Caroline O'Donoghue: My friend was John Lennon, and I was Ringo Starr
Caroline O'Donoghue: from bookshop talks to the Palladium
Four years ago, when I published my first book, I was convinced that something would happen to me overnight. Something extraordinary.
I had been writing professionally since the age of 20, starting out as a gig reviewer for the now-defunct The Cork News in exchange for free tickets, and I saw my book coming out as a natural end point to the ‘struggling writer’ period of my life.
I went into my nearest Waterstones on release day, and many days following that, to look for it.
There’s nothing more embarrassing than a writer trying to look for their book in a bookshop. The author life is replete with humiliating experiences and this is one of them.
First, you walk in with the air of a teenager stalking their first crush. You pretend to be browsing, walking around and avoiding eye contact with the ‘New Hardback Fiction’ section, with high “Oh, Darren – I forgot you worked here!” energy.
Then you realise that Darren is nowhere to be found: there is no table, no display, no stack of books with your name on it. You hunt harder. Eventually, if you’re lucky, you find one volume, already battered in transit, and a sickly feeling envelopes you. You feel as though your book is the fake book among a sea of real ones. You don’t feel any different: you are no more legitimate, no more secure, and no more famous than you were a week ago.
You don’t get recognised on the street, you don’t fill bookshop events, and apart from a few people who work on your publishing team, no one knows who the hell you are. You get used to speaking at half-filled Waterstones in Guildford, not to fans, but to people trying to get out of the rain.
And then, every now and then, if you hold on long enough, something truly mad happens.
My friend Dolly Alderton, an author who never has to search too long for her books in shops, asked me to host an interview with her for the launch of her new novel, Ghosts. I said yes.
I do jobs like this a lot, or at least I did in the old world, and it’s a sweet gig. You get to dress up and feel like Jeremy Paxman for an evening. Plus, Dolly and I hosted a podcast miniseries, Sentimental in the City, at the beginning of the year. I knew we would find things to talk about.
Then I found out that the gig was not in a bookshop, but a theatre.
London’s Palladium, to be precise.
Still, I wasn’t that nervous. People weren’t there to see me; they were there to see her. I walked out on stage to introduce her and a huge cheer went up, a cheer of women who probably had pre-mixed gin and tonic cans sitting in their handbags. “Hello,” I said. “I’m not Dolly Alderton.” There was a laugh.
And then: “but we love you too!” What followed was the most bizarre evening of my life. Yes, my friend was John Lennon and I was Ringo Starr. But the thing about being Ringo Starr is this: you’re still in the fucking Beatles.
A chunk of the women there had come because of the podcast, and – there’s really no good way of saying this, as an Irish person, who lives in fear of being criticised for ‘notions’ – wanted to hear what I had to say, too.
My brother Rob came backstage after the show. “I got recognised,” he said, dazzled. “I got recognised as your brother.” We found a little smoking area, at the back of the theatre, to decompress. “That was so weird,” we kept saying. “This was so, so weird.” It was about to get weirder.
A girl glimpsed us from the street and came over to say hello. Then another girl saw, and followed her. Then ten more. Suddenly I was surrounded by girls, saying things I had said on the podcast, like they were catchphrases or song titles. Someone piped up that they had read my books. I didn’t know what to say, or do.
Very proud night for the family ❤️ @Czaroline and @dollyalderton, well done ladies x pic.twitter.com/1kDVfOHTLE
— Robert O'Donoghue (@RobODon1) July 19, 2021
It was like a line from my teenage diary, written in the height of histrionic, vengeful madness at my brother: ONE DAY, when I’m FAMOUS, he’ll SEE. Well, here it was. It was my first brush with fandom, and he was seeing. And yet, not one part of me felt smug or comfortable about it. I just edged closer to him.
“This is my brother!” I said. It felt like it did when we were small kids, when a new adult came to the house and I would hide behind Rob, letting him talk about Saturday football at Corinthians and the Sega Megadrive. It amazed me, that he could always think of something to say.
The moment eventually ended, as all moments must, and I’m comfortable with the thought that this alignment of stars may never happen again: the ending of restrictions in the UK, paired with Dolly’s gig at the Palladium, along with the podcast being fresh in people’s minds.
I know perfectly well that by the time my next book comes out, I’ll be sitting in half-full book shops in Guildford. But for one night, at least, I was in the Beatles.
