IN THE dying days of pre-Celtic Tiger Ireland, I once answered a mysterious magazine ad seeking comedy scriptwriters for a new, independently-produced radio series.
A sample script subsequently earned me an invitation to a meeting in an office in the grittier part of Ringsend, where I rang the door-bell on the appointed night, wondering if my bike was safe. Then the door opened, and who should answer it only your man: Dermot Morgan.
Morgan was already a star at the time, though his light had been obscured slightly in recent years. He was still best known for his hilarious contributions to the Live MikeTV show in the early 1980s, when his characters ranged from the unctuous Father Trendy to a frothing GAA bigot who used to attack the audience with a hurley.
But RTÉ had not seemed to know what to do with him since then, and a succession of projects had gone nowhere. Now Morgan was trying again with a series provisionally titled Scrap Saturday. The name did not inspire confidence. "It's a gift to the critics, I know," he said. "I can see the headlines: 'Scrap this programme!'"
It was a curious evening. There were only three other people there: a lady novelist, a journalist with a Sunday paper, and a wacky character from Drogheda called Arthur Mathews. Yet it was one of the more entertaining meetings I have ever attended, because we immediately adjourned to the pub, where Morgan not only bought the drinks but also gave us what proved to be an exclusive preview of the show.
Charlie Haughey, P.J. Mara, Michael Noonan and Pee Flynn were just a few of the characters who dropped in on us. It was such good fun that, at the end of the night, it seemed like a bonus that my bike was still there.
Having seen the raw material, we were required to send in scripts, which I did. My working method at the time was to wait until a deadline loomed and then, inspired by panic, write all night. This ensured concentration. It also had the advantage that you could deliver your side-splitting material at a time when the intended recipients were still in bed, so that you did not risk being there when they read it and heartlessly failed to laugh.
So I still remember with horror the morning I cycled down to Ringsend, slipped the envelope under the door, and turned around to a cheerful "How'r'ye?" It was Morgan, starting work at 7.30am. And before I had time to run, he was ushering me in, sitting me down, tearing open my envelope, and reading the contents.
As is a point of pride among comic professionals, he studied the script stony-faced. And I was audibly squirming by the time he got to my best bit, at which point he smiled - almost visibly - and said: "That's a good line!" Then he laid the pages aside and asked: "Did you ever think of doing stand-up?" I knew this was a rejection slip, thinly disguised as career advice. But the only stand-up routine I was interested in at that precise moment was a prelude to getting out the door, fast; so I didn't seek clarification.
Scrap Saturdayduly appeared, "written by Dermot Morgan and Gerry Stembridge", and the rest is history. In fact, it was history all too soon, because RTÉ took the series off after three seasons, when it was still in its prime. This seemed in keeping with Morgan's relationship with Montrose. "Every time I work with RTÉ," he told us in the pub that night, "I always end up feeling like I've had my bottom felt." His horizons were about to widen beyond RTÉ. But timing is everything for a comedian. And it was a cruel joke of fate when Morgan died 10 years ago today, just as his best years seemed to await him.
Twenty-four hours earlier, he had finished filming the third season of Father Ted, the Channel 4 series - co-written by Arthur Mathews - that really made his name. It's ironic that such a great comic should have become famous as a straight man (or the nearest thing the series had to one). But Ted Crilly was essentially a mature version of Father Trendy. And Morgan was looking forward to finally leaving the priesthood and doing other things when a heart attack claimed him at the age of 45.
The years immediately before the boom were an interesting time in Ireland. When apologists for Charlie Haughey talk about his legacy, they always mention the free travel and the toothbrushes. They never mention that his last days in power inspired a short-lived flowering of satire.
For not only did the era produce Scrap Saturday. It also spawned the TV series Nighthawks(another target for starving, up-all-night scriptwriters), putting RTÉ executives in the rare position of having two hit comedy shows that they could axe prematurely. You could write a thesis on why satire has not thrived since; and your guess is as good as mine.
Scrap Saturdaywas the overtly political show, whereas the humour on Nighthawkswas more anarchic. Even so, it was the latter that would prove Haughey's downfall - not that the satirists could claim any of the credit when it happened. The decisive moment came instead in an interview, and the fatal words were delivered by a former justice minister, Sean Doherty - another well-known funny man whose career-defining performance was in a straight role.