My agent Matthew Hamilton, for agreeing to meet, and then represent me, at a time when I would likely have accepted a punnet of spuds from any literary type who spelled my name right. And for being the staunch ally and friend I needed in my corner every time it has subsequently been spelled wrong (among other crimes).
Ursula Doyle, who chanced upon a Twitter thread I wrote about meeting Mary McAleese while on ketamine (me that is, not her or Mary) and decided I was the right person to write a heartfelt childhood memoir. Thank you for being a relentless champion of my work, even when I was getting in the way of that work with a disgraceful overuse of adjectives and old-timey references. This book literally would not exist without her, and if it did it would be very, extremely, definitely not good.
Eva Wiseman, who read the same Twitter thread and offered me a parenting column in the Observer Magazine. It surely must have seemed an even less likely prospect given the source material, but it has been the joy of my life for the past three years. Thanks to you and to Harriet Green for taking that punt and for being such undying delights to work/chat with since.
Laurence Mackin, who seized on the potential of an incredibly silly Facebook post about fake podcasts to get me my first bylines in the Irish Times, and became my first friend and confidant in the chip-paper business. And for forgiving me that time I failed to record an interview with Laurie Anderson, rendering useless the bonhomie I’d established over the course of our hour-long conversation.
Hugh Linehan and Martin Doyle for continuing to publish me on a semi-regular basis, even as I insist on waging a one-man war to make everything about comics.
My Irish Times support crew: Jenn, Louise and Peter, who were rocks of support in the absence of water coolers or late-night bars we could loudly mingle around.
Tom Morris, who was the first person who ever grabbed me by the short hairs and got me to actually write something.
Roisin Agnew, of the mighty, much-missed GUTS magazine, who was the first person to grab me by the same and receive something publishable.
To my 12 Key Bros, Undesirable Guests and HFE Cru, you know who you are.
To Mary Agnew, who read the book before anyone else and even confirmed it was borderline readable, and to her, Neave, Manu and Rohan for being the best pals I could ever wish for.
Anne O’Donnell, who was a pillar of strength for my mother during her illness, and for all of us after she died. Your work throughout the period covered in this book helped keep us going, and I’ve never thanked you enough.
Patricia Donnelly, for being a source of love and laughter across my entire life, and a truly priceless ambassador for my mother’s memory since I was old enough to barrage you with questions. (And barrage you I certainly did.) In preserving my mother’s letters, you kept more of her alive for us than you could ever imagine. But even that is secondary to the life you breathe into her memory every time you speak of her.
My auntie Aileen McGullion, whose unwavering support and love has been a constant in our lives, not to mention hosting all of us for weeks in the events described in the chapter “Jeremy.” Thank you for giving your time to be quizzed by me on everything about that time and about Mammy, and for doing so with such joy that I don’t think we stopped laughing for more than a few seconds throughout. I would like to formally apologise for bouncing on the bed as I told you the bad news, but am glad you saw the bleak humour in it too.
Sean, Marian, and all the Burkes and O’Neills, the finest in-laws, friends and grandparents anyone could ever ask for. I’m in the rare position of having reached adulthood only to gain a whole other warm, funny, kind and pleasingly loud family by marriage, and I do not take that for granted. A special, added thank you to Marian for her tireless support toward, and promotion of, this book, which she took to with startling aplomb, not least when she sternly told a bishop to buy his own copy when he suggested he would borrow one. I’d estimate 80% of its Irish sales can be attributed directly to her missionary zeal, and for this she deserves not only credit, but probably a VP role at a major publishing company. I am willing to forward her CV to anyone interested.
My siblings (presented in age order and all in one breath) Sinead, Dara, Shane, Orla, Maeve, Mairead, Dearbhaile, Caoimhe, Fionnuala and Conall. Telling this story meant, to some extent, telling your story but leaving you out of large parts of it. Thank you for tolerating this imposition into your own childhoods, and sorry if you feel I didn’t give you enough mentions, or too many mentions by half. Thank you for being kind and patient with me as I peppered you with questions for this book, which I took as a wonderful excuse to find out things about Mammy, yourselves, and myself, that I never would otherwise have asked. The nuggets of family lore that filled our now famous Best Face Forward WhatsApp group is one of the most treasured archives a writer, or a brother, could ever dream of. I love you all.
My father, Joe, who features prominently in this book, but even more prominently in my thoughts and feelings every day. To some extent, this entire book is one long thank you to you, and the sacrifices you made to make my childhood one that contained as much humour and absurdity as it did. I don’t think even you understand what a gift that’s been to me, and to all of us. Thank you for being as generous with your memories – granted, after a certain amount of wheedling from me – as you have been with your time, energy and understanding throughout my life. I can’t wait to hear your every objection and correction to each error and misapprehension you find in these pages. Where I have stretched reality to grasp a joke, I hope you’ll understand, or offer forgiveness. You have forgiven me for worse in the past. For that and for everything else, I can’t ever thank you enough.
I’d like to thank my wonderful wife Ciara for her reassurance, criticism and undying support, not least literal financial support when I quit my job to write full time. A lot of writing is spent thinking you’re not very good, so it’s occasionally useful to have someone around who’s not afraid to put that suspicion outside all doubt. And there’s no better feeling than when you – specifically you – like something I’ve done. My mission in life remains to make you laugh, and I am glad the book has even now had good reason to make you cry once or twice. I adore you beyond words but, since that’s what books are made of, they’ll have to do this once. I love you.
And to Ruadh, the bright, burning star in my sky, who makes life better, sweeter and happier every single day he’s in it. Each extra layer of depth you’ve added to my heart has helped me dig deeper into the deep stuff. I could not have written this book without you.