Roddy Doyle Talking Books

who's visiting the South

for the Winter OIympics.

Now on BBC News, Talking Books.

Welcome to Talking Books here

at the Cheltenham literary festival.

A celebration of more than 1000

of the world's finest writers,

poets, performers and politicians.

Today I'm talking to the bestselling

Irish writer Roddy Doyle.

He made his name 30 years ago

with his debut novel

The Commitments, which was later

turned into a hugely successful film

and then a stage show.

Since then he has gone

on to write more than 20 books

for adults and children,

including Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha,

which won the Booker Prize in 1993.

His latest novel is called Smile,

and in it, he says, he hopes

to shock and surprise people.

Roddy Doyle, you have been

writing for three decades.

So there is a lot to talk about.

But I'd like to start bang

up-to-date with your latest novel

Smile, which is about a middle-aged

man, Victor, looking back

on his schooldays as dark

and disturbing memories

begin to emerge.

What was the starting

point for the novel?

I went to a Christian Brothers

school in Dublin, started

in 1971, when I was 13.

And that is a school run

by the Catholic Church?

Yes, by the Christian

Brothers, they are called.

And a lot...

For more than 100 years,

a lot of working-class,

lower-middle-class boys would have

gone to these schools.

It was a strange place to go into,

having been to a state

school at primary level,

to go into this very violent, weird,

eccentric environment.

Quite early on, a Christian brother,

probably in his late 30s,

I don't really know,

wearing the soutane, like a dress,

at the front of the room.

Friday afternoon we were trying

to persuade him not

to give us homework.

And he said to me, Roddy Doyle,

I can never resist your smile.

And the ground, after

a second or so, hoping

he hadn't said that to me,

the ground in front of me just

opened and yawned.

In a way, I hoped I could fall

into it, because I knew

there were consequences.

He had said this to me in front

of 33, 34 of the boys,

and that I was going to be branded.

And the word gay did

not exist, really.

It was not in the air in the way

it is now in Ireland in 1971,

so I was the queer, I was the homo.

And just to be clear,

that man never touched me,

never told me to stay

back after class.

There was nothing overtly

sinister about it,

but it was so inappropriate.

I did not know the word back then,

but it was so inappropriate.

I made more of it, much more of it

in the novel than actually occurred,

but it is one of those memories.

If a memory has a camera angle,

it is the exact same memory

for the last 50 years,

or so, just less than 50 years.

And it did not haunt me.

I got a bit of slagging about it,

as we say in Ireland.

And now and again somebody would say

smile at him, smile at him.

And I would be telling them no

in words to that effect.

But the memory was there.

I think because of all the stories

that had been in the air in Ireland

over the past couple of decades

about abuse and the Catholic Church.

I thought I will somehow or other

take that little moment in my life

and somehow fashion a story.

I was hoping I could surprise

or maybe shock people by telling

this particular story.

I wonder if you might just read

a short extract that does involve

the incident you have

been talking about.

And this violent man with

the Desperate Dan hair liked me.

I knew this.

Everybody knew this,

because something he said more

than two years before,

when I was 13.

Victor Ford, I can never

resist your smile.

It was like a line from a film

in a very wrong place.

I knew I was doomed.

It had been one of Murphy's happy

days and we were at him to let us

off homework for the weekend.

It was Friday afternoon and the sun

was heating the room,

spreading the smile.

-- smell.

The school was right beside the sea

and we could hear the tide

behind the yard wall.

Go on, brother, s'il vous plait,

brother, we'll pray

for you on Sunday, brother.

He listened to us and grinned.

It was a grin, not a smile.

The word inappropriate did not

appear until years later,

but the grin was inappropriate.

It was all inappropriate.

He was being taunted

and teased by a room of boys

and he was loving it.

Then he said it.

Victor Ford, I can never

resist your smile.

There was silence.

There was silence.

As you said, you were never abused

but do you think any

of your friends were?

I have asked several people

I would have met over the years,

do you think anything happened?

And they were, oh, yes.

You were beaten, weren't you?

I was yes.

But I was one of many.

Yes, I was.

Corporal punishment

was legal back then.

It was here, too.

It was made illegal I think in 1981,

when I just started my own

career as a teacher.

So in primary school, I would have

been slapped occasionally,

but everybody was slapped.

When I went to this place

there was a level of violence

that was extraordinary.

It was unpredictable.

A teacher could explode

at any moment.

And it would involve...

A lot of the teachers

had leather straps.

Three on each hand would leave

you shaking for a day, at least.

I recall one teacher who was not

even a teacher of mine came

into the room and I can't even

remember what we were doing.

Something utterly harmless.

None of his business.

As a teacher myself years later,

none of his business,

hauled out four of us and I was cute

enough to get to the back

of the queue, thinking he would be

exhausted by the time he came to me,

but he was not.

I will never forget the pain.

Never, ever forget the pain.

The desk had metal legs

and I remember putting my hands

on the legs to cool the hands down.

It worked to a degree,

but my hands were still sweating.

Later on in the day, you know.

I did nothing to deserve it.

I feel bad saying this

because there were terrific

teachers there as well.

You are almost 60.

Smile is your 11th novel.

Why write about it now?

I really don't know is the honest

answer, it is an honest answer.

I don't know.

When I started the book,

I think it is memory.

I suppose as we get older

we gather more memories.

Our children get older and memories

become vital and it is a strange

moment when you realise a memory

you think you share with someone

is not a shared memory.

It is also fascinating.

I listen to people I know

who were in the room at the same

time something occurred and I am

sitting back listening

to a different version,

but it is their version.

So memory and its fragility has

always interested me and I think

more so as I get older.

There is that.

Also the notion of friendship among

men, which to me is one

of the great sources of joy.

When I started writing

about schooldays I knew at least

a big chunk of the book was here.

Has it been cathartic?

No, not at all.

That is an easy answer!

I don't believe in that stuff!

There has been, and you mentioned it

earlier, there has been talking

recent years

about institutionalised

child abuse in Ireland

and I wondered, as an Irish writer,

did you feel a duty

or responsibility

to address the issue?

Not at all.

I do not think in those terms

and if I had a list of social

issues I now must address,

I would be...

Oh, way off the track that I should

be on when I am writing a novel.

No.

I don't feel any

responsibility whatsoever.

But having decided to write a book

that included this subject,

for example, or dealt with this

subject matter, my responsibility

was to do it as well as I possibly

could and also to do it in a way

as a novelist that

could still surprise.

I had just written a film script

recently about a homeless woman,

but she is a woman who happens to be

homeless, if that makes sense,

and that is the plot.

But without the woman, you know,

she is at the core of the story.

But she is much more important

than the adjective that

describes her currently.

Ireland seems to be a constant

source of inspiration for you.

Roddy Doyle books don't tend

to travel much beyond Ireland.

Why is that?

Well, PG Wodehouse's

novels do not stray much

beyond his back garden,

really, do they?

I have written one novel

that was set in America,

because it had to be

because the protagonist got out

of Ireland, so in a way

it is about him getting his

way back into Ireland.

It is a small country, but, there

is more than enough to write about.

The Commitments, a story

about a bunch of young

kids forming a band,

it is a universal story,

it just happens to be set in Dublin.

That is where the ice

is nice and thick for me.

If I'm walking across the lake,

I'm not going to fall in,

because I know the accent.

I know the corner they are on.

I know what shop they go

in to buy something.

I know that shop.

And that is my research.

I have always lived in Dublin

and I have always lived

in a certain corner of Dublin.

The north-east of Dublin.

Even though I might not mention it,

I know the sea is very close

to where all the characters are.

And I know the seagulls can be heard

in the morning and in the evening.

And I sometimes mention them.

And I not the geese coming

at this time of year

and they leave in April.

We love seeing them

going over our heads.

You mention your first novel

The Commitments, which you wrote

while you were teaching.

You taught English and geography

in a secondary school for 14 years.

Am I right your pupils

nicknamed you Punk Doyle?

Yes.

Why was that?

I had an earring and I wore

Doc Martens and it was 1979,

that kind of era, so punk was big.

I got my own classroom

and there was a poster of the Clash.

And I added the Smiths.

And I had a friend who promoted gigs

and he gave me a poster so I thought

it was a good alternative

to Jane Austen or

somebody like that.

Or the map of Ireland.

You know, Jane Austen on one side

and the map of Ireland.

There is a vision of hell!

It was just an alternative.

Doyle is a common name in Ireland,

the sixth most common name

and there were four Doyles

on the staff.

One of the others was called Dozy.

So I think I got away

quite well there.

I would rather be called Punk Doyle.

While you were teaching

you were writing.

Had you always wanted

to be a writer?

The itch was there and I did

a little bit of writing

when I was a student but teaching

was the great opportunity.

I did not have a family at the time,

so as a secondary teacher

in Ireland I had June,

July and August off,

so that is a quarter of the year.

And you are never more than seven

weeks away from the mid-term break.

So there was plenty of time,

leaving aside evening time.

So a great job to start off with.

The first four novels were written

while I was a teacher.

The Commitments was self-published

in 1987, about this group of young

Dubliners who form a soul band.

It became something

of a cult classic.

In no part due to the

musician Elvis Costello.

What was that about?

Well, if I remember right,

there was a very good music

magazine called Hot Press.

And they weren't

impressed with the book.

A bad review, an interview that was

a bit of a disaster, as well.

And that was a disappointment,

because I liked Hot Press.

I can't remember, some anniversary

edition of Hot Press,

they asked Elvis Costello to write,

because he was living

in Dublin at the time

and they asked him to write

something about his early years.

In the article, I cannot

remember the words,

he said if you want to know

what it was like read

The Commitments.

And that was a great endorsement.

And of course the film,

which came out in 1991,

gave it even extra life.

It was this tremendous success.

What was it like for you?

It was marvellous,

but also overpowering.

To go from being a teacher who has

written books and, now and again,

might be in a newspaper

being interviewed, to being a very

reluctant celebrity, for example,

or a household name.

I didn't like it.

It was a little overpowering

and I was worried at that stage

I might be defined by this

for the rest of my life,

the man who wrote The Commitments.

It is not a healthy way to be,

at that stage of your life,

to be almost consigned to it -

the past before you begin.

I felt a little bit that way

when I won the Booker Prize.

In 1993 you won the Booker Prize

with Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.

Suddenly you are the literary

equivalent of U2 in Ireland.

For while, yes.

I'm delighted that I

won it and still am.

A brilliant compliment to get.

I thought I will never escape

from this bloody thing, either.

It seems mean-spirited.

Aren't you lucky to be trying

to escape from those

two huge successes?

I know I am lucky, but when I finish

a book I almost throw it

over my shoulder and get

going on another one.

I've relaxed a bit now in recent

years, but at the time...

I've written for children, too.

The last few years, I go into a cafe

in Dublin buying a coffee and a tall

lad behind the counter with a big

beard says, are you Roddy Doyle?

I say, I am.

He says, I loved the Giggler

Treatment when I was a kid.

A big adult, six foot seven.

Tattooed.

Covered.

And he is telling me it is one

of his favourite books.

It is really lovely.

I think that made me feel

a bit gentler towards

everything I have done.

I suppose I am at that stage

of my life or career where I don't

feel I have to escape from the past.

If somebody says I really

like The Commitments,

I will accept the compliment,

rather than bat it away.

One of the things that seems

to me to define embodied

One of the things that seems to me

to define a Roddy Doyle

novel is the dialogue,

which is so realistic.

I'm thinking of your second novel,

The Snapper, which is about a young

woman who gets pregnant

outside of wedlock.

You are there with her in the

kitchen when she tells her parents.

You are with her in the pub

when she tells her friends.

You make it seem

and sound effortless.

How much work really goes into it?

A lot.

It takes a lot of work to make

something seem effortless.

There is trial and error,

stopping, starting.

Taking out a word because it seems

like you are tripping over it

rather than reciting it.

I take out a word and see

if I can replace it,

or rewrite the sentence completely.

Are you always listening to people?

Not professionally.

In Dublin, often you

do not have a choice.

It is not an option.

Silence as an entity is quite rare.

People talk to each

other all the time.

The ones I love are upstairs

on the bus when you hear

half-conversations.

People talking to somebody else

on the phone, I love those ones.

Because I fill in the gaps.

Yes, I can't think of...

I've heard things that struck me

as being funny and bizarre.

I might come home and tell

the family but I can't think once

of hearing somebody say something

that I jotted down

and say, I'll use that.

Because it would end up

being a punch line in a way that

a situation comedy might.

That you're dragging

the audience towards that line.

So if it does not serve

a purpose in the story,

I would not bother saving it.

They are always talking

in The Snapper.

They are also always laughing.

It struck me as a very happy book.

Yes, I think it was Colm Toibin

who said it was the first and only

example of a happy family

in Irish literature!

That was deliberate.

This is a family that

works, with their flaws.

I read it recently because I have

done a stage adaptation that is

going on in Dublin next year.

I was quite shocked in many ways.

There is a level of violence in it

I did not know was there.

It was not in my memory.

But things that were acceptable 30

years ago when I started the book

would be utterly unacceptable now.

Really quite a shock.

Some of the attitudes have

shifted and changed.

There are things in it that

are rooted to its time.

But it is a happy family.

And yet some of your novels seem

to have this bleak streak.

I am thinking about Paddy Clarke,

this ten-year-old boy,

whose verve for life seems

to crumble as his parents'

marriage disintegrates.

I wondered where that

pessimism comes from.

I don't know.

I'd find if I was in the company

of a 50-year-old man

who is utterly optimistic,

I would find it

completely unbearable.

Give me pessimism everyday!

Give me pessimism every day!

It's part of the package, isn't it?

We all know we die.

We are mortal.

Therefore there has to be pessimism.

Unless you are looking

forward with giddy delight

to what might be coming.

To me this is it.

It was like the official picture

is every house had mammy, daddy,

in the Irish situation in the '60s,

6.2 children, or 4.2 children.

There were four

children in my house.

There would have been five

except one of the children died.

That was not a big

family by any means.

I remember there were houses

where there was a father by himself,

a lot of women by themselves.

The father was away

working in South America.

That was the official story.

So the notion of that

family's structure,

while it was the standard one,

was not universal.

I was just working with that

when I started Paddy Clarke.

The book ends with the break-up

of the parents' marriage.

We don't know what

happens after that.

How is he?

I have not a clue.

Because he is a fictional character.

Would you ever write

about him in adulthood?

No.

I would not have the

remotest interest.

It is one of the few

stand-alone books I've written.

I think it is a much

better book left alone.

You touched on your own family

and you did capture your parents'

memories in a memoir Rory And Ita.

Why did you want to do that?

Well, my children were very young

and I thought if the worst

happened and my parents died

while they were very young

they would be left not knowing much

about their grandparents.

My mother for a example

was born in 1925.

Her mother died in 1928,

when my mother was three.

She knew virtually

nothing about her.

She didn't know her surname.

I don't think there

was a photograph.

Did not know where she came from.

Did not know where her family were.

I witnessed my mother discovering

that side of her family

when she was in her 50s.

She found out she had a whole family

living in Long Island in New York.

Did you ever wonder

whether the general public

would actually be interested

in reading about them?

I don't know what the

general public is.

I never thought it was going

to be Angela's Ashes.

It wasn't going to be a global

phenomenon by any means.

But I thought it

would have a validity.

They were great storytellers

and very descriptive.

My mother's memory is very precise.

My father's is more general

and he embellishes.

So he had vivid

memories of his birth.

Whereas my mother would limit

herself to what actually happened.

They worked well as a team.

I was enjoying it and I sent

early chapters to my

publisher and he loved them,

so that was enough for me.

As I said at the beginning,

you have been writing for 30 years.

Does it get easier?

No.

That is good.

No, it is never habitual.

It is always work, work I love.

11 novels in and working

on the 12th, and that is hard,

coming up with something again

fresh.

I have always accepted

the fact I am getting older,

therefore the camera angle

is different and there is material

to write about I would never

have anticipated before.

We shall look forward

to your 12th novel.

Roddy Doyle, it has been

so good to talk to you.

Thanks very much.