Caledonian colossus: Byrne says that the plot of his play was overtaken by real-life events. Photograph: Phil Wilkinson
THOSE who cannot believe that John Byrne/Tilda Swinton/Sandro Kopp is an arrangement without rivalry might like to know that, right now, Byrne is in a juice bar and he's choosing a spinach-heavy concoction called Popeye.
They may also read a fair bit into the fact that Byrne is wearing two T-shirts, two shirts, a waistcoat and a cardigan underneath his donkey-jacket, even though the temperature outside is milder than of late. At 68, he is the senior member of what the tabloids refer to as this "love triangle".
But this is Byrne's normal attire. He was sporting an almost identical ensemble the last time we met, at his home in Nairn. He is, after all, an artist, and this is how artists are.
Today we're in Edinburgh, in the Old Town, a short walk from the Quaker Meeting House which the Traverse rents as a rehearsal space. Byrne saw his play The Slab Boys come to life there 30 years ago. Now he's on his lunch-break from rehearsals for Nova Scotia, the fourth instalment of a modern Scottish theatre classic.
A lot has happened to Byrne in those three decades. But then an incredible amount has happened in the past two months. In February, 47-year-old Swinton, mother to their twins, appeared on the red carpet at the Baftas with Kopp, 29, an artist himself and also an actor specialising in elves and centaurs. Then in March at the Oscars it was the same escort, the same result (a Best Actress gong) – and the same tabloid consternation.
How does this work? Of all places, in Nairn? In a house displaying Byrne's paintings of Swinton, is there space for the portrait by Kopp? Does the guest bedroom have an en-suite? Is it always porridge for breakfast? Since Swinton met Kopp on the set of The Chronicles Of Narnia, would it be all right if the whole business was christened Bizarre-nia ... or Bizzare-in-Nairnia? The tabloids – on behalf of the nation as always – were anxious to know.
At the time Swinton said: "We are all a family. What you must also know is that we are all very happy." Byrne said: "We love our children and our children love us. The rest is our business." Kopp said nothing. And that might have been the end of it.
But here we are in the juice bar – Byrne with his Popeye and me choosing the same pond-green mixture because I reckon this interview might be a struggle – and he's laying out the plot of Nova Scotia and it's all sounding vaguely familiar.
"When we meet Phil McCann again, he's living in the Highlands with his much younger wife," says Byrne of the hero of the plays, who started off mixing dyes in a Paisley carpet-factory, just like his creator. "The wife, Didi, is a video artist – Turner Prize-nominated. Phil, as a painter, has fallen off the log. He's awaiting the arrival of a BBC journalist who he hopes is going to produce this flattering profile which re-establishes him – confirms him as the colossus of contemporary Caledonian culture that he thinks he is."
Byrne talks though magnificent whiskers. Today, he's also having to talk above some ancient rock music. "1972," I say, dating the racket. "I couldn't have told you that," he says. "In 1972 I was 104!
"So anyway, this journalist, Nancy Rice – she has a different agenda. She's not in the business of propping up, as she calls them, 'over-the-hill, incontinent tossers'." Byrne is chuckling now. "Then this guy arrives to shoot a pop video. He and Didi know each other, if you get my meaning." Cue more chuckling.
"Age difference, other man, media fascination," I say, and before I can ask the question, Byrne adds: "…would seem to chime? Well, the funny thing is I started writing this play in 2002 – before events overtook us. I can honestly say it has nothing to do with me or Tilda… or anyone else we know." But the fact it's being premiered now permits him a wry smile? "Scotch & Wry," he says.
I ask him about what it felt like to find himself the subject of so many breathless news reports and spin-off features including the tuppenceworth of so-called "relationship experts"; he says he doesn't read papers. There's no TV in the house either; not because he hates it but rather he fears he would love it too much. "Then, as you're lying there dying you'd say: 'All those years watching TV and I can't remember anything – shite!'"
He won't talk about the current state of his relationship with Swinton; the only time he mentions her is to say that he thought her award-winning performance in Michael Clayton was "just wonderful", having caught up with the movie recently on DVD.
Does he, though, understand people's curiosity? "I suppose so, because as a playwright I'm curious about the world and about life. But the writer can make stuff up. I don't bother other people and I wish that they would not bother me." Generally in Nairn, they don't. "It's a town full of old ladies who still go about on their bikes and live as they've always done," he adds with obvious affection.
Is he happy? "I'm pretty happy," he says, before correcting himself. "I'm extremely happy. Without a word of a lie, I've never been happier. What's the point in being cynical? You'll only end up having your cynicism proved right."
There have been a few references to old age and the final reckoning today, but Byrne isn't going anywhere – there's still much work to be done. The latest instalment of The Slab Boys' saga fills him with the "same excitement, the same optimism" as he experienced first time round in the Quaker Meeting House. And he's just completed the script for a Paisley musical called Underwood Lane – songs by Jim Rafferty, elder brother of Gerry, and Byrne's original slab-boy sidekick at AF Stoddard & Co back in the 1950s.
Next up will be a book of his artwork, and it will cover everything: from the very first paintings passed off as his news-vendor father's efforts to the record sleeves, stage designs, book covers for the Beatles and banana-skin boots for Billy Connolly, not forgetting the self-portraits, and of course those of Swinton. Though he wouldn't make this claim for himself, he is your actual colossus of contemporary Caledonian culture.
Sandro Kopp, as the tabloids like to point out, paints female genitalia. What does Byrne think of his work?
"I wouldn't want to embarrass him," he says with a smile. "He's a sweetheart, a charming man." Doubtless he is, but no more surely than Byrne himself.
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Nova Scotia is at the Traverse Theatre from April 29 to May 24The full article contains 1185 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
