The Fitz Files: Confusion, Comedians and the Luck of the Irish

I’m writing this to you on Saint Patrick’s Day and no doubt, by the time you read this, it will nearly be Easter!

With the name FitzGerald, there are no prizes for guessing my ancestry… my grandfather was from Kilkenny and my grandmother from Limerick. I have travelled back and forth to the Emerald Isle over many years, and I have experienced some incredible people and situations since I first landed in Dublin in 1986.

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FitzGerald is not exactly a rare name in Ireland, and neither is my nickname. My wife discovered this when I wandered off in Dublin Airport and she shouted “Fitz” at me… eight people turned round. I made a classic mistake when we were in Galway and tried to book a restaurant table under the name FitzGerald. They were not ready, so suggested we go and have a drink in the bar next door and they would call us. After half an hour, a waitress came in and said, “Table for FitzGerald,” and three families stood up.

Getting to Ireland has been a travel experience in itself, especially turning up early at Heathrow after an after-dinner speech in London in 2007. For some reason I got the times totally wrong and arrived at the airport at 8.00am. It suddenly dawned on me that the flight was at 11.30. I approached the check-in desk for the Irish airline, who greeted me warmly and took my ticket.

“Can I book in this early for the 11.30 flight?”

The lady, a Dubliner, waved me closer (we were only standing 12 inches apart).

“Come here,” she said. “I’ve got some bad news. The 11.30 is cancelled, but I can get you on the 9.30!”

Excellent, not a problem; we would get to Dublin two hours early. It was then suggested that I could have some breakfast and she would call me when the flight was ready. After a fairly decent bacon and eggs, at roughly the same price as The Ritz, I noticed no activity on the departure board. Nine o’clock came and went, as did 9.30 and 9.45, so I walked back to the desk.

“I noticed there is no 9.30 flight,” I enquired.

ABOVE: Dublin Airport (Image: Doyler79, CC BY 3.0)

“I noticed that as well,” she said. “I suspect they can’t get the pilot out of bed… hang on, I’ll phone Dublin.”

After a short conversation she smiled and said, “The 9.30 is now the 10.30, but he’s definitely on the way… go and have a coffee. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

One coffee later, again, priced like The Ritz, 10.15 arrived, but the plane did not. Then 10.30 arrived, but again there was no aircraft, so at 10.45 I enquired back at the desk.

“10.30 to Dublin - any chance?”

“I’ve just had a call. He’s going to be here at 11.00. I know you’ve had coffee and breakfast, but we will have you in Dublin in time for lunch… or dinner,” she added.

True to her word, at 11.00am we boarded the slightly earlier-than-the-cancelled-11.30 flight to Dublin, which had previously been the 9.30, then the 10.30.

As is always the case, if you miss your appointed slot at any big airport you take a ticket and wait in the departure queue. This we did for twenty minutes… but then success. Banking over the sewage works and Windsor Castle, we pierced the grey shroud of London and set out over the Irish Sea. The pilot put his boot down and we landed at ten minutes past midday. Everybody clapped, even the pilot and the three nuns sitting in front of us. (Check this out… there are always three nuns on any flight from or to Ireland, it is standard practice.)

However, a very large 747 was lumbering across the runway and we sat on the apron for twenty minutes waiting to reach our stand. Then they could not find any steps, so in truth we got to arrivals about fifteen minutes later than the cancelled 11.30, which I noticed was now the 1.30pm return flight, postponed from 12.45pm.

This brings me, in a long-winded way, to the day job I have just picked up. I have become a chauffeur to the stars. My friend, comedian Simon Evans, has been on tour in the South West and was temporarily without a car. I offered to pick him up and guide him to his gig in Tiverton, then back to a suitable point to ensure he could reach the Palace Theatre, Paignton, the next day.

ABOVE: Simon Evans Staring At The Sun Tour Poster

This was done, and I had the great good fortune to see his incredible Staring at the Sun stage show and enjoy his company in the car for several hours. We talked about many things, the rise of fascism in Europe in the 1930s, the issues surrounding dementia care in modern society, and his script work on the series Not Going Out, a television masterpiece starring Lee Mack.

There is no comparison, but the journey reminded me of a similar experience many years ago when I was hosting the Plymouth Air Show on the Hoe. For some reason, the guest of honour that day was the comedian Frank Carson, who was enjoying himself in the bar for most of the afternoon. At about five o’clock we finished the day’s events, and the organiser asked if I could drive Mr Carson back to his guest house, not a problem.

“Where are you staying, Frank?”

He started to rummage in his pockets. “I’ve got the address here somewhere… it’s the Sea View or Sea Crest Guest House,” he said in his wonderful Belfast accent.

I suspected it might be in the row of Georgian and Victorian villas just below Plymouth Hoe and walked him to the car while he searched. He slid into the passenger seat and found a scrap of paper in his breast pocket.

“Here we go… The Sea View… I was right… The Sea View… Paignton.”

It was a long drive. He tried some new material on me and some old, talked about his chain of pizza restaurants and how he became mayor of Balbriggan in County Dublin. He fell asleep just after Berry Pomeroy but awoke on the outskirts of Paignton.

ABOVE: Frank Carson... signature long since faded

At one point, the lights at a crossroads had just turned red, so he wound down the window and started telling jokes to passers-by. He gave me his autograph on a card which, I am sorry to say, has long since faded in the sunlight, unlike the memories of a very funny man.