Read Online The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll by Brian Beacom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Brian Beacom
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of them.’
John Breen managed to go to school the next day but the collapse had been a warning of things to come. He died just two years later of leukaemia.
‘John knew he was dying, although his parents never told him what was wrong with him. But he worked it out, checked the symptoms in an encyclopedia. And he never told his parents he knew.’
Brendan had lost his dad. Now he’d lost his best friend. It made him all the more determined to get the very most out of life. But the death of John broke up the trio. Things were never the same again. Jimmy spent more time with another pal.
Brendan never considered turning to God for help in getting over his grief. By this time, his relationship with the Catholic Church had taken a turn for the worst. He was becoming a little tearaway. And with a skinhead haircut and the cheek of the devil, he didn’t exactly endear himself to youth club managers and the owners of local teen discos. So, just going on fourteen, and still working at the Intercontinental, he decided to open his own nightclub.
‘Me and my pals couldn’t get in anywhere, so I had the idea of opening my own disco. And I discovered the man who owned the building I wanted was called Bill Fuller.
‘I went in one day and asked his secretary if I could see the owner. She looked at me curiously and then showed me into his office.
‘“What can I do for you, son?”
‘“Well, Mr Fuller, I want to rent your basement out, at Number Thirteen Gardiner Road.”
‘“ You want to rent the basement?”
‘“Yes, yes, I do.”
‘“For what?”
‘“For a disco.”
‘“A disco?”
‘“Yes.”
‘And amazingly, he agreed. And it was ten bob a week rent.’
‘It does sound a bit precocious, but I also remember a bloke called Jeff Serratt, now the managing director of Pepsi-Cola in Ireland, who was a rep at the time. And one day he knocked at the door of the nightclub.
‘Jeff said, “Is your father in?”
‘“My father’s dead.”
‘“Well, I’m looking for the person who owns the nightclub.”
‘“That’ll be me.”
‘And he said, incredulously, “You?” But after this initial shock I got on great with him. And not only did he supply me with Pepsi, he built us a sign for the nightclub.’
Brendan’s story was almost a movie script, Dublin’s own Expresso Bongo .
‘I thought I was the dog’s bollocks at the time. The taxi men in Finglas in fact used to call me Little Lord Fauntleroy, because I wouldn’t take a bus anywhere.’
Brendan had picked up on Maureen O’Carroll’s preference for living a little of the high life.
‘Oh, sure,’ he goes on. ‘If I were buying a pair of boots in the city, I’d take a taxi, go into the shop and try them on, and have the taxi wait to bring me back.’
The club was open on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday. But how would a 14-year-old club boss cope with facing trouble from irate punters, or local gangs?
‘There was no problem with the local gangs because, well, I was in the local gangs,’ he says, smiling.
‘And I had three bouncers who were the McCourt brothers, and they all boxed for Ireland. So, you see, there were simply no problems.
‘And you have to remember that the skinheads didn’t want to get barred out of the only place they could get into.’
The little basement club, run by Dublin’s Bugsy Malone, ‘made a small fortune’, charging two shillings and sixpence entrance money.
‘It was like running a party every night.’
One night, a young Finglas lady called Doreen Dowdall came to the party.
A stunning, dark-haired girl with brown, twinkly eyes, Brendan liked her immediately.
‘She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. She had pierced ears, her head shaved back, a black Crombie coat with a velvet collar, black polo neck, black three-quarter-length skirt, black knee-length stockings and black loafers.
‘I thought she looked incredible. I knew then I wanted her to be my girlfriend. She
John Breen managed to go to school the next day but the collapse had been a warning of things to come. He died just two years later of leukaemia.
‘John knew he was dying, although his parents never told him what was wrong with him. But he worked it out, checked the symptoms in an encyclopedia. And he never told his parents he knew.’
Brendan had lost his dad. Now he’d lost his best friend. It made him all the more determined to get the very most out of life. But the death of John broke up the trio. Things were never the same again. Jimmy spent more time with another pal.
Brendan never considered turning to God for help in getting over his grief. By this time, his relationship with the Catholic Church had taken a turn for the worst. He was becoming a little tearaway. And with a skinhead haircut and the cheek of the devil, he didn’t exactly endear himself to youth club managers and the owners of local teen discos. So, just going on fourteen, and still working at the Intercontinental, he decided to open his own nightclub.
‘Me and my pals couldn’t get in anywhere, so I had the idea of opening my own disco. And I discovered the man who owned the building I wanted was called Bill Fuller.
‘I went in one day and asked his secretary if I could see the owner. She looked at me curiously and then showed me into his office.
‘“What can I do for you, son?”
‘“Well, Mr Fuller, I want to rent your basement out, at Number Thirteen Gardiner Road.”
‘“ You want to rent the basement?”
‘“Yes, yes, I do.”
‘“For what?”
‘“For a disco.”
‘“A disco?”
‘“Yes.”
‘And amazingly, he agreed. And it was ten bob a week rent.’
‘It does sound a bit precocious, but I also remember a bloke called Jeff Serratt, now the managing director of Pepsi-Cola in Ireland, who was a rep at the time. And one day he knocked at the door of the nightclub.
‘Jeff said, “Is your father in?”
‘“My father’s dead.”
‘“Well, I’m looking for the person who owns the nightclub.”
‘“That’ll be me.”
‘And he said, incredulously, “You?” But after this initial shock I got on great with him. And not only did he supply me with Pepsi, he built us a sign for the nightclub.’
Brendan’s story was almost a movie script, Dublin’s own Expresso Bongo .
‘I thought I was the dog’s bollocks at the time. The taxi men in Finglas in fact used to call me Little Lord Fauntleroy, because I wouldn’t take a bus anywhere.’
Brendan had picked up on Maureen O’Carroll’s preference for living a little of the high life.
‘Oh, sure,’ he goes on. ‘If I were buying a pair of boots in the city, I’d take a taxi, go into the shop and try them on, and have the taxi wait to bring me back.’
The club was open on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday. But how would a 14-year-old club boss cope with facing trouble from irate punters, or local gangs?
‘There was no problem with the local gangs because, well, I was in the local gangs,’ he says, smiling.
‘And I had three bouncers who were the McCourt brothers, and they all boxed for Ireland. So, you see, there were simply no problems.
‘And you have to remember that the skinheads didn’t want to get barred out of the only place they could get into.’
The little basement club, run by Dublin’s Bugsy Malone, ‘made a small fortune’, charging two shillings and sixpence entrance money.
‘It was like running a party every night.’
One night, a young Finglas lady called Doreen Dowdall came to the party.
A stunning, dark-haired girl with brown, twinkly eyes, Brendan liked her immediately.
‘She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life. She had pierced ears, her head shaved back, a black Crombie coat with a velvet collar, black polo neck, black three-quarter-length skirt, black knee-length stockings and black loafers.
‘I thought she looked incredible. I knew then I wanted her to be my girlfriend. She
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