Cathal Coughlan (spoken word) @ St. Audeon's Church

On an almost fully concealed plaque to the right of the entrance to tonight’s performance is a sign bearing the words ‘Bell ringers only beyond this point’. It’s a not entirely inappropriate thought as folk filter their way to their pews for what, we are promised, is a short spoken word piece. That Cathal Coughlan is performing this in a 15^th Century church encourages the mind to envisage any number of diatribes which might spill from his lips tonight. This, after all, is a man who has, shall we say, ‘made light’ of the Church in the past – I can still recall the incongruity of the NME interviewing Coughlan, in his Fatima Mansions pomp, in Knock. This was before the U2 support slot in Rome of course, but that’s a tale that’s been discussed one too many times.

And yet, tonight, Coughlan spares the church of his disdain, going so far as to clarify that a piece he will read called ‘The Bog Ministers at Magic Mountain’ is not about men of the cloth but a tirade (an eloquent, restrained and amusing tirade, but a tirade nonetheless) against the men of the State. To put things into context, tonight’s show lasts a mere 20 minutes and involves Coughlan reading out 4 pieces he has composed for the night.

Bespectacled and stood behind the lectern, it’s momentarily difficult to reconcile the man about to begin tonight's entertainment with the man who once wrote;

“’Heaven made love for a while

It’s the best way to make a child,’

Said Jesus to the disciples

And then he said;

“If you can’t shift this crate of Brillo pads by Friday

Vengeance will be mine.”

Until he opens his mouth that is. Soon it becomes clear that’s he has lost none of the acerbic wit or mordant satire with regard to the characters he creates or the situations in which they find themselves. Case in point being the final piece he reads tonight, entitled ‘September brings Spring to Spagee Town’. He begins by documenting the different classes of Spagee (I can only guess at the correct spelling – perhaps it’s a Cork thing) that populate his home town. The tale leads us eventually to a young man who, having left a 7” record in the oven just to see what it will sound like once he removes it, poses as a Garda and terrorises a gang of traveller children for a sniff of their bag of glue.

Each vignette is brief but amusing and loaded with shady characters, from men who exude ‘Saville Row shab’ to a girl who loves ‘raising her skirts for a quickie’. The pace is relentless and, as soon as he’s warmed to his theme, he’s gone. Fuck yr showbusiness indeed.