When I started doing plays in Dublin it was with our little theatre company, Fly by Night. We had absolutely no money. This was pre-Celtic Tiger, and most of us were on the dole. I had a part-time job working in my auntie Peggy's shoe shop behind the Ilac Centre. Myself and Colin O'Connor were the two playwrights in the company, and there were half a dozen others including Peter MacDonald, Jason Byrne, Valerie Spelman and Kevin Hely.

We'd convene for important meetings in Bewley's with a great sense of purpose, if not quite with one. Even at this early stage there were disagreements and factions. There were those of us (the playwrights) who felt the only reason to start a company was to present new plays, and others (the actors) who thought all we should ever do was Shakespeare. Eventually we decided to hire the room above the International Bar and start doing new one-act plays at lunchtimes.

And immediately there were costs: rent, paint, posters, flyers . . . I remember borrowing one of my Dad's ties and a jacket and going into shops up and down Wicklow Street trying to sell advertising space in our "programme" which was two A4 sheets stapled together. We managed to get one ad. It was from Munchies sandwich bar, for £50. But their policy was to give away free food to poor people and that's probably how they saw us.

And we sort of shared their policy in a weird way. We charged people £2 (£1 unwaged) and we gave everyone a free lunch. I know this seems unbelievably stupid, and how we managed to ever break even amazes me now. But we did. You came up the stairs at the International Bar and we forced sandwiches on a bewildered public who suddenly began to wonder if they were being duped into a religious cult. Of course, depending on whose turn it was to make the sandwiches, the quality varied greatly. My girlfriend, Rionach, was the most imaginative with her "menu". You could have tuna and grape. Or if you didn't want that, plain tuna. Or plain grape.

But the plays were the thing, and that was what we were there for. The stage was tiny, about seven feet by four, and our first production had a cast of 10. Our idea of "costume design" was for everybody to arrive and swap whatever they were wearing with someone else. This was done in the "dressing room" which was a stairwell behind the stage, cluttered with coats and bags and stressed-out actors. Props were either brought from home or stolen from public places. My dad drove a van at the time, and I remember us simply walking in somewhere, picking up a table, putting it in the van and driving away.

Audience numbers, like the sandwiches, were erratic. On Monday, you might be cramming 40 or more in. Tuesday, all you had were two German tourists who'd made a dreadful mistake. Some days you had the morbid, fascinating horror of performing for one lone sinner. When you've just had a play performed for your singular benefit it's often difficult to know how to applaud. A single person clapping can often sound like some kind of protest. I remember one embarrassed gentleman simply standing up and shaking hands with the cast, saying, "Thank you. Thank you very much," then running down the stairs either for a stiff drink or to burst gratefully out into the fresh air.

At one point, as a company, we decided to become more disciplined as regards our "craft". (Kevin Hely always made me weep with laughter as he stood amid one of our terrible sets saying, "we are the masters of illusion".) So we said we'd meet once a week for "workshops", whether we had a show on or not. The first one was organised by Jason Byrne and the first part of it involved doing press-ups and sit-ups and generally getting into shape. This was fine except myself and Colin O'Connor had been in the pub all day watching football. So, full of beer, we thought, "50 press-ups, Jas? No problem". Half-an-hour later we clocked each others' purple faces as if to say simultaneously: "I think I'm going to die here". I don't think we ever had another workshop.

Sometimes doing these shows for no money, begging favours, trying to hold down or find jobs, rehearsing late into the night, took its toll. And nowhere was this more evident than the day one of our actors quite literally, got a pain in the arse.

He was sitting there after a performance one day, relaxing, having a cup of tea, and he tried to get up but found that he couldn't. There was a crippling pain in one of his buttocks. He couldn't walk. He could hardly stand. His face was contorted with agony. We had to carry him outside and lean him against a street sign while we went for help. The doctor claimed he had never seen anything like it. It was pinched nerve or something. So a massive dose of muscle relaxant was injected into the actor's bottom, bringing instant relief. We all felt like we'd achieved something.

Two years after our first production it was clear that although we'd had fun and learned a lot, we weren't professionally successful. We found it difficult to get reviewed in the papers and none of us seemed organised enough to approach the Arts Council or take the company to the next level. Gradually people began to drift away to do their own thing, some to get formal training, some to find work abroad.

But although we were very quiet as a company, some of us went on to make a living at it separately. Jason Byrne directs for the Abbey and was named last year's director of the year at the Spirit of Life awards. Peter MacDonald has made, and continues to make, a great impact in films such as I Went Down, Nora and Felicia's Journey. Kevin Hely is currently on tour with Pan Pan Theatre Company, and Valerie Spelman has just returned to Dublin after a run at the Royal National Theatre in London.

She's come back because we've reformed Fly by Night to present Colin O'Connor's new play, The Last Days of God. For the past few years I've been travelling a lot with my plays and making films. I've sat dumbfounded in meetings with Hollywood legends and I've shaken hands with royalty. And I find myself back in the old situation, asking people to do stuff for no money, ringing relatives up, trying to get ads, trying all the angles.

The good news is that, so far, we've one ad, and we've managed to get a discount on the wood for the set. You ask yourself, "Why are we doing this? Do we need the hassle?" And the answer must be that we do. When you know someone's written a fantastic play that should reach an audience, you feel "well, what have we got to lose? What could make this not worth the effort?" And the answer really is: nothing.

The Last Days Of God by Colin O'Connor opens at Theatre Space @ Henry Place on May 31st and runs until June 17th. Conor McPherson's most recent play, Dublin Carol, premiered at London's Royal Court Theatre in the spring