Colm Toibin interview (Sunday Business Post)

I published this interview with Colm Toibin in April in The Sunday Business Post. Here’s hoping that by this time tomorrow, Toibin gets his wish — the right to marry his partner in Ireland.

Colm Tóibín on same sex marriage: ‘The idea that I’m being excluded is hurtful to me’
03:55, 19 April 2015 by Nadine O’Regan

Colm Tóibín feels wounded, personally attacked and damaged.
The reason for his feelings is simple. Over the past few months, as the debate over the impending gay marriage referendum has gathered momentum, Tóibín has watched with increasing agitation as commentators have argued against granting him the right to marry his partner in his home country.
“When there’s somebody telling me that I can’t share my love with my partner publicly, I call that discrimination,” the renowned Irish novelist told The Sunday Business Post. “It’s very hurtful.”
In a phone call from New York, where he is teaching at Columbia University, the thrice Booker-nominated author of bestselling novels including Brooklyn, The Blackwater Lightship and Nora Webster, spoke eloquently and with palpable emotion about how Ireland’s response to gay marriage – and by extension to him as a gay man – has affected him.
“This isn’t like other debates,” Tóibín said. “In a debate about the economy or foreign policy, everybody could have a different view and you could argue your point. The problem is, if you’re gay, it’s fundamental to you.
“If someone thinks that I should not have the right to love, it’s very difficult to handle and it’s very difficult to be rational in response.
“I see people such as David Quinn and Breda O’Brien as a fundamental part of our democracy. They’re people who make arguments and if they didn’t Ireland would be the poorer. Having people represent another side of an argument is important.
“But in this case it’s very difficult because it’s so fundamental. I don’t think that in the large cases of discrimination that we know about – for example Catholics in Northern Ireland – that if someone told them that their right to love, and their right for it to be recognised in public, would be added to the other indignities they would be suffering under – well, it’s an extreme thing to do.”
Same-sex civil unions have been recognised in Ireland since 2011, but Tóibín does not believe they should be considered an appropriate compromise or substitution for the institution of marriage.
“In Ireland, ritual is important to us, especially because families are so close. Weddings matter in Ireland and being excluded from them is really sad. If you’re at your brother’s wedding and you realise, ‘I can’t have one of those’, it makes you feel that [people consider that] you’re not really in love with your boyfriend. You can have civil partnership but we [straight people] can have the whole thing.”
Tóibín was particularly distressed recently by an article written by political writer Bruce Arnold, in which Arnold argued against the prospect of gay marriage in Ireland, describing how important his marriage had been to him in his life.
“I’ve known Bruce Arnold a long time and I knew his wife and I have enormous respect for him as a journalist,” Tóibín said. “When I read the piece I was personally hurt by it. I was happy I wouldn’t see him on the street. I would have tried to get by very quickly.
“In the piece he was thinking about his own life, and the way in which his marriage had mattered to him. If I were to argue to him, I would argue about my life. I’ve done my best in Ireland as a writer. People read my books and I have made a contribution to Irish society as a journalist and a writer.
“The idea that I’m being excluded from something that Bruce treasures so much is very hurtful to me. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t say that, since he had all this happiness and it came his way and mattered so much, that surely he would want to give other people that rather than exclude them from it.”
Born and raised in Enniscorthy, Tóibín, who is 59, has struggled in the past with his identity as a gay man, rarely speaking publicly on the subject. In 2009, he defended his decision to this reporter not to answer questions about his sexuality.
“It’s bad enough being bald,” he said. “It’s bad enough being Irish. The labels don’t matter. When you’re working, you’re working to get things out.”
In 1993, Tóibín refused a commission to write about his sexuality for the London Review of Books, fobbing them off at the time by saying that he had “nothing polemical and personal, or even long and serious, to say on the subject”.
But the truth was, back then, he found it hard to get the words out. “Everyone knew I was gay,” he said, when asked about coming out as a gay man. “This would go back to me being 18 or 19, but I didn’t write about it. I didn’t feel comfortable writing about it.”
The subject seeped through into his fiction nonetheless. One of his early novels The Blackwater Lightship (1999) dealt directly with sexuality, telling the story of Helen, her mother Lily and grandmother Dora, who have come together to tend to Helen’s brother Declan, who is dying of Aids in an Ireland of the 1990s.
In The Story of the Night (1997), meanwhile, Tóibín’s gay lead character Richard understands that he will feel his relationship is meaningless unless it is recognised by other people.
Tóibín believes it is important for voters around the country to frame the marriage referendum in personal terms, asking themselves how they would feel if it was their son or daughter who was gay or lesbian and wished to get married.
“If you ask people hard abstract questions, using words like ‘institution of marriage’, that’s one thing,” he said. “But if you say your nephew is gay and he’s 16, the first people would feel is a sense of worry – ‘Will he be all right?’
“It becomes pressing and important that this person you know would have a reasonable expectation of a happy life. The less abstract it is, the more sympathetic people are.”
Tóibín accepts there are voters who will refuse to vote yes in the marriage referendum on religious grounds, but pointed out that Irish people live in a secular state. “I have no argument with Catholic teaching or with Muslims or Jewish people,” he said.
“This is not an argument of religion. It’s an argument to do with our state. Our state is a secular state. Mary McAleese is a practising Catholic, but from the moment she became president of Ireland she welcomed gay people and lesbians into her world. She said, ‘Why are we discriminating against people who are totally innocent?’”
Last week, in an important development for the Yes campaign, the former president publicly urged voters towards a Yes vote, asking them to quell any of their fears about the future of children. “People have been saying it’s about children,” McAleese said. “We believe it to be about Ireland’s gay children and their future and the kind of future we want for Ireland.”
Asked to respond to voters’ concerns over issues such as gay adoption, Tóibín said the rights of the child were of paramount importance in society. “The rights of the child have been established in law,” he said. “If anyone is going to adopt a child there has to be enormous attention paid to who these people are. It’s not as though there’s suddenly going to be a free-for-all and that children who are otherwise happy and cared for are going to be put into a situation where their rights aren’t put first.”
Tóibín still dislikes speaking about his sexuality. He agreed to do this interview – and to speak at Trinity College on May 14 ahead of the referendum – because he wants people to understand what it feels like to be in his position. “It’s important,” he said simply.
Life for Tóibín is moving at a busy clip – his novel Brooklyn has been made into a hotly tipped film starring Saoirse Ronan, set to be released later this year, and he has just published a new critical study: Colm Tóibín on Elizabeth Bishop – but he will make sure he is home in Ireland to vote on May 22.
He laughed bashfully when I asked him about his partner, who lives in the States. Will Tóibín marry if he is given the opportunity in Ireland?
“That’s a lovely idea, isn’t it?” Tóibín said. “That’d be lovely. These things are very personal and I think I’d better not make any proposals via The Sunday Business Post. But I’m not ruling anything out. I’d love to say to my partner that we could go back to Ireland and get married in my country.
“I’d love to have that right.”

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We Shade to Grey: my Sunday Business Post column, 8th February 2015

Truly, it is the love that dares not speak its name. People might not have been discussing it in their more hipster gatherings or at elegant dinner parties (in fact if the subject comes up, they’ll loudly decry their interest), but all around the country women have been slipping away to block-book tickets to see Fifty Shades of Grey, the film adaptation of EL James’s S&M global erotic romance smash, starring Irish actor Jamie Dornan and Dakota Johnson, which emerges, with deliberately cutesy timing, on Valentine’s weekend.
Speaking to one cinema owner before Christmas, he expressed doubt about how well Fifty Shades of Grey would do in Ireland, unsure if the book’s success would translate into bums on seats. But recent advance bookings have proved that the interest is there: the trailer has become the most viewed in movie history, and women are snapping up tickets at a rate of knots.
But that’s the deal with Fifty Shades of Grey. Everybody loudly condemns it, and then they download it onto their Kindles, sneak away with it on holidays or purloin their friends’ copies of the book. I used to own Fifty Shades of Grey, but it’s long gone, disappeared through a chain of people who “wouldn’t read that rubbish”, but nonetheless asked if they could borrow it. One of the reasons for the novel’s initial ascent into mainstream popularity – leaving aside EL James’s mind-boggling feat of welding S&M to the type of sugary dialogue you’d find in a Sweet Valley High novel – was the fact that it could be bought on a Kindle, so no one could see you reading it. When it became mainstream fodder, Fifty Shades became acceptable to buy in shops, on the grounds that everyone else was buying it. But it still came pre-loaded with a sense of mortification, which continues to linger around the film.
Would you want to be spotted going to Fifty Shades of Grey? Let’s face it, it’s not like telling people you’re off to watch Birdman. I’m going to a reviewers’ screening soon, so I can justify the entire thing on the grounds that it’s for work. While I’m happy to go to the cinema on my own ordinarily, there’s no way I’d venture to Fifty Shades solo. I’m not sure I’d see it with a date either: you’d want to be pretty comfortable with your beloved to sit through those Red Room of Pain bondage scenes. (Advance word has it that a full fifth of the film’s running time is given over to sex scenes.)
But I am curious about it. So I can understand the reports that there have been 80 per cent block advance bookings for the film by women – they want to see the film, but they’re embarrassed, and there’s strength in numbers. “Will we go for a laugh?” they’ll say to each other, and “the laugh” will be justification enough.
Still, even as a guilty pleasure, the movie has to justify their time, and advance details to date don’t look inspiring. It has an odd choice of director: Sam Taylor-Johnson, best known for her work as a visual artist. The previous lead actor backed out of the project, leaving Jamie Dornan to step up. Some scenes have had to be reshot on the grounds that they weren’t “sexy enough”. In the trailers I’ve seen, Johnson looks to be massively overacting, coming over like Kristen Stewart in Twilight times 100 (a terrifying proposition).
Much of the problem stems from a confusion around the book’s success: no one suspected it would become such a hit – and people still aren’t sure exactly why it has been. In recent interviews, Dornan has sounded uncertain about the project, and he’s right to be. There’s a lot riding on this film, his career included.
Could it become the biggest turkey in history? Will it be a smash hit? Either way, expect illegal downloading of the movie to be rife – after all, if you’re going to watch a film in the privacy of your own home, with no one else to see you, Fifty Shades is a perfect choice.

Our so-called lives (my Artistic Licence column, SBP, Feb 1, 2015)

A few weeks ago, yet another new trend started on Facebook. Like last August’s ice-bucket challenge, but without the charity incentive, friends started daring each other to share their first profile pictures on Facebook, the ones they had posted up as far back as 2005, or whenever they first joined Facebook. Much amusement ensued as Facebook users posted up pictures of themselves from a decade or so back – younger versions sporting dodgy haircuts or accompanied by even dodgier ex-boyfriends. Everyone laughed (or LOLed, if you prefer). It was cute.

But looking at all the younger, fresher faces, I couldn’t help but notice that there seemed to be a key difference between the old faces and the new, that had nothing to do with the age gaps involved. Back then, when Facebook first became a thing in Ireland, it felt like we weren’t all so concerned about how we appeared to each other on the site. We weren’t as self-conscious. We weren’t keeping up with the Joneses. We weren’t toting selfie sticks. We weren’t building social media empires. We were just ourselves, in internet format: lumps, bumps, bad fashion and all.

These days, Facebook is an entirely different beast. Around Christmas time, I was having a chat in the pub with a friend I hadn’t seen in ages. “How are you getting on?” he enquired. “Or do I even need to ask – every time I see a picture of you on Facebook or Twitter, you’re doing so great.” I was a little taken aback. Actually, 2014 had been a tough year. But would I have admitted that on Facebook? Would I hell.

Almost without realising it, I had become complicit in a kind of Facebook fraud, selectively editing my life for social media. In fact, when I thought back on it, it struck me that if my year had been better, my Facebook profile would have been less, well, incredibly happy looking. I wouldn’t have felt the need to bother.

Like an awful lot of people these days, my Facebook profile is something of a front. Sure, all the pictures on it are real. But it’s a selective truth, about as representative of my day-to-day life as a glitzy, big-budget MTV video is representative of a musician’s life. I don’t put up pictures of the bad days, the down moments. And here’s the thing – neither does almost anyone else.

If I want to see my friends getting engaged, crossing the line in marathons, getting their degrees, dancing at festivals, I’ll go onto Facebook. But if I’m going to find out about the pain behind their eyes – the truth about how their husband had an affair, or how their mum has been diagnosed with cancer – I’m going to hear it in a pub or a coffee shop, in intimate moments, not on social media. (The few people willing to post messages about life traumas remain exceptions to the rule.)

Facebook itself is a kind of fraud. It promises you friendship with others. But it’s a friendship that prompts you to share a kind of happiness that verges on boasting. It gives you a false impression of people. You might feel close to them through seeing their pictures, but you don’t know them. Not only that, but not only do you not see their problems, you might go completely the other way, and think they’re having the most marvellous time – and that’s bad for you. Study after study has shown that, although Facebook’s popularity is rampant, the network often depresses people. It makes them feel jealous – why did their friends have a party without them? Who’s that girl hanging onto their boyfriend? It makes them feel lonely and unpopular.

But Facebook is here to stay, at least in the short to medium term. That being the case, maybe it’s time for us all to put up some giant disclaimers about the nature of the site. When you use it, call it Fantasy Facebook in your mind – not just in regard to the stuff you’re putting up, but the stuff everyone else is sharing too. Facebook is just the life other people want you to believe they have.

Artistic licence: Are we selfie-absorbed? 16 November 2014 by Nadine O’Regan

The other day, I was having a little trawl around the internet – one of those supposed five-minute jaunts where you blink and it’s been an hour – when I happened upon the Instagram account of an acquaintance of mine, a nice guy who works in publishing. I’ll follow him, I thought.

But then I had a look at some of his pictures and came upon one of his recent shots – a self-taken close-up of his naked torso. To be frank, although he’s a good-looking guy, it was more than I bargained for on a Monday (although I’ll admit to examining the picture closely, the better to confirm my disapproval) and not what I’d expected from him – he’s not a model after all. But if it seemed vain or bizarre of him to put it up there, it had certainly racked up a lot of likes, the currency for popularity on the social media site.

He’s far from the only person at this lark. In the brief time I’ve been active on Instagram, I’ve come across countless selfies – the word for a self-taken picture – of users in the changing rooms of shops, pub toilets and swanky hotel bathrooms, anywhere there’s a large mirror basically. Some post fairly racy pictures, some confine themselves to face selfies.

Confession time: although I’m definitely not into randomly ripping off items of clothing for the dubious benefit of a few hundred Instagram followers, I post face selfies, too – and they’re actually fun: a visual diary of a hairstyle, a holiday, a festival or simply a gloriously vain experiment in finding an Instagram filter that hides all wrinkles and highlights your best side. So, I’m not exactly in a position to play moral guardian about the whole thing. I couldn’t care less what anyone wants to post, egocentric or otherwise.

But you have to admit it’s a strange phenomenon, this trick whereby many of your circle are pointing phones at mirrors in public, and touching up their make-up to take a picture of themselves. The question is whether the new trend for narcissism is an innocuous enough past-time. Presumably, unless you trip over yourself while taking the selfie, it’s unlikely to do you much harm, right? And what’s so wrong with having a nice (if overly flattering) picture of yourself? If celebrities are allowed their photoshopping, then surely we mere mortals can permit ourselves the indulgence of an iPhone camera and a decent filter? That hideous American trend for selfies at funerals aside, a selfie doesn’t seem like the worst of hobbies we could indulge in.

Equally, an Instagram account is also an opportunity. Whether you’re a professional mid-career or a teenager just figuring your life out, Instagram offers a brand-building platform for its users. Forty million pictures are uploaded to Instagram daily, and – as studies have shown – the more provocative the picture, and the smarter the hashtags accompanying it, the more likely it is that the person will get more followers and build their brand. It’s a kind of self-generating fame that will be pointless for some, but may translate into a career for others: budding photographers, models, stylists, television presenters and journalists may all grow fanbases from their obsessions with Instagram and Twitter.

Still, you can’t help but feel a slight prickling of discomfort about the whole thing – a sense that selfie culture may also be selfish culture; that we all might, like Narcissus, wind up dying next to the pool having realised that our reflections can never return our love. Perhaps our spiralling interest in ourselves is already translating into a lack of interest in other people.

A friend of mine was talking about social media recently. “No one reads Twitter anymore,” he pointed out. “They all just post stuff, but they don’t read other people’s tweets.” Imagine that, a world where we endlessly talk and never listen? If everyone is on the stage, after all, who’s left to be in the audience?

John Michael McDonagh interview (Sunday Business Post, April 6, 2014)

Arts Interview: Calvary charge
6 April 2014 by Nadine O’Regan

John Michael McDonagh has waited a long time for his moment in the sun, and you can tell. As he settles himself contentedly into his suite in a luxurious Dublin hotel, the London-Irish film-maker – whose break-out success came with The Guard in 2011 – doesn’t mince his words telling of how hard his early struggles in the film world were.
Unlike most writer-directors, McDonagh wasn’t just fighting to make his voice heard in film. He also had to contend with living in the shadow of his ultra-talented, keen-eyed and successful sibling Martin, the so-called enfant terrible of British theatre, responsible for the Leenane Trilogy, and later, in film, the successful dark comedy In Bruges.
Was there sibling rivalry at play? McDonagh gives me the wry look of one who has lived with this answer for many years.
”To begin with, Martin was very successful in theatre, and I’m not a big fan of theatre,” he says, leaning forward, his eyes resolute, his tone of voice pragmatic. ”I think people pay too much for plays, and they’re usually not very good. So I didn’t mind when he was a playwright. But when he got In Bruges set up, and it became a critical success, then I got jealous.”
At the time, John Michael was living in London, labouring to craft commissioned screenplays that were earning him a crust but rarely making it the whole way to the big screen. At parties, he would be embarrassed when people asked what he did; hating their awkward expressions as they realised he had never written a screenplay they had heard of. But he used the feelings to good effect.
”A lot of the bad experiences in your life form you just as much as the good experiences,” he says. ”Those years of frustration, of rage against the film industry, rage against my brother, led to the making of The Guard. That frustration became the character of Gerry Boyle. So you can’t take it back. If you took it back, I would never have made The Guard.”
When The Guard, a dark buddy-buddy action comedy starring Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle and written and directed by McDonagh, emerged in 2011, it surprised everyone by becoming the most successful Irish indie film of all time, overtaking In Bruges at the box office. John Michael’s response was as jubilant and crowing as you might expect.
”He rang me up with the news, and slammed down the phone laughing,” Martin McDonagh told this reporter. ”There was a lot of violence and drinking [that Christmas], and that was just my mother.”
Fortunately, while the McDonagh brothers might sound like the warring Gallaghers of Oasis, they’re actually pretty supportive of each other. To some extent, their film material echoes each other – they specialise in dark, acerbic work, with frequent lurches in tone and a tendency to offer up intriguing philosophical truths alongside gruesome jokes and self-conscious commentary.
In person, they share a confident, charismatic, self-made-man attitude. McDonagh left school at 16, which, for him, makes his subsequent stories about flying business class on planes all the sweeter. A stockier, balder version of his playwright brother, McDonagh wears a perpetually determined look on his face and talks a fantastic game – if Michael O’Leary made films, this is how he’d sound in interviews.
Certainly, confidence was needed for his latest film project – Calvary, the story of a good priest being threatened with murder, which again stars the magnificent Gleeson in the lead role, flanked by a cavalcade of Irish talent including Aidan Gillen (as a doctor), Pat Shortt (a barman), Dylan Moran (the local rich man) and Chris O’Dowd (the town butcher), playing small but memorable roles. How did McDonagh get such a great cast together?
”You write a good script,” he laughs, while also being entirely serious. ”A lot of the actors have only three or four scenes, but they’re intense, heightened scenes, so they can come in and kind of chew the scenery.
”They’re going up against Brendan Gleeson, which is a challenge. They’re seeing an actor who is very prepared, a De Niro-type actor, who is very method. So he gets very intensely involved in the role. He’s playing a character who is continually battered – he was exhausted emotionally – so when actors come in, they have to go up against him. So it’s a series of one-on-one fights in the movie. I think it’s one of the best casts ever assembled for an Irish movie.”
Earlier, downstairs in the Merrion Hotel, the perpetually ruffled-looking Dylan Moran has backed up McDonagh’s claims about the script. Moran plays an eccentric toff in the film who appears to need for nothing, but actually despairs of his own existence.
”I loved the script, so I knew straight away that I wanted to do it,” says Moran. ”It’s a very powerful piece of work, not patronising or prescriptive. It’s got elements of comedy and drama in it, but it’s not easily categorised. You could probably call it an epic.”
The film begins with an intriguing manifesto – Gleeson is told in the confession box that his life will end in seven days – so it’s time to get his affairs in order. One of his parishioners means to do away with him – ”I’m going to kill you because you’re innocent,” the man in confession says – but which one? Almost everyone in the town of swishing curtains and raised eyebrows is suspicious.
The film is a profound meditation on life and loneliness; a contemplation of the iniquities of the Catholic Church; and also an arthouse drama – the story of a man who has fought his demons and become a priest. It’s about pain, and about finding ways to fill the void.
”It’s all those things, and it’s funny as well which is quite odd, because it veers back and forth between really dark stuff and stuff that makes you laugh,” adds McDonagh. ”It keeps audiences on their toes. It’s a strange beast. The Guard had melancholic moments, but this goes into deeper and darker moments. It’s a strange hybrid of a movie.”
Although there are longueurs, Calvary is a better and more thoughtful, if less accessible, movie than The Guard – a one-man meditation (albeit played out through multiple characters) of what it means to exist in post-religious, small-town Ireland. It’s also beautifully shot – Sligo has never looked so well. But does McDonagh agree that he’s made a better film than The Guard?
”I think it’s trying to be more ambitious and deal with deeper themes,” he says. ”I think The Guard is a good film, but it can be dismissed as a buddy-buddy black comedy.
”But with Calvary, hopefully it makes you think. It’s a more international, expansive film, dealing with things that we think about in life, but never put in a movie.”
Speaking of Irish film-making, McDonagh is openly dismissive of some of the choices his fellow film-makers have made in terms of the screenplays they have brought to life for low-budget movies. ”A lot of the movies that are made – their initial ideas just aren’t good enough. You see synopses for these movies, and you think: No one is going to go and watch that.’
”As Brendan always says, what’s the point of making a film for an empty cinema? You might as well not have made it. There doesn’t seem to be any kind of impetus to it, other than that someone wanted to make a movie.
”But you’re being really arrogant if you’re expecting people to pay a lot of money for a film that isn’t that well-made, well-cast or well-written. It leads to a despair in the Irish audience. Then, when someone eventually makes a good Irish film, there’s an in-built resistance to it. I don’t want to sound like one of those US studio heads, but the film does have to play to the people.”
Already, the reviews for Calvary have been stellar, which means McDonagh can relax and look forward to taking a well-earned rest after he finishes the promotional work around the film.
”I’m a very lazy person,” he laughs. ”There were three years between The Guard and Calvary, and I spent a lot of that time on the beach. My wife is Australian so we go to Australia for a couple of months every year, which is very nice. Once I’ve made a movie, I just want to take a year off, lie around reading and watch movies.”
When he does return to the fray, however, it’s unlikely that it’ll be in collaboration with his brother Martin. Despite their obvious synchronicity, John Michael thinks that it’d simply be too painful for those around them.
”We played five-a-side on Wednesday night, and the game ground to a halt where we had an argument about a penalty. If we’re doing that in a football match, it wouldn’t be wise to work on a movie, he laughs. ”It’d be a good behind-the-scenes documentary, but it probably wouldn’t be a good movie.”

Meeting Sinead O’Connor (as published in The Sunday Business Post, 030814)

Everyone has an opinion on Sinéad O’Connor. From the taxi driver to the teacher, the name Sinéad O’Connor elicits a slew of standpoints, ranging from the bewildered to the condemnatory. There’s the Miley Cyrus spat to ponder, the online dating, the brief fourth marriage, the breakdowns and the infamous 1992 Saturday Night Live appearance, in which O’Connor tore up a picture of the Pope. Drama seems to follow O’Connor around or – if you prefer another interpretation – she often courts it herself.
And so it’s a surprise to walk into a tiny recording studio on Westland Row in Dublin, (picked because a musical environment is comfortable for her, her publicist explains), and see O’Connor looking placid and serene, a veritable sea of calm in the storm. The 47-year-old is here today to talk about the music. She is about to release a new, vivid and strong album called I’m Not Bossy, I’m the Boss, the name inspired by a high-profile Sheryl Sandberg campaign, and she looks every inch the title.
O’Connor is tiny these days. Clad in a black-fronted waistcoat, with a leopard-print back, black trousers and pumps, the first thing you notice are those beautiful woodland doe eyes, still as striking as they were in the video for her star-making Prince cover, Nothing Compares to You. But O’Connor herself is uncomfortable. “I went for a facial,” she explains regretfully. “And my face reacted to the fruit acids, right before these interviews.”
I reassure her that she looks great. Her face is a little red, true, but hardly a big deal and – as always with O’Connor – far more prominent are the tattoos that sprawl all over her body, her chest, her arms, present even via tiny red-inked lettering on her cheeks. But she doesn’t seem totally convinced.

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Caitlin Moran interview (Sunday Business Post, Ireland)

Caitlin Moran has a new book out — a funny and thoroughly enjoyable novel called How to Build A Girl, so in honour of that, here’s my interview with her from 2012, when we chatted in a limo on the way to The Late, Late Show. . .

Special type of woman
14 October 2012 by Nadine O’Regan

Caitlin Moran has a dress in her bag that she’s thinking of wearing when she appears on The Late Late Show later, but time is ticking away. It’s already 8pm. The limo is due to arrive shortly, and Moran is still clad in her everyday gear of denim shorts, opaque tights and a multi-coloured bomber jacket with yellow deer on the front.
Her hair is an Amy Winehouse-channelling barnet of black with a large daub of silver-blonde through it. Her eyeliner is in a cartoonish Cleopatra curve. It’s a cute, alternative look, but not very Late Late Show.
Her Irish publicists look anxiously at their watches. The queue at Eason on O’Connell Street, Dublin, where Moran has been doing a public appearance and book signing, is showing no signs of fading.
Partly that’s because of the enthusiasm of the 130-strong audience. Partly it’s because Moran devotes so much time to each fan. She signs personalised notes on the books, offers compliments, doles out advice and even clasps her hands around one fan’s boobs for a photograph – much to the laughing delight of the fan in question.
Later on the Late Late Show, the non-appearance of the dress – Moran zipped onto the show still clad in her denim shorts and bomber jacket “‘with a soup stain down the front” – will become a talking point on the programme itself.
Moran has been brought on beside glamourpuss and Playboy model Rosanna Davison, and presenter Ryan Tubridy (whether for showbiz schtick or not) can’t seem to let go of the fact that Moran has rocked up to the programme in the same outfit she might wear to Topshop of a Saturday.
In a way, though, Moran’s Doc Marten-clad appearance is part of the point. An award-winning feminist author and columnist, Moran has won the love and respect of millions of women, not just for being honest about her life, but for being hilariously funny with it.
In her 2011 book How To Be A Woman, she laments her cystitis, refuses to depilate, contemplates weight gain and talks in a down-to-earth tone about big subjects including feminism, childbirth and abortion – the last of which is movingly narrated through the prism of her own experience.
The audience on the shop floor today is largely composed of young women, many of whom stare at Moran with a mixture of awe and adoration.
“I hate to disagree with you on anything,” says one girl in a mortified tone, prefacing a question.
Moran does few interviews, but has endless time for her fans. As she says goodbye to the final autograph-hunter, she doesn’t mention the crumpled dress, but muses as to whether the deodorant she’s put in her hair to replace the dry shampoo she left at home in north London is working. Then up comes the limo and the four of us – Moran with her two Irish publicists – leap in.
If giving an interview to The Sunday Busines Post in the back of a car fazes Moran, she doesn’t show it. If anything, she’s more worried about how I’m going to cope.
“Can you see your notes?” she asks. “Do you want me to switch the light on?”

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