcha: this bit’s Jonn. Earlier this year the comedian Gráinne Maguire, my hated arch enemy/comrade on much missed hit podcast podcast Paper Cuts, joined Substack. She is annoyingly funny, like she's actually good at her job or something? Anyway, I asked if she'd like to do a guest post¹. If you want more then, well, fill your boots:

Here she is now. See if you can spot the bit that made me laugh so much I frightened the dog.²

Doing a gig in your hometown is supposed to be a comedian’s climatic moment of triumph. We’ve all seen the film: your parents start a tearful standing ovation; your bully angrily stubs out their cigarette and slams the auditorium door shut behind them declaring it all bullshit; the teacher who believed in you pushes his way through the cheering crowd to shake your hand.

This, dear reader, is not what happened to me.

My homecoming gig resulted in a lifetime ban from my local newspaper, on account of me being, and I quote “a total disgrace”.

It all began when my sister rang me up to ask if I’d come home to perform at a Sinn Féin gala.

Sinn Féin is a tricky party to explain to people outside of Ireland. They are now just a centre left party with a bit of cultural baggage. Unattended suspicious baggage. Found in a city centre bin. With an unsettling ticking noise.

I come from a very old school Republican family so growing up, obviously, I hated everything about them. Irish politics was all so depressing and sad in the ‘90s, so I rebelled by becoming a New Labour fan girl. They were so glossy, bright and new, hanging out with Noel Gallagher. I’d have huge rows with my Mam, shouting that Gerry Adams was nothing but a warmonger and a terrorist, why couldn’t he be more like my hero, Tony Blair.

But my sister is a member of Sinn Féin and I love my sister. Irish people are used to sitting with the fact you can love someone and not always agree with their politics. Civil wars are really good at putting things like that into perspective. It’s why I found the long debates about Brexit so boring. What’s that, you’re struggling to connect with your granddad because he voted Leave? Don’t know if you can spend Christmas with someone who doesn’t believe in frictionless movement of goods? My Grandpa probably wired a car bomb. Get over it.

What can you do? They’re family. Which we all know is code for, “I do not respect their opinions at all but have a grudging sense of duty to not be rude to their face”.

I was hesitant about doing the gig though.

“I don’t know whether headlining a Sinn Féin Gala would be good for my brand,” I explained.

“Oh don’t be ridiculous, that’s a stupid idea.” my sister sighed. “You wouldn’t be headlining. Father Rich the singing priest is booked for that.”

“Then why am I flying all the way home to be warm-up for Father Ted the Musical?”

“Gráinne. It’s just you with a microphone, in front of the whole town that rejected you as a teenager with everyone forced to listen to you, uninterrupted, for 10 minutes.”

I was in.

This would be my chance. I could use comedy, my love, my passion, my art form to articulate everything I hated about the sentimentalisation of Irish suffering for political gain. Fine, I haven’t lived in Ireland since 2004 but that doesn’t mean I’m any less of an expert on the nuances of Republican identity in a post Good Friday Agreement, financial crash, Brexit Ireland. I got the gist. Time to finally let off some truth bombs. It’s a Sinn Féin gig after all.

When the night finally arrived, I was terrified. Charity gigs usually make a mistake of mixing comedy with other forms of entertainment, and they rarely gel well. Tonight’s line up was a corker: opening with a 15-minute one-man show about the famine; then a children’s choir singing a medley of rebel songs; and after that the Irish Country Women’s Association all-female version of the Cromwellian invasion.

I always thought the sweetest words before I stepped on stage would be ,“You're going to come back a star!” It turns out it was the stage manager whispering to me, “We’ve had to cut the Bobby Sands Hunger Strike interpretative dance. Uou're on next.”

As the philosopher Martine McCutcheon once said, this was my moment. I am walking out on stage, in front of my hometown, about to speak truth to power. This is for teenage Gráinne.

And then I see him. White teeth reflecting the light in the front row like a bespectacled Beegee in an Aran jumper. Gerry Adams is in the front row.

Don’t judge me. You don’t know the way he was looking at me, with such expectant joy on his face. Like he was proud. Like he loved me already.

So before I realise, I’m doing it, I have ditched my planned Sinn Féin take down and I’m just rattling off whatever bit of my set I remember.

“You couldn’t set the Sound of Music in Ireland, because in order for the film to work, you have to have realistically likeable nuns.”

There’s movement at the back. There’s a priest in and he’s not enjoying it. He looks at me with confusion like he’s wondering what convent I’ve escaped from.

Not to brag but Gerry loves me. Comedy is all about timing, which is something Gerry has always been good at. His five-minute warnings were always spot on. His face is beaming at me, like he already knows how well we’d get on. I picture us back in London, bumping into friends on the street. “Oh, this is Gerry,” I say absentmindedly, as I see them reappraising me in their mind. God, she’s so interesting, there’s more to her than meets the eyes. Maybe we’d get our own travel show.

“The ending to an Irish Sound of Music would be different. Instead of saving the kids from the Nazis, they’d sell them to paedophiles in America.”

The priest does not like this. He is angrily pushing to the end of the row and storming out of the theatre. Gerry is beside himself. I can see him shaking his head with a look of, “How are you going to get out of this Maguire?” I am probably the edgiest person he’s ever met.

Giddy with how well the gig is going I ad lib.

“I’m blowing the roof off the place. Is this a comedy gig or a shopping centre in Manchester in the ‘90s. Am I right, Gerry?”

The room is silent. I take a breath; I am in a room with Gerry Adams and I am the most problematic person there. I am bombing in front of Uncle Gerry. I feel it in my bones. I can hear my heart thumping as I wrap up my set, the microphone squeaking as it goes back into the stand. I leave the stage to silence.

My sister is glaring at me by the curtain.

“Well at least there’s still the headline act,” I gasp, trying to get my breath back.

“No”, she growls, pointing towards the audience, “That was the singing priest. The man you just made leave the theatre.”

There is silence.

“So,” I said, “can I just check, does that mean I was the headline act after all?”

The green room is tense. The local paper has banned me, my sister isn’t talking to me. The atmosphere can best be described as “Troubled”. Then we hear a familiar voice. I think it’s his anyway, it could be the voice of an actor. He puts his arm around me and addresses the room.

“I think we can all agree, Gráinne’s actions were regrettable, but it’s time to move forward in peace. Besides, what can you do? She’s family.”

If you want more of this sort of thing for some reason you should sign up to Gráinne’s Substack.

You can also hear her on The Way They Were, the podcast for people who have a celeb breakup they never got over, which she hosts with Chantal Feduchin-Pate.

Or, you could just listen to the entire Paper Cuts back catalogue once again.

1. Am I running short of friends with books to promote? Or am I getting soft in my old age? Who can say?

2. Gráinne doesn’t like dogs, by the way. Important to me that you know that when you’re debating whether to sign up to read more of this rubbish. Gráinne bloody Maguire doesn’t even like dogs. Christ.