Happy Birthday, Ted! Donal O’Donoghue reflects upon Father Ted, 25 years after the classic comedy first hit our screens
Can it really be a quarter of a century since the gospel according to Father Ted was first preached from the pulpit of Channel 4? Donal O’Donoghue recalls his encounters with the Ted, that included his 15 seconds of fame
We were somewhere around the Burren when the madness kicked o . It was the summer of ’96 and an ‘Irish’ comedy had been making big waves on both sides of the pond. “Get me the story on this Father Ted!” barked the boss, a person not to be tri ed with. Two days later, the photographer and myself found ourselves in GodKnows-where in Clare, so lost that we had to do that thing men on the road fear most: ask for directions. “Any idea where I might nd Father Ted?” I enquired of a local, who, I swear to all that’s holy, replied: “No it’s Father Sean we have here! Father Ted is the next parish.”
We eventually found the famous Parochial House of Craggy Island in the townland of Lackareagh. It shouldn’t have been that di cult to locate: the only house for miles around besieged by trucks, trailers and all the other paraphernalia of a lm shoot. A Christmassy Ted, the show’s one and only seasonal special, was being lmed (interiors were recorded at the London Studios in Waterloo) with Declan Lowney at the helm and co-writers Graham Linehan and Arthur Mathews, as ever barbecuing sacred cows in an hour-long festive show that went from Ballykissangel to Mission Impossible via Ireland’s largest lingerie section.
Priests were scarce that day (the show had a surprisingly tight budget), so I was press-ganged into a soutane and pointed in the general direction of a eld of chairs arrayed in front of an empty stage. is was the set-up for Father Ted Crilly’s interminable acceptance speech for the Golden Cleric Award. My one job was to stand up and leave at some point. “How shall I leave?’ I wondered. “Do I stand up suddenly or slowly? Do I make a grand gesture of boredom and annoyance? Do I dare eat a peach?” In the event, it was all over in seconds, my claim to fame a eeting ‘Look, that’s me there? No! Not him! e long-haired priest!’ at exchange comes round every Christmas with the inevitable repeat of the show.
Father Ted would go on to rule the comedy world, bagging awards, audiences and celebrity fans. Some time in the late ’90s, on the Fox lot in Hollywood, I was interviewing the writers of e Simpsons, when it popped up in conversation.
“Ah Ireland,” said Matt Selman, clocking my accent. “Have you seen that show, Father Ted?” D’oh! Selman was a Ted Head, especially fond of that scene where Ted uses plastic toy cows to explain the di erence between small and far away to Father Dougal. “It was like this is small and this is far away and this is near,” said Matt, cracking up. Months later, I related the story to the late Frank Kelly (Father Jack). He smiled, kindly, most likely having heard such stu many times before.
In February 1998, on the eve of the third and nal series, I met the cast for the last time. e PR shindig was in Filthy McNasty’s in Islington. I was the lone Irish hack. Dermot ‘Fr Ted’ Morgan, as was sometimes his wont, was giving RTÉ a lash. In another room, season three’s opening episode played on an eternal loop, Father Jack in Nazi regalia popping out of a box again and again. It was all a bit chaotic, with free- owing booze and Morgan telling of his plans for world domination post- Ted. It was not to be. ree days later, at the age of 45, he was gone. By then, the RTÉ Guide had already gone to bed, appearing on shelves with Dermot very much alive. Somewhere up there, he was, as ever, having the last laugh.