View from the Green Room: Dirtbirds dish the dirt on domesticity
Dirtbirds presented their Girls World Tour at the Theatre Royal.
The atmosphere in the theatre is electric. The house is jammers with women who are just buzzin’ for the craic. It’s a night for cheers, raucous laughter, screams of agreement and massive craic.
The secret of the Dirtbirds is that everyone’s on the same page.
“Who’s the organiser?” demands Sinead Culbert, and she’s off on a stream of consciousness that is all too real and brings peals of laughter.
“Ye know the wan,” says she, with that been-here-before stare.
“They’re no sooner on the case then they’re settin’ up WhatsApp groups with hourly updates of who’s comin’ and who’s not… lists of nearby restaurants (incl. eateries to be avoided)… directions with aerial views of the theatre that would delight an air traffic controller... and a calculator brain that refuses to entertain the let’s-just-split-the-bill approach to a good night out."
This is an audience that has shared a lot of grief from angsty teenage young fellas and feisty, hormonal young wans that masquerade as offspring.
“I always seem to say the wrong thing,” moans Sue Collins, "like when my 15-year-old daughter says 'I hate you, Mum' and I reply 'AND I HATE FOCKIN’ HATE YOU BACK'.
She knows it’s not the right response because she’s read that book on parenting but… hey… it sure feels bloody good to get that response off your chest.
This is what gives parents grey hairs. It’s hereditary. They inherit it from their children.
“When we were young,” boast Sue, “we were out climbing pylons that you could plug into and chasing cars up the middle of the road."
The Dirtbirds are middle-aged now and times have changed. And kids, too. Today, snowflakers root in homes paid for by exasperated mothers that can’t say a thing to them.
This is the no-play-in-the-rain generation that can’t absorb a syllable of criticism and whine answers in whinges of less than a syllable that never actually begin or end.
Strangely enough, these grunts always seem to point towards some need or other.
Sinéad is married to a Dutchman who doesn’t get Irish sarcasm and spits all over her when he pronounces an “s”. Dutch people never pull their curtains, by the way, because they want everyone to see how neat and tidy their houses are.
“They’re all maaaad Calvanists,” explains Sue – who complains she’s riddled with Catholic guilt – and nothin’ ever actually goes on in their houses.
“Don’t ye just luvve it when the perfect house with the beautiful extension near ye goes up for sale?... It’s like property porn for the neighbourhood gossips,” and the theatre screams in agreement.
The 30-something experience in women’s dressing rooms is probably the highlight of the night.
“OMG those 360 degree mirrors that makes me feel there’s some lump of a woman standing behind me that would benefit from a bit of liposuction… I’ll have a word in the shop assistant’s ear… or… maybe NOT!”
And then… there’s the hubby! She’s got one of her own. There’s a chapter on him in “The Book of Marriage” entitled “Tough Goin’”.
“Romance?” she scoffs, “lower your expectations girls… he snores… farts… never compliments… and controls the tele.”
Sex? She had it this time last year.
“And if you’re wondering why?... It’s because he doesn’t love ye!”
“Are there any men here?” accuses a shrill Sinead, as she cast a mischievous eye over the audience. There’s three, incidentally. There’s me squirming in the back seat; there's Shane hiding up the back of the balcony. And then there’s Tom. From Roscommon. Who just can’t escape the tide of misandry – clue - it’s the opposite of misogyny! – heading in his direction. It’s a Cyclops stare that can lacerate a character at 10 paces.
The sisterhood has downed a lot of vino and they’re just more than happy to “out” the “sheep stealer” (nickname for the Rossies) with cries of “he’s over here”. He’s immediately accused of being a swinger with a wonky GPS system that’s landed on W instead of R.
Dirtbirds is a mix of stand-up and sketches with a song or two thrown in between. It’s a laughathon night out for this female audience that share many of life’s anxieties that fill this pair of chicks’ nest and the audience deliver a well-deserved standing ovation.
Tom, Shane and moi?... we’re setting up a self-help group.
