Mister Imperator, a History

“When the Messiah comes, he shall be born of a public house lock-in in Crossmaglen. He will be attended by antelopes."

- Ancient Cyrillic inscription, found in a strip-club lavatory in Veronezh

It’s no secret that the destinies of the Irish and Russian peoples have been closely intertwined for millennia. Only in the present century, particularly since Kaspersky Labs purchased the naming rights to Ireland’s presidential residence, the former Áras an Uachtaráin, and the Gaelic Athletic Association (GAA) was bought outright by super-oligarch Oleg Deripaska, has this simple fact become the subject of contention.

On the teilifís in Donnybrook

In the early days

He played the grey piano

Through stagnation and decay

He went to Eurovision

Head of delegation

Went on the lam in Baku

New loyalties, new nation

Born just south of the Irish border in the mid-1940’s, Kevin “Mister Imperator” Purcell became famous at an early age for his prowess on the piano accordion, which earned him gold medals at many Feiseanna Ceoil in his youth.

Under the influence of the Little People, whose night-time company he sought out in the fields around the ramshackle family home, he had learned how to impregnate the bellows of the accordion with hallucinogenic dust (created from the mushrooms which grew around the lairs of his diminutive tutors), which could be dispersed far and wide through any venue, by the simple means of playing traditional Irish slip jigs fortissimo. In this manner, entire halls full of reverend fathers, ladies and gentlemen were reduced to gibbering pawns in his hands, abasing themselves fervidly, worshipping the fixtures and fittings.

As soon as he was of a passable age for this kind of thing, the boy’s father, a rather abject and unprincipled, if ‘connected’ individual (embittered by his own youthful failure to achieve fame as a dance-band singer) took to transporting his offspring across the nearby border at night, to Disorderly Houses located on the outskirts of towns within the Six Counties.

It was here that Purcell junior honed his skills for ‘you hum it and I’ll play it’, essaying popular tunes on the piano to appease the sentimental and terpsichorean whims of drunken B-Specials, and the occasional man with a British accent who would always decline to give a full name - at least until duly dosed with psilocybin by the youthful genius. It was also here that he discovered the power of music to generate disposable income – as well as the great fun to be had by requesting operational details of officially-deniable military operations from tumescent, monarchy-loving linen farmers, as they giggled and barked like dogs, tripping off their predestination-hardened loaves.

In the manner favoured by many young men of his generation, he later entered Ireland’s Civil Service, living in mildewed digs in Rathmines, Dublin. He began moonlighting from this untaxing though poorly-rewarded occupation, as musical entertainer in an after-hours club in central Dublin which catered to actors, and to the more louche members of a new profession in post-independence Ireland - broadcasters. It was in the course of his duties there that he was introduced to the newsreader Cyril O'Donoghue, then a figure of great, newly-minted renown.

Sometime late in the festivities, O'Donoghue briefed the young pianist on his recent adventures on the planet Saturn (“not the one on the maps, the feckin’ real one…”), whilst standing naked aloft the super-melodious upright piano - from which, some noticed, had emanated a surprising amount of dust throughout the night. Purcell politely interrupted the great raconteur to ask whether he knew of any jobs going “out in Donnybrook”, which is to say on the premises of the nascent national TV station, Telefís Éireann, which had recently been opened, amid fanfare, with a blessing from the great passenger-side statesman and Hitler-fancier, Archbishop John Charles McQuaid.

Despite being at that moment unsure as to in what galaxy this planet “Donnybrook” was located, O'Donoghue - when assisted by young Purcell in evading the attentions of members of the Garda Síochána who had been summoned by the management, and helped back into his Louis Copeland finery by this altruistic and eager young admirer in a nearby anteroom - did part with a business card, on which Purcell had him inscribe a short (if slightly cryptic) message of recommendation, its subject being Purcell himself.

Thus it was that Mister Imperator began to bestride the magic monochrome kingdom of Telefís Éireann, in its sumptuous grounds out there amid the leafy avenues of red brick what Blighty’s finest left us, adjoining the seaside torpor of Sandymount. A venerable idyll where only the occasional incident of casual household violence, and the intimated seepage of the clerical abuse of an entire nation, disturbed the prevailing sense of timeless calm amid which the new cultural nerve centre nestled.

He played the grand piano on the variety shows. He played a cheap East German knockoff of a Wurlitzer organ on the one gameshow. On the Saturday night chat show with his jazz combo, he played the piano to accompany the visiting alky film stars who fancied themselves as vocalists. One yuletide, he played a little church organ at Christmas morning mass for the Irish troops stationed as UN peacekeepers in Cyprus.

He played the piano when the station began transmitting afternoon shows for the elderly and the young, and even when the pictures beamed out turned to colour - and when they ran across two channels, much later on. He composed and played incidental music for some of the imported Polish and Hungarian animated kids’ shows, whose original electronic scores were deemed “too Communist” by the Archbishop.

But never, never, was the magic dust rolled out, not in all those years. It wasn’t needed. The necessary magic came from his fingertips. An established national figure (often pointed out individually for thanks by the presenters of the shows on which he played), a family man, a reputable householder.

Nothing to prove, no scores to settle...until, that is, a certain set of business dealings went wrong for him. The details are vague - and many of them remain subject to threats of lawsuits for defamation, of excommunication, or punishment beatings, or enforced disappearance – but at the time (this would have been the late 1980’s) there was mention of racehorses, valuable paintings, the border once again, members of the Guinness family, an impounded ship, and some gentlemen from Co. Armagh who felt aggrieved with Mister Imperator, and were rumoured to have extracted certain compensation from him.

Around that time, he called in sick for two weeks in a row - a 30-year first – re-emerging with bruises to his hands and tongue, and walking strangely.

Whatever ultimately turns out to have happened – and, indeed, the truth may remain forever veiled under the protocol of “Sure you know yourself” – it is clear that our quietly ebullient man for all seasons was rather abruptly transformed into an entirely different and less appealing person.

He now began showing up for work in some of the worst ‘power dressed’ formal and casual clothing conceived in that over-ripe era. He began using cocaine, and engaging in crude sexual braggadocio with even the most casual acquaintances, in public earshot. Most unseemly of all, he was now demanding that that the employer, now known as RTÉ, send him on junkets, offer him presenter’s work, and generally pay a lot more money for his unique services than it had done previously.

Given the fact that his humble – sordid, even – beginnings, and his history as a mere craftsman in the workshops of the broadcaster were common knowledge, this was never going to end well, and certainly not in the manner Purcell wanted. But for a time, he did manage to get himself added to the call list for certain continental visits theoretically connected to his work. Foremost among these was the Eurovision Song Contest, which in 1990 was staged in Zagreb, which was then the second city of the rapidly-disintegrating state of Yugoslavia.

It’s very likely that Purcell never intended to approach the Zagreb trip as anything other than an occasion for debauchery, interspersed with some light effort at pretending to conduct a delicately cacophonous multi-ethnic Yugoslav orchestra as it accompanied the Irish entry – the bare minimal duty required to unlock his overtime payments and travel allowances. It’s now quite clear that the trip morphed into something quite different.

Once again, as is so often the case with Mister Imperator, the facts are disputed and guarded by threats and menaces. Other RTÉ staff who were present on the trip have stated, off the record, that their flight out of Zagreb after the contest was delayed on the tarmac as some burly gentlemen – armed to the teeth with what appeared to be Soviet battlefield weaponry, yet not wearing any recognisable military insignia – first pursued the plane as it taxied for take-off, before successfully intercepting it and trying to gain entry using a stolen set of airstairs. They were forcibly removed by what appeared to be actual military personnel. All the while, Purcell hid in the toilets, ignoring the objections of the cabin crew.

When he did emerge, once the plane was airborne, he was ashen-faced, and was seen to drink from a private supply of alcohol, copiously but silently, all the way back to Dublin.

All that’s known for certain is that, the following Monday, he tendered his resignation from RTÉ, and was soon to be found acting as musical director on a lengthy tour of the southern Caucasus featuring a Chris De Burgh tribute act. The act was called “Christy Burke: The Moldovan Chris De Burgh”. In late 1991, the tour came to its final date in Baku, the capital of newly-independent Azerbaijian.

From there, the trail goes cold to us, his fellow-Celts. It’s known that Purcell somehow acquired a luxurious seafront home on the Caspian coast of Azerbaijian, that he settled, for a time, with a young wife who hailed originally from the Russian Baltic enclave of Kaliningrad, and that he engaged in songwriting for pop acts throughout the Caucasus, in the years when much of the region descended into wars of succession resulting from the implosion of the Soviet Union.

At some point, he appears to have switched his focus to the Russian Federation and its emerging centres of power, showing up as an accompanist and bandleader at plush events held in honour of successive Russian presidents. His presence as entertainer at certain other events, however, has become associated with incidents of extreme violence and unexplained death.

It has been said that his personal Steinway piano, which is delivered to all of his engagements for his sole use, is remarkably heavy – often far heavier than any piano previously encountered by experienced events staff. “It’s as though it’s made of solid lead, and I could have sworn I heard some liquid sloshing around in there as we moved it”, remarked one staff member, who worked at a reception given by the Kremlin-appointed governor for powerful figures in the regional natural gas industry in Vladivostok. Several of the attendees at that event were hospitalised and later died, the cause of death never disclosed. Purcell often performs at these events in bulky and extravagant costumes which conceal his entire head – a far cry from the rather homely and ascetic figure seen on the fringes of so many Telefís Éireann broadcasts of the past.

Each Christmas, a large hamper full of Dunnes Stores budget-range food and alcoholic drink is delivered in Purcell’s name to the current staff of certain still-existing RTÉ programmes on which he once worked. It’s said that the message is always some profanity-laced and insulting or sarcastic message, some of it addressed to a long-retired (or deceased) presenter or producer, and always ending “Fuck yez all. Love from Misthur Imperator”.

Use my proper title

Or you'll get one of my recitals

Round the beachfront bars I totter

Spouting lingo like Daithí Lacha

- Mister Imperator, mystery location, early 2021