Firing thick globules of fact across the stomach of news

RTÉ Television yesterday launched its programming for the new season, announcing several brand new home produced shows, as well as the return of many old favourites.

The Afternoon Show, which was marred by allegations of drug-induced violence and criminality has been replaced by Not the Afternoon Show – a brand new lifestyle programme, presented by the same vacuous non-entities who presented The Afternoon Show, except in a redecorated studio and with a different theme tune.

Christ Alive! is a self-consciously controversial new six-part drama series, based around the 21st Century resurrection of the son of God. In the opening episode, our saviour rubs out a massive load of dick-snot over an image of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, whilst being taken from behind by His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI.

Presented by journalist Ian O’Doherty, The Knackers is a gentle two-part documentary series, focusing on the traditions and cultures of Ireland’s Travelling Community.

Pat Kenny will be returning with the second series of his award-winning Frontline – a thoroughly depressing hour of misery and po-faced analysis, interspersed with contributions from an audience comprised mainly of the type of tedious cranks who should never be allowed out in public, let alone within half a mile of a microphone.

Also returning for what feels like the eight hundredth season is a brand new series of Nationwide, a mind-numbing documentary series, focusing on the kind of god-awful parochial shit that happens throughout the 90% of the country that isn’t Dublin.

Entering into its twenty-second year, the preposterous soap opera Fair City will continue to deal with the trials and tribulations of the irredeemably unpleasant residents of Carrigstown. This series unashamedly bears so little resemblance to reality that it could just as easily be set in Managua.

In a bid to attract a younger audience, RTÉ TWO will be launching a new mid-afternoon soft porn strand, including such titles as Snatch of the Day, Ride my Pimp and Gash in the Attic.

Other exciting new shows coming to RTÉ this autumn include Derek Davis goes Fisting, Cathal O’Searcaigh’s Scouting for Boys and How do you solve a Problem like Diarrhoea.

Four years ago, when I felt as though I was the only person under the age of 25 who wasn’t the owner of a Bebo account, I would have happily danced on its grave. Today though, it would feel a bit like celebrating the death of Ariel Sharon. Good news, but too harmless to really matter anymore.

Few, apart from a handful of barely-literate 14-year-olds, the occasional paedophile, and thousands of undercover tabloid journalists (posing as the former whilst attempting to snare the latter) will mourn the eventual demise of what was once the most popular website in Ireland. For a long time now, it’s been languishing in a persistent vegetative state, hooked up to a life-support machine, having long since reached the end of its natural life. The most amusing thing about the whole affair is that the writing was very clearly on the wall two years ago, when AOL hilariously spent the best part of a billion Dollars on it. It puts my 2004 purchase of a Sony MiniDisc player into perspective.

Unlike Bebo (and Murdoch’s beleaguered Myspace), Facebook and Twitter remain in the ownership of their founders. No doubt their eventual deaths will happen not long after they’ve been sold for billions, but with their popularity yet to peak, it’s very difficult to see them reaching the end of the road any time soon.

It’s easy to criticise Facebook for its lax attitude towards its users’ privacy, or for the fact that it has been scientifically proven that it’s easier to escape from the clutches of heroin… but let’s not forget that, without it, the infamous Ireland versus France match would never have been replayed. And without Twitter, we would have had to wait until Gerry Ryan’s family had been informed, before finding out that the tragic shock jock was as dead as a Bebo.

During the pre-match discussion of Serbia’s game against Ghana, Souness accidentally claimed that Nemanja Vidić had been ‘raped’ by Fernando Torres during a match between Liverpool and Manchester United.

Martin Cullen – who, over a long period of time was raped daily by the media, and is now forced to walk with the aid of a stick – said that Souness’ choice of words trivialised the horror experienced by victims of sexual attacks, and added that it brought back very painful memories of his own rape ordeal.

A true child of the Internet Generation, I’ve sat stony-faced through all kinds of horrible, ‘gross-out’ viral videos, and even witnessed rare colour footage (mainly red) of the unfortunate demise of Budd Dwyer. Alas, none of this unpleasantness prepared me for the true televisual horror of Mrs Brown’s Boys, and I bailed out after less than ten minutes.

It would be unfair to review a show that I saw less than a third of. For all I know, it could have suddenly transformed into an Alan Bennett style production immediately afterwards, littered with humanity, poignancy and bleak-but-humorous dialogue. The character of Mrs Brown (played by O’Carroll) could have developed into a tragic, amiable widow, struggling to cope with her glaringly obvious gender issues.

The part I saw contained nothing more than a torrent of tedious double-entendres and dire malapropisms, most of which would have been too dated to use on an ITV sitcom in the 1970s. Much of the (frankly inexplicable) audience laughter came from Mrs Brown’s copious usage of the word ‘fuck’. It’s hard to imagine that the studio audience wasn’t either watching a different show or heavily boozed-up. But of course, I’m not being fair, as I didn’t give the show a proper chance.

It’s available to view on the RTÉ Player until February 13th, should you wish to see it for yourself. Don’t bother.

In many people’s eyes, Formula One is a god-awful sport, run by crooks, piloted by automatons with a propensity to say “for sure” in every sentence and watched by the type of people you would usually walk a hundred miles over burning clichés to avoid running into. Indeed, some would go so far as to suggest that it’s not even a sport: Pah! It’s not about skill, strength or athleticism, they sneer. The only requirement is to be able to contractually manoeuvre yourself into the fastest car, and then drive quickly in circles without getting too dizzy or bumping into anything. These people are only half-right.

Regardless of how good a steering wheel attendant you are, to be an F1 driver, you must attain an almost superhuman level of fitness, the likes of which a Premiership footballer could only dream of. Your neck must be harder than Castor Semenya’s testicles, and your testicles harder than her neck. If the drivers appear boring and devoid of personality, it’s because they get all the excitement they need, driving at 200MPH while the rest of us are eating our Sunday lunch. Outside of the car, their life revolves around maintaining a peak level of fitness. They can’t really drink, they can’t smoke and they can’t eat nice food. They’re not even allowed break wind without having consulted their personal trainer and team of dieticians first.

However, if I were to deny that having the right car is the decisive factor, my pants would very quickly catch fire. Last year, Jenson Button was an overpaid nobody, trundling around near the back of the grid. This year, despite what appear to have been his best efforts to throw it all away, he won the World Championship, while the previous champ, Lewis Hamilton spent much of the season trundling around near the back of the grid. But that’s an acceptable part of F1. It’s a team sport. And while this year may have been an exception, the best drivers usually find their way into the best teams.

None of which justifies the fact that, over the last sixteen years, I’ve chosen to waste hundreds of Sunday afternoons watching millionaires using expensive technology, all the time hoping that something exciting will happen, but knowing from experience that it will most likely not. Granted, there have been occasional Grands Prix, where my loyalty was rewarded, but they’ve been all to rare. Most F1 fans don’t like to admit this, but the real drama almost always happens away from the tarmac, when the season is over. In that sense, it’s more like a soap opera than a sport. Will Jenson Button go to McLaren? Will Renault leave? What are Mercedes’ plans? What about Raikkonen? When will Bernie Ecclestone finally die..?

Every now and then, when something catastrophically stupid, corrupt or embarrassing occurs, I decide that I’ve had enough. This usually happens around twice a year: “I’m not putting up with this shit any more,” I say, knowing full well that, like a battered wife, I’ll return shortly afterwards, having been convinced that lessons have been learned and that everything will be different this time around. If you’re an F1 fan, you learn to be an optimist. Plus, it’s better than watching the EastEnders Omnibus… sometimes…

The diminutive, furry-browed balladeer – known not only for such hits (excuse my spelling) as Lady in Red and Spanish Train, but also for shagging the (teenage) nanny while his wife was in hospital with a broken neck – took particular exception at being called ‘small’, ‘cheesy’ and ‘warbly’. Hardly the worst things you could be called if your name is Chris de Burgh, I would have thought. Personally, I find that the very sight of the man induces feelings of mild nausea. And I can’t bear to listen to him, because I know that if I do, I’ll begin retching loudly, struggling desperately to hold back the taste of sick, knowing that if I start throwing up, I won’t be able to stop until my corpse is floating in dark green bile.

As a result of de Burgh’s pettiness, the review (which, at worst, was mildly mocking, as opposed to the vitriolic critique his grotesque material deserves) is now among the ‘most read’ articles on the Irish Times website, and the subject of a BBC news story. One would have thought that a multi-millionaire, who has enjoyed an inexplicably long and successful career should be thick-skinned enough to take a bit of harmless criticism on the chin. Seemingly not.

Ray McGrath

(ray [at] toastonline.net)

“This is disgusting,” said a Tom Evans, a van driver in North London. “Every Sunday morning I read that paper, expecting truth, virtue and integrity. How am I supposed to believe anything I read now, knowing that even if it is true, it’s been obtained through unethical measures?” That sentiment is being echoed on radio phone-ins and internet message boards all over Britain, while Joe Duffy has promised a ‘blistering show’ which he says will allow the Irish public to vent their frustrations at the media institution.

The News of the World, which claims to be ‘the best for news, showbiz and sports exclusives’, has a history of brilliantly breaking several important news stories – mostly involving sports stars and entertainment celebrities – and then following them up with even more revelations to ensure that matters of public interest, stay just that. One such incident involved the football player David Beckham. Beckham achieved notoriety in 2004 when the News of the World revealed he was engaged in an extra-marital affair with Rebecca Loos. Loos then became a celebrity in her own right, thanks in no small part to the paper publishing photos of her masturbating a pig on reality television. As Loos herself has said, “If it wasn’t for the News of the World, nobody would ever have heard of me.”

Another story, which landed the courageous paper in court, involved the Formula 1 Chief, Max Mosley. The paper splashed the stunning headline, ‘F1 BOSS HAS SICK NAZI ORGY WITH 5 HOOKERS’ across the front page, only for Mosley to sue for damages. Unbelievably, Mosley was successful, with the Judge proclaiming his privacy had been breached.

Though the paper was forced to pay damages, it retained the support of it’s loyal following of readers who continued to push sales of the weekly to over 7 million copies, but the Great British (and Irish) public is unlikely to be as forgiving this time.

One comment, left under the current number one ‘most read story’ on the News of the World website, ‘Sexy soap star Jennifer Metcalfe goes mud wrestling with Brazilian beauty’, summed up the mood of most readers. “When Becks was shagging that slapper, or Angus Deayton was doing lines of coke off that prossie’s arse, or when Jordan got her new norks and got them out on the beach in Marbella, we needed to know. But only if they went about it the right way. Tapping phones isn’t right. I’m seriously considering whether or not to renew my subscription. When you can’t trust the News of the World, who can you trust?”

Robert Hogan

Last year, 170 Indians died from alcohol poisoning and just recently, the city of Gujarat hit the news when it was reported that 71 people had been killed by toxic alcohol, but, fresh from booking a two week ‘Alcoholiday’, 24 year-old Dubliner Rory O’Connor told Oxygen that was part of the appeal. “You hear of these lads booking adventure holidays and all that. You know, three weeks climbing a mountain, sleeping in tents, shitting in the woods. That’s for pussies. This is the real deal. Death at your doorstep drinking, it’s going to be some buzz.”

When pushed on what exactly he planned on doing in India, O’Connor’s response was emphatic, “I’m going to get mashed, simple as. Dying from drinking? What a load of bollocks. A few years ago – on a J1 – I was working 12 hours on a building site, then out on the lash straight away then back in work. No sleeping, no eating and barely time for a shower, I stank. It was quality.”

In an attempt to capitalize on the trend, Michael O’Leary announced plans for Ryanair to fly to an area ‘just outside Gujarat’, in fact the flights land in Dhaka, in the neighboring Bangladesh, several hours by car and boat from Gujarat. “We can barely keep up with the demand,” he said at a press conference, while dressed as Apu from The Simpsons. Reports that booking confirmation emails read ‘Thank you. Come Again.’ had yet to be substantiated at the time of going to press.

Just married Mark and Aine McGrath have taken the extraordinary step of cancelling their original honeymoon plans in favour of an Indian summer. Mark said, “We’ve been lucky so far with the recession – I’m a banker – so we can make this sacrifice, and I believe it’s for the good of the country. There hasn’t been much to celebrate in Ireland recently, but no matter how bad things get, we’ll always know how to drink, and that should be celebrated. We’re going over there for the time of our lives, and we don’t want to remember a thing!”

Last night, as Ryanair and other airlines were being inundated with bookings from Irish passengers, the HSE issued a severe health warning, advising Irish citizens not to travel to India. Meanwhile, the Department of Finance was hurriedly trying to rush though a new Indian Travel tax bill which would see the Irish Government benefiting from the trend. A source close to Minister Brian Lenihan said, “He doesn’t give a shit about what they’re doing in India or what state they’re left in afterwards, he just wants to get his hands on some of that cash.”

Gurajat is the only dry state in India, hence the amount of illegal and fatal independent brewing which takes place, but this still hasn’t deterred Irish passengers, as Mark McGrath says, “Everyone I’ve spoken to seems to have the same idea and that is, even if we have to swim up the Ganges with barrels of ‘Ken and Bulmers strapped to our backs, we’re going to have a mad one. That’s the Irish way. See you in a few weeks.”

Robert Hogan

If those names sound unfamiliar, don’t worry, you may hear about them in ten years time though. In a spectacular mix-up involving Shamrock Rovers, Real Madrid and Platinum One, the Spanish giants sent their under-12s team for the much hyped showdown with Rovers instead of ‘Los Galacticos’, leaving thousands of supporters fuming.

“I paid €300 for tickets for me and my kids, only to see a bunch of players younger than them running around. This is a joke. We came here to abuse Ronaldo, not babysit,” said Mick Doherty of Ballymun.

A sheepish John Byrne, communications officer for the Hoops, was as confused as anyone with the turn of events, “I’ve been trying to get hold of someone at Madrid or Platinum One all evening but I haven’t had any luck so far. Somewhere down the line we probably should’ve thought it was too good to be true, but we were all seeing stars, I suppose. When I know more, I’ll let you know.”

In an effort to avoid further anger and possible rioting from the sell-out crowd, a decision was made to let the game go ahead despite the age difference, with Rovers edging out the young Madristas, with a hard fought 2-1 win.

Madrid took an early lead through Albo’s neat finish and then proceeded to dominate the game until the hour mark. Madrid, generally used to playing shorter games on smaller pitches, then visibly began to wilt and Stephen Rice brought Shamrock Rovers back into the game, thanks to a harshly awarded penalty in the 85th minute. A cruel turn of events then saw Lucho head into the back of his own goal as injury time loomed, though replays suggested he had been fouled by Gary Twigg.

As the whistle blew for full time, supporters were treated to the sight of euphoric Rovers stars leaving the pitch, preciously clutching their young opponents’ swapped shirts. The Madrid youths reportedly left their Hoops shirts behind as they departed Tallaght Stadium.

Despite the fans’ fury, Rovers boss Michael O’Neill was delighted with his team’s display. “Look, people can say what they like about the team they fielded, but nothing will ever change the fact that we have beaten Real Madrid. Admittedly, we made it tough for ourselves but against a very good side – don’t forget, some of these are internationals – we worked hard, and we got what we deserved in the end. What a night!”

Robert Hogan

Having paid $500,000 for it, Richard “Dirty” Desmond, the owner of OK! also published the tasteful corpse photo on the front covers of the magazine’s sister publications, the Daily Star and the Daily Express. In 2006, the Express published this article, criticising the “sickening” publication of post-accident pictures of Princess Diana. Even leaving the glaring hypocrisy aside, the story is somewhat ironic considering the same publication had spent the entire previous decade feasting upon the very same corpse.

In a pathetic attempt at justifying the Michael Jackson image, a spokesman for OK! said, “The picture is not one of a person in agony but with his eyes closed being attended to by medical staff.”

He wasn’t in agony and his eyes were closed because he was most likely already dead when the picture was taken. So that’s OK! then…