Ian Macpherson was born in Birmingham but
left for Dublin at the age of two, taking both parents with
him. When he had the accent sorted out, and a modest degree
from University College, Dublin, he left for London where
he became involved with children’s, street and fringe
theatre. He wrote and acted in such shows as
One For
The Road, Mutiny on the Bountiny (sic) and The Good, The Bad and
The Banana, an experience which
taught him a very valuable lesson: Never act with animals,
children or fruit.
He then joined the first Irish touring company in Britain.
From there it was a logical progression to stand-up comedy
which, at the time – the early 80s – was innovative,
exciting and badly paid. He won the first Time Out Comedy
Award in 1988.
Several one-man shows followed at the Edinburgh festival,
including The Chair
at the
Assembly Rooms (2001) and The Joy Of
Death (2002) at the Pleasance.
By which time he was also writing comedy scripts and radio
plays. In 1999 he published Deep Probings: The
Autobiography of a Genius, which was broadcast on Radio 4’s
Book at Bedtime in 2004. He followed this with a children's
book, ‘Late
Again!’
He has recently completed Posterity
Now and two further children's
books - Hortense and her
Sensible Friend and Crumbs.
He is
currently working on a play, Anguish,
and a book of
connected stories - How To Survive The
Menopause With Your Manhood Intact -
the first six
of which have been broadcast on BBC Radio 4. His
play, Anguish With
Posie, premiered at the Tron,
Glasgow, in January 2010.
He lives in Glasgow’s West End with writer Magi Gibson, his
many awards, and a suitcase full of memories.
Deep Probings and 'Late
Again!' are available at amazon.co.uk
Edinburgh Festival 2008 Raised a Lapsed
Catholic
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVpfMSm-vWs
Edinburgh Festival 2008 The Burkha Gag
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=81ZCB3EOdhU
Edinburgh Festival 2008 The Catholic Jewish Joke
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vO2dbNt-iT0
Deep Probings
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UlB9zGGVhEE
Hortense and her Sensible Friend - with Anneliese
Mackintosh
www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLUEcdJWzlE
DEEP
PROBINGS -
Extract
Scully: I
decided to give him a pseudonym for the purposes of this
memoir and chose a name at random from the Magherafelt
telephone directory (1982 edn.) The name I chose was also
Scully, but a different Scully. And I have the address and
telephone number to prove it.
What is it about the past that it colours what may well
have been traumatic experiences in a rosy glow? The shop in
question sparked the memory of my last day at school. Mr
Scully had been in playful mood at the prospect of the long
break and was sitting on his desk unravelling some
underpant elastic, happy as a kitten with a ball of wool.
Sun softened the floorboards and the mood was one of
somnambulant ease.
'So tell me, lads,' he said, 'would I have a nickname now
by any chance?'
Of course he had a nickname. His nickname was Mad Dog, a
sobriquet inherited from his mother. He knew this. He
exulted in it. The reason he feigned ignorance? He was
simply after the following scenario:
'Your nickname is Mad Dog, Sir.'
'Do you tell me so? Ah sure now isn't that a shocking thing
entirely. I must be an awful man so.'
'Ah no, Sir. Hard but fair.'
'Mad dog is it? Well boys oh boys oh boys oh boys oh boys.
I must be a right terror and no mistake.'
'Ah no, Sir...'
And so on until he was finally convinced of the fundamental
soundness of his methods.
On this particular occasion the plan backfired. My fault,
I'm afraid. The heat of the sun. The softness of the floor.
A bluebottle attempting the impossible flight. And I, the
sleepy poet, drowsing in the midst of all, my mind working,
working, working. As a mental discipline I had set myself
the task of naming all the world's great poets, grouping
them in interesting ways to make the task more piquant.
Poets whose first language was Ancient Greek, for instance.
Poets whose middle name was Clarence. I had just reached
American Female Poets Who Committed Suicide when I heard my
name in the middle distance.
'Well, MacFiach. What's my nickname?'
The tone was not unkind. It was, as I say, the last day of
term. A temporary ceasefire. For this reason, perhaps, I
failed to jolt immediately from one world to the other. I
vaguely remember deciding to answer the real world question
swiftly and return without delay to the world of the
limitless imagination.
'Your nickname,' I replied, 'is Sylvia.'
This, as I say, was my final day at school. I was due back
the following year but such was the extent of my injuries
that it was thought best to keep me on a life support
machine.