Earlier this year I sat down to interview multi-platinum selling chart act, The Corrs, on behalf of Vacuum Cleaner Monthly. I loosely knew the sisters from my time spent lightly stalking them through the alcoves of Dundalk (thankfully, none of them could place my face), though it was my first time meeting male Corr.
Jim and I failed to gel from minute one. His handshake unsettled me: limp, cold and damp, like a heroin-addicted mermaid OD'ing in a gutter. He bore a faint stench of death which he attributed to his volunteerism at an old folk’s home. And when he peered at you, you couldn’t help but feel he was undressing you (in fairness, only as far as the Y-fronts) with his eyes.
Our mutual disdain was hard to conceal. I think one of us remained professional. You be the judge….
Me: Andrea. Attractive, aromatic, alluring Andrea.
Me: Sharon. Sultry, seductive, sexy Sharon.
Sharon: Oh, don’t know about that last one. At my age, you tend to….
Me: Shush now, there’s a good girl. Caroline. Curvaceous, creamy…
Me: I said, ‘Jim’.
Jim: Oh sorry, hello.
Me: Tune in mate.
Me: Now Jim, if I can start with you?
Me: I’d like to read you a passage from an article written in 2003: “This thing called ‘Jim’ has brazenly contaminated a perfectly viable girl band with its penis. Like a tapeworm, it is a parasite unto its siblings, and tresspasses within the sexual fantasies of fans the world over.”
Jim: Who wrote this?
Me: Just a second Jim, it goes on: “I defy anybody to establish a full erection from an imagined pillow fight between Andrea, Sharon and Caroline, without Jim waltzing into the reverie – stark bollick naked, I might add – to starch the sheets and hoover the surrounding floor.”
Andrea: This is inappropriate.
Jim: Which journalist wrote….
Me: One second Jim, last bit: “Not since Hitler invaded Poland has there been a presence so unwelcome, as Jim’s in The Corrs. People die every day in Africa, yet this goatee’d elf clings to life, suckling at the teat of the glorious sirens he calls sisters.”
Caroline: That is shocking. I’m shocked.
Jim: It’s offensive drivel. Who wrote it?
Me: That’s not important.
Jim: Was it published?
Me: No, the excellent journalist involved was made promises by The Irish Independent that were not kept. I believe he even bought a 42 inch Sony flat screen television on the strength of those promises.
Jim: Well, it’s an offensive piece of tripe. Let's move on.
Me: Fine. Andrea.
Me: I’d like to play a game.
Me: It’s called, ‘Who’s Hockeying Andrea Now?’
Andrea: Are you serious?
Me: We’ll start with the quick fire round. Robbie Williams?
Andrea: I’m not playing this.
Me: Hugh from The Fun Loving Criminals?
Andrea: I’m serious. Move on.
Me: Derek Davis?
Andrea: Derek Davis?
Me: Yes. He’s been talking around town.
Andrea: Saying what?
Me: That he hockeyed you out of it in The Merrion Hotel two summers ago.
Andrea: You're making this up, right?
Me: Nope. He says it was kinky. That you established a ‘safety word’ beforehand, but you ignored it and bate the shite out of him with his own hand. 'Stop hitting yourself', you shouted. 'Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself', until he was bloodied and unconscious.
Andrea: That's it, I'm done. I’m not answering any more questions.
Me: Ah, Andrea. Don’t be like that.
Jim: I’m not answering any more questions either.
Me: You still here?
Jim: I’m happy to leave.
Me: The band?
Jim: No, the room.
Me: Sorry girls, I tried.
Jim: You’re incredibly rude, do you know that?
Me: Shut up there now for a minute Jim. Caroline, you’ve been described as the band psycho.
Caroline: By who?
Me: An article written in 2003.
Caroline: The same article that slated Jim?
Me: The very same. It reads “she has the cold, black eyes of a serial killer, and the rigid bosom of an angry transsexual. Had she snakes for hair and a moustache of hornets, she’d be scarcely more grotesque or evil.”
Caroline: How dare you?
Me: It’s not me, it’s the article.
Caroline: Well, who wrote the article? Was it you?
Me: Newsflash baby. Every brilliantly written article that comes along isn't necessarily written by me.
Caroline: Fine, but did you write this one?
Me: Could you rephrase the question?
Caroline: Did you write it?
Sharon: It’s incredibly cruel.
Andrea: How would you like it if we wrote something about you, full of lies and insults?
Me: I….I wouldn’t like it at all.
Caroline: What if we made fun of your physical features?
Sharon: Yeah, what's your biggest insecurity?
Me: (sniffle) I’m far too well hung. It’s my curse.
Caroline: Eh…ok. Well, what if we made fun of that? How would you feel?
Me: (crying) Flattered and embarrassed.
Caroline: Ok, we’re leaving now. This is ridiculous.
Me: Wait. I might not get this chance again. I have to ask. You three, me, and a Shetland Pony? Jim can watch.
Andrea: You’re sick.
Jim: I ought to break your jaw.
Me: You couldn’t break wind, anti-Smurfette.
Let the record show that Jim did not break my jaw, but did break my nose and crack my eye socket. Ne'er have I seen such a ferocious temper in man nor beast. Had his own sisters not subdued him (Sharon with a taser, Caroline with mace spray), I’d be dead and Jim would be in jail. Sure, The Corrs would finally be a girl band, but at what cost? At what cost...