Rory O’Neill, aka drag queen Panti Bliss, is a little unclear what his job is. “I’m not really an actor. I’m not really a stand-up comedian. I tell rambling silly stories ... They involve funny bits and serious bits ... But what is that? I’m not comedian. I say, I’m a ‘stand-up chameleon’.”
“You’re a storyteller,” says his friend, the actor and comedian Tara Flynn. “I see myself very similarly ... I prefer a yarn, letting the story go where it needs to ... Hashtag soz, not soz.”
“Hashtag stay mad,” says O’Neill.
In November ThisIsPopBaby presents a double bill of Panti Bliss and Tara Flynn’s funny, moving and personal one-person-shows — If These Wigs Could Talk and Haunted — on the Peacock stage of the Abbey Theatre. We’re in the lobby of the Clarence Hotel to discuss it all.
Until Ru Paul’s Drag Race, which changed it utterly, [drag] was essentially the same as being a stand-up in the International Bar
— Rory O'Neill
Flynn and O’Neill are warm and funny with a lot in common. They came up in fringe scenes — improv for Flynn and drag for O’Neill — before developing multihyphenate careers. O’Neill’s pub Pantibar, named after his drag persona, is across the river on Capel Street. Flynn frequently stars in TV and film and co-presents a very funny BBC advice podcast, Now You’re Asking, with Marian Keyes.
O’Neill and Flynn are also both associated with two of the biggest political moments of our lifetimes, the marriage equality referendum and the referendum to repeal the Eighth Amendment. O’Neill came solidly to the fore when a clip of Panti Bliss speaking movingly about living in a homophobic society, a Noble Call from the Abbey Stage, went viral. Flynn did so after speaking publicly about having an abortion before the referendum on the Eighth Amendment.
Neither were things they foresaw when starting their careers. Flynn entered the comedy scene as a founding member of bespectacled, bewigged singing sensations the Nualas in the 1990s, before joining the Dublin Comedy Improv. “That was much closer to acting, which is what I had been doing,” she says. “It was tiny. No mics, no lights. Everybody smoking. It was all very lo-fi ... One of the reasons I started doing stand-up was to work a bit more and in different places. It’s hard to book an improv troupe, because it’s five train tickets, five different hotel rooms.”
“And, also, it’s improv,” says O’Neill, shaking his head sadly.
“How dare you?” says Flynn in faux outrage. “Improv is a magnificent art form.”
“You could practically transpose me into that story,” says O’Neill. “First of all, the Nualas is drag.” Flynn nods in agreement. “Until Ru Paul’s Drag Race, which changed it utterly, [drag] was essentially the same as being a stand-up in the International Bar. It was fully self-starting. You were always in the same two, three venues. [And] in the 90s and even the noughties, there were zero expectations of a drag queen ... The idea I would still be doing it 30 years later was laughable.”
Is it accurate to say they ended up being activists because of lived experience rather than from any abstract desire to be political? “I think if you are on the outside looking in, it clarifies things for you and things bother you,” says O’Neill. “There was a million times where I was forced to ‘activate’ in order to get on. Things would be thrown in your way simply because you were queer ... The reason that I have trouble saying I’m an ‘activist’ is because I think my motivations are quite selfish. I was annoyed about something that was in my way ... It wasn’t like I had any reputation ... I was running around dressed as a woman in public ... I didn’t have some job in a university that might be at stake ... It’s actually an easy place to be an activist from, when you have absolutely nothing to f**king lose anyway. I think it’s harder now when I do have something to lose.”
There was a million times where I was forced to ‘activate’ in order to get on. Things would be thrown in your way simply because you were queer
— Rory O'Neill
Flynn was never particularly vocal about politics before the referendum, she says. “I used to enjoy saying to people, ‘You’ll never guess my politics’ ... But that was part of my job as a woman in the entertainment industry, to be straight down the middle, very docile, very smiley, very biddable ... You don’t jump up and down making noise. If you do, you lose your position.”
Why did she first tell her story? “Because I couldn’t not. There was an element of, ‘I just can’t take this any more. I’m going to scream if someone doesn’t tell the story!’… And then I was asked to moderate something for Amnesty at Electric Picnic directly after marriage equality and it was like, ‘Oh crap, now I’ve been handed the opportunity. Crap. It’s me’ ... I was absolutely terrified. I was really nauseous. And I did it, and it took on its own life.”
Can you still be this queer, discombobulating, confronting, punk drag queen and be on the cover of the RTÉ Guide?
— Rory O'Neill
There were serious ramifications for her. She continued campaigning and became a target for vile misogyny and racism on the internet. It was relentless. She eventually left Twitter. “There was also the friendly fire, people going, ‘She’s clout chasing. She’s doing it to get loads more work’.” She laughs at the idea. “Oh sweetie, nobody wants you on telly when you’re no longer the lovely lady who can just present loads of things. You’re now a loud shouty lady ... It just took everything else away. It became my entire identity. Until I could just step right out of it and start from scratch again, it was never going to go away.”
O’Neill was dealing with similar abuse and his own identity crisis. “Being in the mainstream is an uncomfortable place for me because I never expected or wanted to be. Can you still be this queer, discombobulating, confronting, punk drag queen and be on the cover of the RTÉ Guide? ... It took me a little while to refind my feet because I was wondering, ‘Well, what the f**k am I about now?’ We’ve got marriage equality ... You’ve been in this kind of aggressive stance ... If you were a queer who grew up in Ireland in the 80s and 90s you [had] this way of being in the world and then the Taoiseach is delighted you’re getting married! ... For a while I lost my footing.”
[ Tara Flynn: You don’t talk about abortion in Ireland. But I have toOpens in new window ]
What was the starting point for Flynn’s new show? “Just before I went public with my story of travelling for abortion, my dad died,” says Flynn. “The campaign rolled and rolled and rolled. And the day of the results, I was sitting with a therapist who was very kindly donating time to some people in the campaign. I was holding a cup of coffee and my hand was shaking. We just started chatting and he said, ‘Well, you must feel amazing,’ and then just something clicked and he said, ‘Oh, of course, now you’re free to deal with all the grief’ ... That moment was really the germ of the show. My dad’s life, how he saw Ireland change ... He’s from the same town in Clare as Biddy Early, the wise woman ... There were interesting parallels ... She had a literal witch trial. Grieving my dad was part and parcel of recovering from the storm ... It became about taking my story back.”
My absolutely favourite part in every show is the gearshift... When they’re all laughing and you suddenly turn it
— Rory O'Neill
Was it difficult to write? “There was a draft I’d call my ‘avoidance draft’ where I said to Philly [McMahon, co-director of ThisIsPopBaby], ‘I want to write something bright and sunny about all the ways that I pulled myself back up off the floor’. So, I wrote that and Philly said ‘Yeah, but the story’s not in here.’” She laughs. “I was encouraged to go there. And those drafts were cathartic, because they were difficult to write, but then they had no laughs in them at all. I put more laughs in and more in rehearsal. It’s in that nice space now where it’s not emotional vomit but nor is it avoidance.”
What themes did O’Neill focus on for his show? “A lot of it was about ageing and refinding your place in the world. And that is connected to the ‘dad’ point, because my dad is 88, and he isn’t the man he was physically or mentally. It’s a very intense experience, all of that ... When the activism ended, for a while I wasn’t exactly sure what I was, especially during the pandemic when my life was turned off. The bar was turned off and the shows were turned off and I was basically lying on the sofa eating chocolate Kimberly getting fat and worrying about my dad ... I felt very lost in a way that I’d never had before.”
How do they feel about showing vulnerability on stage? “If you want me to be vulnerable here, I’d be that person in the reality show going, ‘I’ve got my walls, bitch!’” says O’Neill. “But I’ve worked out how to be vulnerable on stage.”
“There’s a safety in it,” says Flynn.
“I love the parts in the show where I’m feeling something and they’re feeling something,” says O’Neill. “Usually in my normal life I want the ground to swallow me up if a feeling appears.”
Stand-up is a beautiful art form... But there’s this newly emerging form, which is slightly more malleable
— Tara Flynn
“It’s theatre,” says Flynn. “That’s something ThisIsPopBaby is brilliant at ... I love the vulnerability on stage. I love letting people in, but it’s a very controlled environment. You rehearse it and you find a way to protect yourself. And sometimes things will surprise you in the moment, but you’ve worked it through ... I love finding those moments on stage.”
How do they feel about mixing comedy with real emotional truth? “Stand-up is a beautiful art form,” says Flynn. “But there’s this newly emerging form, which is slightly more malleable. For me, it feels more honest to go, ‘Okay, I’ve this bit to tell you and it’s just not going to be funny. I’ll come back to the funny.’ It’s allowing the story to lead.”
[ Tara Flynn’s big regret: Not taking life by the balls soonerOpens in new window ]
O’Neill notes that when performing in drag in a nightclub setting, everything has to go to “a hundred”. “I wanted to say what you can’t say at 2am in a nightclub ... I wanted to do it in a space where people are primed to give you attention. You buy a ticket, you go in, you sit down, and you wait for the lights to turn on.”
Did he ever expect drag would be so mainstream? “I assumed it was always going to be this minority, quirky, very strange thing but these queens from Ru Paul’s Drag Race are proper megastars ... I went to one of those big touring shows at the Olympia ... I couldn’t believe it. It was packed. The average age was 17 or 18 with lots of girls. I was making drag for tired old leather queens and people on poppers ... It’s certainly not the drag I came from.” He laughs and adds in plummy tones: “That was born out of oppression, darling.”
Putting the target back on the LGBTQ plus community is f**king weird but that’s what they’re doing
— Tara Flynn
What’s comedy for? “Well, the world’s absurd,” says Flynn. “And if you don’t roll with that you get knocked back. Taking an oblique or sideways view is very helpful ... Sometimes you need a spoonful of sugar to go, ‘Okay, that was maybe hard for you to hear in a way that’s making you a little wobbly or sad, so I’m going to haul you out of the hole. Take my hand.”
“My absolutely favourite part in every show is the gearshift,” says O’Neill. “When they’re all laughing and you suddenly turn it.”
Tara gives an example in a sad voice: “But Coco the kitten didn’t last very long.”
O’Neill laughs. “That shift in the room is exciting and thrilling.”
“And it can only happen live,” says Flynn, “because of that energy with an audience.”
Are they still activists? “If you’d asked me this question two years ago, I would have said, ‘I honestly don’t know that I need to do anything any more’,” says O’Neill. “But I’ve changed my mind very dramatically ... I feel we are slipping backwards at a pace. Far be it from me to contradict Dr Martin Luther King, but he said, ‘The arc of the moral universe bends towards justice’. It simply isn’t true ... I feel at the moment the arc of the moral universe is being refracted through bullshit. It’s very obvious in places like the US and UK but we’re not immune from that.” Later he says: “Those two days [of the referendums] didn’t just magically fix everything.”
There’s been a resurgence of homophobia. Last year a building on Capel Street was spray painted with the words “Pedo Bar” with an arrow pointed to Pantibar. Two years ago during Pride a man threw a brick through their window with the message “F*****Ts out” taped to it. The homophobe live-blogged about his actions and nobody watching online told him to stop.
[ Panti: a woman in the making by Rory O’NeillOpens in new window ]
O’Neill shakes his head. “I constantly now have these moments of recognition where I think, ‘Am I back in 1987?’ ... Not a day goes by on f**king Twitter that I’m not called a ‘paedophile’ simply because I’m a visibly queer person. I went 15 years without being called that ... I thought that was all gone.”
“Putting the target back on the LGBTQ plus community is f**king weird but that’s what they’re doing,” says Flynn. “And choice is also under pressure ... Roe versus Wade ... We are vulnerable now to that pushback. I think reproductive rights are on the list. Trans rights are definitely on the list.”
“They’re a canary in the coal mine,” says O’Neill.
It’s really important to me, especially when it’s more personal material, that I say whatever I need to say, and people can take it or leave it
Listening to people talking about their experiences is really important, says Flynn. “The communities targeted by the far right, they’re telling us, they’ve been screaming for years. And the people with the microphones at the moment are telling us that that’s not really very important ... People are practically wearing swastikas and sieg-heiling away and they’re going, ‘They’re just waving at their friends’.”
O’Neill also worries about some media figures downplaying the dangers of the far right while others are actively feeding the problem by writing sensationally about subjects about which they know little. He singles out unkind columns about trans people in particular. “It’s like as if someone who doesn’t believe diabetics exist, has never met one or spoken to one and is not a medical doctor, is asked to write columns about that.”
Does it feel like they’re being pulled back into the fight? “A thousand per cent it does,” says O’Neill, before noting that his show is only partly about such things. “I’m an entertainer ... Don’t come to my show expecting to learn something.”
“Same,” says Flynn. “If you accidentally learn something, that’s fine.”
[ Panti Bliss, a Mills & Boon author and a Viking: Me and my alter egoOpens in new window ]
O’Neill says sometimes people come to see him for the “human rights activist” and are surprised to find the irreverent drag queen is also very much to the fore. “This morning I was at the dentist and the form asks for ‘occupation’ ... I ended up writing ‘entertainer’ in block letters.”
“I don’t think entertainment is slight,” says Flynn. “I think it’s essential right now... Our skills are making people feel better from the stage. [But] it’s really important to me, especially when it’s more personal material, that I say whatever I need to say, and people can take it or leave it. I’m not speaking for anybody. I’m not expecting a special State pension or anything.”
“Oh, I am,” says O’Neill and we all laugh, feeling better for it.
A double bill of If These Wigs Could Talk and Haunted runs at the Abbey Theatre, Peacock stage on November 11th-December 3rd. abbeytheatre.ie
