Bernard O'Shea: My memory is so bad I forgot I did Dancing with the Stars

Bernard O'Shea. Photograph Moya Nolan

Last week our youngest shouted up the stairs: “What’s wrong, Daddy?” I was in the shower, so I hastily threw a towel around myself, and poked my head down the stairs. 

I shouted back: “What’s wrong?”, cursing the fact that mayhem ensued the second I had a chance to do something for myself.

Eventually, after no reply, I dried myself and investigated further. When I asked him what was wrong, he took his eyes off Paw Patrol for two seconds and told me: “You were shouting in the shower Daddy”.

Ouch! I was singing.

When I sing in the house, even if it’s for a second, my kids scream: “STOP DADDY!”.

I’ve noticed that my wife doesn’t stop them either.

I’m not allowed to choose the music in the car anymore, and if I dare sing along to a tune, I recognise there are tears all around.

Am I that bad a crooner? Possibly.

I started singing ballads in my 20s because I played Irish music. I have a high-pitched voice with little gravitas, but if you could sing and play the guitar, you got more work.

I thought I knew my vocal limitations, but when I signed up for a live musical a few years ago, I was surrounded by professionally trained musical theatre people. I was embarrassed to sing ensemble with them as I was consistently flat as a pancake.

I also realised quickly that there was a massive difference between being able to sing ‘Molly Malone’ and hitting notes precisely and on time with a full band and 10 other singers.

However, the cast was supportive and great craic.

Although I enjoyed it, I promised myself I would get singing lessons after my experience. But as John Lennon sang: “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

Its been long well-known that singing can be great for your mental health. Singing slows your heart rate and breathing, making you feel
relaxed and happy. Singing with others can also increase a sense of community and connection.

It always amazes me how many people join choirs after going through a significant life event.

Think of that pre-match anthem. It can often send shivers down your spine.

When I was learning to swim as an adult, one of the best little tricks I learned to help me breathe was to sing “Do-Re-Me-Fa” as I exhaled underwater and then came up for my breath on “So-La” and then exhale under the water for “Te-Do”.

So now I watch the full version of The Sound of Music before swimming.

Think of those lullabies that you sing to babies. Belting out the tunes even helps you sleep better.

I was that guy at the party who used to whip out the guitar at the end of the night and bang out ‘Wonderwall’. Without a doubt, I put hundreds of partygoers to sleep.

But the oddest thing that singing helps me with is my memory.

I have a shocking memory. I have watched entire episodes of TV programs I helped write and perform in and can never remember doing them. 

I was recently asked about Dancing with the Stars and said I wouldn’t be able to do it, only to be reminded that I did and loved it.

If I’m taking a long car journey, I have to write the destination on paper and stick it on the dashboard. I have forgotten my own birthday
numerous times and can only remember someone’s name if I’ve spent years in their company.

It’s not a recent thing, either. I forgot my school bag so often that my mother was so tired of having to drive to school with it that I would leave it in my locker. That was secondary school! But I can remember every song lyric.

I know why, too. It’s because I’m a dopamine addict, and songs give me pleasure. Knowing my PRSI number just doesn’t seem to give me the same hit.

So every morning for the last few years, I will sing to myself what I must do for the day.

I usually parody the Bee Gees ‘Staying Alive’ song and sing:

"I have to tax the car and getyoghurts,

the red berry ones and call my mum,

Because it’s all right, it’s OK, I have to pay gym fees today. 

Put on the dinner and clean out the kitty litter,

Staying alive, staying alive.”

It drives my wife crazy, but it keeps my memory alive.