Caught amidst a photo session near North Cork’s Shandon Tower, where he spent his childhood, John Creedon is receiving plenty of attention from passersby. One woman adoringly expresses her admiration for his television persona, to which he jokingly replies about the challenges of living with him. When a man hails him as a legend, he humbly brushes off the accolade, before jovially stating that it’s difficult to be recognised in one’s own homeland.
As Shandon’s bells echo in the background, Creedon quips about marking his existence in fifteen-minute intervals synchronised with the bells. He recalls the instance when, while residing in Dublin with his four daughters, he visited the place to make them interact with their native Cork roots.
It’s a difficult task to picture Creedon anywhere but Cork, despite him spending significant years in Dublin, career-centric moves compelling him. His recently authored book, ‘This Boy’s Heart’, his third one to date, subtly portrays his experiences in Cork’s heartland and on an East Cork farm where he spent time growing up.
Our conversation winds up along the peaceful footpath (as he refers to it), adjacent to St Mary’s Church on Pope’s Quay, whilst enjoying a light-hearted coffee session. Creedon’s archetype is pretty much resonant with his RTÉ Radio 1 chat show personality. Casually drifting from one discourse to another with interspersed nuggets of quotations and historical trivia, he suddenly interrupts his train of thought upon observing the fluctuating river tides or pointing out a marine seal headf bobbing in the water. On seeing a presumed disturbed man yelling at the river, he expresses hope for his wellbeing.
Creedon once interjects, guilty of darting from one topic to another, confessing his thoughts are racing ceaselessly. He quotes, Thomas Aquinas’s, ‘The mind is a great troublemaker’ to describe his own state of mind that was buzzing despite waking up in a cheerful mood.
Creedon’s upbringing took place in the Inchigeelagh Dairy shop nestled amongst the downtown hustle, where he resided with his parents, 11 siblings, and a blend of lodgers and aunts. His mother, Siobhán, managed the store whilst his father, Con, was employed as a driver by CIÉ. Despite his mother’s humble farming origins and his father’s elevated merchant status, Creedon recollects their kindness and indifference to societal classifications. They were as likely to lend their kindness to a drunken man in need of a seat as to Mrs Martel, a regular draped in furs, he mentions.
Creedon was surrounded largely by females during his childhood, which might have ignited his attraction towards mingling with mature men. As a crucial aspect of This Boy’s Heart, Creedon recounts his memories of living and working under the guardianship of their family friend and namesake, Johnny Creedon, in Glounthaune. He narrates the incident wherein Johnny staged a bogus donkey derby to let the young John win, indicating it as one of the motivating reasons for penning down the book. To ensure Johnny’s memory of benevolence is kept alive, Creedon includes this memory in the book, confessing how he failed to grasp Johnny’s affectionate concern for him initially. This realisation dawned upon him through the casual conversation at Midleton Mart, when a man referred to Creedon as Johnny’s son. Johnny not denying it but rather affirming gave Creedon an insight into the bond they shared.
He summarizes his frequent “relocations” as not a factor of lacking affection, but as a result of his parents being overwhelmed by the sheer number of their offspring. He was often the overly curious child, always eager to explore, which in many instances, got him in trouble. He was often meandering around the city, making money from selling waste paper, occasionally getting turfed out from various classes due to his mischievous side, but he was never a tough lad. His behaviour now suggests that perhaps he was undersized and lacked necessary guidance, particularly in areas like homework, rather than being unintelligent.
As a young lad, he would often find himself in the company of older men in pubs. Perhaps male role models were something he was seeking considering he was enveloped by women in his family. His mother had nine sisters, and he had eight of his own, hence he was comfortable around women. Men, on the other hand, felt truly exotic due to their scarcity in his immediate family. Hence, he found himself naturally draw to the society of older men, especially since his father was frequently absent due to his bus driving job.
The book captures his life through a series of amusing anecdotes from his early years. It portrays a cheerful narrative, yet you can sense a distinct underlying sadness. Detailing his encounters of physical and emotional abuse by priests at his school, he acknowledged the constant anxiety that lingered like an unsolvable knot in his gut. “That would be accurate,” he admits, revealing his naturally high-strung personality. He is always preoccupied with what lies ahead – a distinctive drive propels him. There were instances when, amidst the serenity of nature, after about forty minutes, everything would quiet down and he would cease assigning names to birds and plants and instead become one with the universe. This would bring an immense sense of joy, but he’d always find himself in a whirl. He once heard somebody equate low-grade anxiety to the constant hum of a refrigerator that’s been running all your life, and you only notice it when it’s unplugged. He found that relatable, acknowledging “Ah, I hadn’t realised that incessant noise.”
After graduation, he enrolled in English and philosophy courses at University College Cork but ended up dropping out. “I was a bit unruly,” he admits, “and my folks were ill. I found myself attempting to pay bills during a difficult economic time and ultimately decided to abandon my studies for a job.”
He later returned to further his education, but his first child arrived soon after. Being the primary earner, he found himself with an increasing number of responsibilities as he welcomed four daughters into the family. “That’s quite a burden for a young lad,” he reflects. This led him to take up various jobs – from factory work to gigs in nightclubs and promoting events. Recently, a tweet labelled him a ‘middle-class prat’ alongside a photo. Caught off guard by the derogatory use of ‘middle-class’, he questioned whether he fit into that category, given the struggles of his twenties which had him dragging furniture out of ditches just to keep the home heated.
Referencing RTÉ as his “academic institution,” he journeyed into RTÉ Radio 1 in 1987 after many stints on pirate radio, following a public-call for applications. During several instances, he stood in for celebrated broadcaster names such as Gay Byrne, Pat Kenny, and Derek Davis. A span of 13 years saw him host a morning show. One of his assignments was to work alongside Gerry Ryan under the humorous alter ego “Terence”, a hairdresser from Cork. He describes the experience as humorous and somewhat chaotic, with both of them engaging in unpredictable conversation filled with Gerry’s uncanny prompts, leading some listeners to believe it was unscripted.
In the following years, his focus shifted to his radio show, his books on place names (That Place We Call Home), folklore (An Irish Folklore Treasury) and his TV series like Creedon’s Atlas of Ireland and Creedon’s Musical Atlas of Ireland. After these ventures, he feels that he is “finally doing something that feels right for me.” However, he affirms that there was no grand scheme – life is laden with uncertainty. He shares an allegorical tale of a sparrow covered in cow dung only to find the warmth comforting but gets yanked out and consumed by a fox. His interpretation? “The individual who lands you in trouble isn’t necessarily your foe, whilst the one who rescues you isn’t always your ally.”
Reflecting back on his ‘troubles,’ he alluded to a few disheartening experiences amid his career and often found himself unsure between contracts. He concedes that he partook in things that didn’t resonate with who he was. Drawing a case in point, he regretted participating in Winning Streak. He frankly admits understanding the game rules was beyond his comprehension that he even hosted several episodes oblivious of the rules.
“He struggles to say no to others, he confides. “A buddy of mine always says ‘No is a full stop in itself’. Yet, averting requests truly hurts me. I experience disappointment when unable to meet people’s needs. My assistant director says, ‘You ought to stop being too available. Learn to reject people.’” He chuckles. “However, considering it is a small place and I’m not of great importance. But it’s been a lifelong struggle for me. Attempting to identify my own boundaries, my own space. There’s been slight improvement. I feel a sense of urgency to complete tasks I want to finish.”
During our conversation, we are often interrupted by individuals. A gentleman engages us in a conversation.
“You’re more charming in person,” he compliments to Creedon.
“On my best days,” responds Creedon.
“I appreciate your art of storytelling. You have a captivating style. Does it involve a lot of memorising?”
“I’m only a passionate novice,” admits Creedon.
Another man stops by, “I’m here to make your day,” he says.
“Do you have that cash you owe me?” questions Creedon.
The guy laughs, sharing that he is from Inchigeelagh and recognises some people that Creedon knows. He then discloses that he is homeless. “I have been staying in a car for the past few months. I’ve now found refuge in a hostel. There’s a pending case with the residential tenancy board against the landlord … But there’s some work lined up.”
“If you manage to secure a safe spot and a bit of cash trickling in, you can chart a path to progress,” counsels Creedon.
“No need to worry about me, I’m resilient,” assures the man, walking away with a grin.
Shortly after, a younger man stops us. He says, “I was tuning into the television yesterday night, wondering …”
“How does he seem so effortless?” interrupts Creedon.
“No, that your passions align with mine, it struck me odd because years ago, my mother escorted me to that structure.” He doesn’t specify what this structure is. “I didn’t continue my interest in hurling. I didn’t hold on to the music.”
“But you remain youthful,” encourages Creedon.
The gentleman ponders briefly. “Although I could transfer some bitterness, I choose against it. I will encounter you again, and we’ll share a cup of coffee. I mustn’t delve into it presently. Meeting you has clarified that I’m not destined to return to Australia.” As he walks away, we are left pondering his enigmatic words.
Creedon frequently has conversations akin to this. He exclaims, “It’s incredible, don’t you think? We are all nomads on some plane, constantly striving to return home. Once a newspaper asked me about my New Year’s resolutions… One revelation I had was that I must uplift others more often; despite being incessantly praised, that man really needs to hear, ‘You’re doing well.’”
His radio broadcasting portrays an infectious sense of kind motivation. Does he envisage a specific listener? Initially, he dismisses the concept of “Imagine the listener” as something people say in training courses for presenters; but later concedes, “Should I condense my audience down to a single person, I envision a solitary woman, in either her late 30s or 40s, who, after a hard day’s work, comes home to her flat, closes the door with a nudge of her foot until it clicks shut and switches on the radio. I’m there to accompany her through her evening routine – be it ironing a shirt or whatever.”
He accompanies me to a point on my way back to the park around the Kent station. We cross paths with St Mary’s Church. He reminisces about how as a child he enjoyed the hymns and candles and argues that the dominion over religious ceremonies should not be mediocre. The philosopher Lau Tsu who penned the Tau Te Ching never desired for it to be written. As he stated, ‘The moment it’s written down, it will be tainted. Someone will own its legal rights and someone else will start establishing rules.’”
Never before has he been so excited about authoring books, a dream he’s always harboured. “At 14, I would submit lovelorn poetry to the Echo,” he recalls. “With a bit of luck, they’ll remain lost. I penned one named ‘The Early Summer Blues.’ It revolved around the Inter Certificate, the Pharisees, the noises in a classroom, and two periods of maths. It depicted the melancholy of life at the age of fifteen.”
He expressed doubts about penning a subsequent autobiography focusing on his teenage and early adult life. This hesitation is borne out of challenging economic times his family faced and his parents’ declining health during the 1970s and 80s. Additionally, he shared experiences of profound loneliness during his time in boarding school.
We meandered along the irregular alleyways in north Cork. He directed my attention to a spot on St Patrick’s Hill, the site where he was lifted atop a roof to catch a glimpse of President John F Kennedy. He shared interesting anecdotes about the development of Cork, explaining its geographical expansion over years and how, post-famine, the hills were densely populated by O’Driscolls and O’Sheas who had fled the countryside. He mentioned how council houses offered respite to the impoverished in mid-twentieth century, but presently, they have negligible ownership stakes.
He reflects positively on the trajectory of his career, expressing gratitude for his published works, radio show, and documentary series. ‘My inherent character is now more visible,’ he comments. He narrates a Cambodian proverb about a wise man who faces a sequence of good and bad experiences and takes each event in his stride: “Good luck or bad, who can tell?” Creedon identifies with this ideology. He explains with clarity that he attributes his current prosperity and health to an equal measure of adversity and triumphs faced in his life. ‘It’s difficult to accept this philosophy during challenging moments, but I recognize its validity now,’ he confesses.
As he prepares to depart, a man exclaims, “John Creedon, I was watching you last night.”
Creedon responds, “I’m still active. Still getting by.”
The man jests, “Feigning!”
Creedon chuckles at his banter, “You sly fox, you,” he retorts to himself before disappearing into the streets of north Cork.
The memoir, “This Boy’s Heart,” published by Gill, is all set to launch on October 31st. A conversation with Billy Keane at the Town Hall Theatre, Galway, is on Creedon’s agenda for October 30th. Tickets may be procured from tht.ie.