The idea of being famous and constantly perceived is terrifying to me – I’d be a wreck

The first celebrity I ever interviewed was Domhnall Gleeson. I was 25 and, after a few years as a rookie news journalist, I had finally blagged my way into my ideal job: an arts reporter. I was reviewing books and plays, writing analysis pieces on the state of the arts in Ireland, and, best of all, interviewing people. This first assignment lured me into a false sense of ease. I met the affable actor in a Dublin city bar – the lounge of the former Central Hotel, where there were often multiple journalists conducting interviews – and there was no set end time. We chatted for an hour or so. Gleeson was easygoing and normal and it felt like chatting to a friend. This, I soon learnt, is not how it always is. The bigger the star, the more hoops you usually have to jump through.

If a star is in Ireland to promote a big film, they are often installed in a suite at a plush Dublin hotel and a conveyor belt of journalists is rolled in, one after the other, to ask questions. An hour for one interview is inconceivable. If you’re lucky, you get 15 minutes. This was what I was promised when, a year or so after that first interview, I was sent to the Merrion Hotel to talk to Colin Farrell.

He was, at that point, the most famous person I had interviewed and the pressure was on to get some good material from the encounter.

I was nervous but I was ready to go. Then, just before it was my turn, I was told the allotted time had been cut: I now had seven minutes. Seven minutes to get enough substance to fill a 1,600-word article? It was impossible. I panicked and, following the publicist into the hotel room, started frantically drawing lines through opening, gentle questions. No time for introductions; I had to get stuck in off the bat.

However, this resulted in me opening the interaction by blurting out a truly obtuse and obnoxious question. It went something like: ‘Were you surprised anyone ever hired you again after your years spent drinking and taking drugs?’ I needn’t have worried about not getting through all my questions – if anything I ran out of them after five minutes – because Farrell, now understandably icy, gave me the shortest of replies.

Michael Flatley was another memorable encounter. I flew to London to meet him at the Dorchester Hotel. When I arrived at the swanky establishment, sweating as my flight was delayed and I was nearly late, four hotel security members descended on me. Clearly, I was not their usual clientele.

We had the whole lounge to ourselves, with the exception of the waiter whose sole job was to wait until our cups were half empty before appearing at our side and lifting the ornate teapot.

Flatley is sometimes presented as a caricature, and indeed he did flex his muscles unconsciously as he spoke, but what I mainly remember is how impressed I was by him; how self-made he was, his work ethic, his tenacity.

At the end of the encounter, I was getting the bus to Luton Airport to catch my Ryanair flight home. He was aghast. He insisted on paying for a taxi. He marched me out to the rank, the muscles in his legs causing him to walk like he’d just dismounted a horse. In the lobby he produced a money clip. He gave a taxi driver a bundle of twenties, banged the roof of the car, and said ‘Get that girl to the airport’.

I met most of my writing heroes during my time as an interviewer, but Flatley was probably my all-time favourite interview experience.

In the 11 years I spent as an arts journalist, I have witnessed celebrities who have worn their fame lightly, such as Westlife’s Nicky Byrne and presenter Ryan Tubridy. During both those interviews – conducted in hotel lobbies – the men were approached by members of the public who wanted to say hello. The idea of being famous, and constantly perceived, is terrifying to me – I would be a paranoid wreck within a week – but they were both affable and gracious, and not at all self-conscious. Both men knew that to be out and about in Ireland was to be recognised and it didn’t bother them at all.

Equally, I have interviewed celebrities who could really do without having people take their photo while they’re doing their weekly shop: step forward Cillian Murphy and Hozier.

Hozier was one of the loveliest people I ever profiled. It was clear, too, that he was not in the music business for the fame; it was the price he had paid for success. It’s not easy to pass unnoticed when you’re an international superstar, never mind being 6ft5 with a mane of wavy hair.

My favourite type of interview, though, is when the subject invites you to their home. I always used the bathroom, if only for the chance to have a greater nose around.

Through work, I have been to the homes of legendary writer Jennifer Johnston; author Kevin Barry, who made me some lovely soup; and visual artist Dorothy Cross – who had hospital beds in her garden as sun loungers and the body of a shark in her freezer. I also visited the home of the late playwright Tom Murphy. When I turned up at 11am, he took one unimpressed look at the bag of scones I was carrying and told me that people usually brought him wine.

Gabriel Byrne, another interviewee, said:

Fame doesn’t change you; it changes the people around you. I would wager that both things are true.