How agreeable are you?
I would say over my life, I have been quite agreeable. It’s something that I had to work at, in some ways, in my 20s, to make sure that I didn’t allow it to become a dominant idea in my life. When you learn that love is somehow conditional, you tend to make yourself more agreeable, and that can rot your soul as you move into later life. In my early 20s, that might have been an important part of my vocabulary. Not so much any more.
What’s your middle name, and what do you think of it?
Stephen, although it’s dropped out of my passport now, so I’m just Richard Hogan these days. I like the name. My grandfather was Richard Stephen, and my father is Richard Stephen. So, I’m Richard Stephen the third, although my brother used to say that without the “h” in the title.
Where is your favourite place in Ireland?
If I’m thinking geographically, there are places I love: Kenmare, Dingle, the wildness of west Cork, and Low Rock in Malahide. My favourite place in the world, however, is at home, sitting on the couch, the fire on and watching the international rugby game on television, with the kids sitting next to me, singing “Ireland, Ireland”. When I say that to them, they always laugh at me. They’re like, “Dad, you’re so sad”, but to me it’s cathartic, healing, love, fun, warmth, comfort.
Describe yourself in three words.
Enthusiastic, compassionate and absurd.
When did you last get angry?
Last week, with my daughter, in the morning, on the way to school. I got annoyed and I wasn’t delighted with myself because when I was a kid, I definitely had anger. When you’ve got a childhood where things went on in the background, where you felt frustrated and had to fight for your place, it’s hard to shake that stuff off you. I try to integrate awareness of it into my system so that I’m not scared of it, and that when it pops up, I can hear it, talk to it and calm it down a little bit.
What have you lost that you would like to have back?
It would be my grandmother, who was my greatest friend as I was growing up. A good Cork woman, she lived with us for 20-odd years, and I minded her towards the end of her life. I talk to her every day, and I hear her voice in my head. When things were tough with my youngest daughter, who was ill some time back, I could hear her saying to me, “Don’t worry, boy, everything will be fine. She’s going to be fine. Don’t worry, boy, you’ll be fine. All will be well.” I would love her to see my daughters, and I’d love to have her back in my life for even a brief moment, just to have a quick chat with her and tell her how things are going.
What’s your strongest childhood memory?
As I get older, the strongest one that stands out is when I used to come home from school or a friend’s house. There was a lane into our estate, and I would always stand on my toes to look at our house. If I could see the outline or the roof of a white Sierra Ford, I’d go, “oh, shite”, because it meant my dad was home. He was a talented guy, but if someone struggles with alcohol, it brings out the worst in their personality, and it makes you betray things that you want to be in the world. But our house could also be lovely. My mom was singing around the house, music was playing and there was always something exciting going on. A more upbeat memory would be that whenever it was sunny, we wouldn’t go to school, we would go to the beach. That was great for creativity and also for not taking rules so seriously; you don’t have to be so rigid in your life. I do that with my own kids now, so I carry on that little bit of positive family legacy.
Where do you come in your family’s birth order, and has this defined you?
I’m the youngest of three boys, and unless we work our way out of it, birth orders absolutely define us; they impact how we talk to ourselves. I think the youngest always feels unheard, unseen, has to fight for their position and often has to be somewhat dramatic or vocal. The eldest feels the youngest has it easy, and the youngest feels the eldest is too dominant or always has to be right. I think these paradigms create the thoughts in our heads about who we are, what we’re capable of. I don’t think they’re fatalistic, though – we can change them.
What do you expect to happen when you die?
I think, unfortunately, we slip off into unconsciousness, and the most powerful computer the world has ever known shuts down. I think what happens is what happened before we were alive: very little. I’d love to believe other things, but my logic, reasoning and rationality are too powerful to allow me to go down a different route.
When were you happiest?
I was really happy when I moved into our first house with my girlfriend, who is now my wife. But I’ve been happier than that with family and kids, seeing them enjoying life, experiencing life and thinking that, along with my wife, you’re the architect of it all, setting them up to view the world with principles and morals, to have resilience. That’s probably what makes me the happiest.
Which actor would play you in a biopic about your life?
I’d love to say Tom Hardy, but that’s just my ego speaking. I think it has to be Jessie Buckley, whom I admire for her sensitivity and brilliance.
What’s your biggest career/personal regret?
I look back to when I was in my 20s, and I could have been more sensitive to people, more sensitive in relationships, but I was going through a lot of stuff. My parents separated, there was alcoholism, I wasn’t my best self and I wasn’t living the life I wanted. That idea of happiness we just talked about? I was a mile away from that guy. As I look back, I’d like to have been more connected to myself, but my development got disrupted at really key moments, and it took me a while to figure that out and move away from it. My career? I love my career.
Have you any psychological quirks?
I can become completely consumed by things that interest me. When I was a kid, I could read a book in a day. I’d sit with a guitar for months and months to learn it. My mind is probably ADHD, to be honest, but I have that capacity to absolutely focus on something, get the marrow out of it and then move on to something else, without it crossing my mind again for a long time.
In conversation with Tony Clayton-Lea