Brendan O’Carroll My life in 10 memories

“I vowed I’d make my mother laugh every chance I got.”

“It’s tough to pick just 10 memories,” the star of Mrs Brown’s Boys explains. “Because as you get a little bit older you realise the scary things weren’t as scary as they seemed at the time, and the happy ones get more and more embellished each time you recall them. Here goes!”

1. Most important thing to remember Mammy is always right . . .

2. Second most important thing to remember When Mammy is wrong, refer to memory 1.

3. The memory that shaped my life.

All through my early childhood, as my mother got me ready for school the last thing she would do before I left the house was to pinch my cheek and say: “Remember, Brendan, you can be anything you want to be, and you can do anything you really want to do.” One day I challenged her on this (as you do). I said: ‘Mammy, you say I can do anything I want to do?’ she smiled and answered: ‘Yes’.

I thought for a moment. ‘I can’t fly Mammy.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh yes you can. All you have to do is work really, really hard, and I promise you one day you’ll just take off.”

I left school at 12 years old and it has been a rollercoaster life since then but the one constant is that I have always worked hard.

4. A Christmas memory.

It was 1964. My father had just passed away in the September of that year, so it was Mammy’s first Christmas as a widow. I didn’t know it, obviously, but she was struggling.

The toy of the moment that year was the “Johnny Seven”. It was a gun but not just any gun. It did seven different things, from launching grenades to flashing warning lights. It was amazing. I wrote my shortest ever Santa letter, asking for one thing, a Johnny Seven. I told every Santa Claus, from the one in Cleary’s store to the one that smelled of Irish whiskey who came to the school that I wanted a Johnny Seven. On Christmas morning I came downstairs to find a gun and holster. No Johnny Seven.

After Christmas, first day back at school and as I walked to the bus stop there were three fire engines at a warehouse that had burned down. The fire was out and the firemen were picking through the rubble. Nobody stopped me as I walked through the remains of the building. And that’s when I saw it. A pallet stacked with half-melted Johnny Sevens. At the bottom there were one or two with the boxes scorched but the gun inside the box in perfect order. A Fire Chief tapped me on the shoulder saying simply: “Go on, son, take one”.

I did what the fireman said and skipped school to spend one of my most joyous days ever, shooting anything that moved. (There’s a twist to this as you’ll see below).

5. My earliest sad memory.

I was about five. Ours was a big family, six boys and five girls of which I was the youngest. Like most Irish families at that time, and sadly even now, emigration was a part of the family story. Two of my sisters and one brother had emigrated, but they had gone virtually before I was born, so I didn’t really understand it. Until it was my sister, Fiona. As the youngest of 11 you’re virtually reared by the older children, and Fiona was like a second mother to me. She was just 16 and heading for Canada. I was broken-hearted. It was also the very first time I saw my mother cry. I vowed then I’d make my mother laugh every chance I got. I did. As for Fiona, she went on to settle in Canada. She’s retired now and we spend a lot of time together. When we do it’s really weird, because I become 5 again, and she becomes 16.

6. My most embarrassing memory.

It’s also one of my funniest. In 1979, quite inadvertently, my mother-in-law was ensnared by a moneylender. What started as a £10 loan, even though she paid back £150, grew into a £200 debt balance. I only found out when I grew concerned about her health and she blurted it out. I decided to take on the moneylender and went to his office. I was repeatedly told he wasn’t there, so I said: “Then I’ll wait” and sat on a bench. For three hours. I noticed staff were popping in and out a door so when an opportunity arose I walked in to the room and, sure enough, he was there. Without waiting for him to speak I threw my mother-in-law’s loan book on his desk and told him the gig was up. I told him not to call at her door again, and that if he did I’d be back and it wouldn’t end well. I walked to the door without giving him a gap to reply and turned on my heel. I had one hand on the door knob when his secretary leapt up, shouting: “Excuse me….”.

I barked: ‘SIT!’ And she did. I opened the door and departed. Well, not really, as I was now in a cupboard. It had all been going so well!

I left, mortified. Anyhow, it worked. My mother-in-law never saw the loan shark again. He probably felt sorry for her, having such a stupid son-in-law.

7. Shared memory.

Without a doubt Jenny and I’s wedding. We had both been married before and had many times had the conversation that, as much as we loved each other, and even though we’d been together such a long time, neither of us wanted to marry again. Yet there we were. Standing at the top of the steps holding hands, with the celebrant asking the question: “Brendan. Do you take . . .”

The week leading up to the wedding had been fraught, as many of you will know it is. I was on edge, so was Jenny. There were constantly visitors arriving at our home in Florida and we were getting less and less time to chat to each other. So it wasn’t until the night before the wedding that we had “the talk”. We promised that if even there was a tiny doubt or niggle, we’d be honest.

So there we were. I heard every word the celebrant said to me and she got to the “…to have and to hold from this day forth?” I looked into Jenny’s kind, blue eyes and smiled, because I was never more sure of anything in my life.

8. Work memory.

It took Stephen McCrum nearly four years to talk me into making a TV series of Mrs Brown’s Boys. We were touring with the show for years, we had a decent success with it and I loved the tours. I’m very proud of the series we eventually made. I never wanted an award so it was a great surprise when it was nominated for a BAFTA after the first series. Truly I didn’t care.

The night of the BAFTAs was weird. We walked the red carpet with the photographers not having a clue who we were and asking us to get out of the way so they could photograph the real stars. Honestly, I sat at the table that night and didn’t care a whit about a BAFTA. Until we didn’t win it. Then I SO wanted one. A year later we were nominated again, and won. I’m sure it is on YouTube so you can see when they called us out as winners, we invaded the stage! We were overjoyed.

Here’s the bonus. When somebody wins an award it is fantastic. They collect the award and go home to their families and tell them what a great feeling it was. Not me. As I held the beautiful award I looked around me. They were all there, I wasn’t going to have to tell them about the moment, because they were a part of the moment. It was a joy.

9. Most unexpected memory.

My wife Jenny is from a family of firefighters. Her father, Michael, was a fireman, his twin brother was a fireman and her grandfather was a fireman. I married a fireman’s daughter. Before we go to bed each night every plug is unplugged. Whether they need to be or not, every smoke alarm battery is changed every year.

Jenny’s dad Michael Gibney, a great storyteller, could keep you for hours with hilarious stories from the fire station. One night he was recalling some stories about when he’d just been made Chief Officer.

He told of a fire in a warehouse. His crew had spent the entire night getting it under control and by the next morning he and his crew were exhausted. He was heading back to the control car when he saw a young boy walking through the still smouldering ruins. He said his instinct was to let out a roar at the kid and scare him off but for some reason he instead went over and watched the boy. It was a warehouse of toys that had burned down so he told the kid to help himself. He said he thought the kid would load up his arms with all he could carry. But instead the child just took one toy, said: “Thank you,” and took off. “One toy?” Michael repeated. “What kind of kid just takes one toy?” He headed home to his wife who had recently given birth to their third child, a girl they would name Jennifer.

Michael Gibney lost his battle with cancer and passed away last year at 78 years of age. I lost my father-in-law and a great friend. Wherever he is now, somebody is laughing at one of his stories. God bless you Mick. And thanks for the Johnny Seven.

10. And finally . . . a memory for Mammy.

In the last five years I’ve seen the things I write make people laugh all over the world.

I’m married to the most wonderful woman I could imagine. My family are healthy. And when I look out at the end of a show in front of 7,000 cheering people, with all my family by my side, I look to the heavens and whisper: “Look, Mammy . . . I’m flying!”

Mrs Brown’s Boys is on BBC1 on Christmas Day, 10.05pm.