Aisling Bea scares me. She’s thirty-five (today, actually) and she’s funny and she’s beautiful and she talks very fast and I know I’d be sitting in the audience utterly rapt and I’d be the one person in the crowd she’d never, ever see. Of course, she’s spent half her life on stage and in front of the camera learning every possible way to frighten the likes of me, though that was never what she had intended.
She studied French and philosophy at Trinity College in Dublin. I know of no better way to prepare oneself for doing stand-up comedy.
There’s always room for her on a panel show, be it 8 Out of 10 Cats or Insert Name Here or Duck Quacks Don’t Echo or Never Mind the Buzzcocks.
And she’s likely to say something like this:
When she was three, her father took his own life. In 2017, this is how she responded:
I’m sad you killed yourself, because I really think that, if you could see the life you left behind, you would regret it. You didn’t get to see the Berlin wall fall or Ireland qualify for Italia 90. You didn’t get to see all the encyclopedias that you bought for us to one day “use at university” get squashed into a CD and subsequently the internet. You have never got to hear your younger daughter’s voice — it annoys me sometimes, but it has also said some of the most amazing things when drunk. I think you would have been proud to watch your daughter do standup at the O2 and sad to see my mother watching it on her own. Then again, if you hadn’t died, I probably wouldn’t have been mad enough to become a clown for a living. I am your daughter and I am really fucking funny, just like you. But, unlike you, I’m going to stop being it for five minutes and write our story in the hope that it may help someone who didn’t get to have a box turn up, or who may not feel “in their right mind” right now and needs a reminder to find hope.
As do we all, now and then.