New Ideas For RTE Programmes
There seems to be a trend in Montrose to do an Irish version of successful UK series. So we have makeover programmes for both houses and women; turgid hospital drama crops up every now and then; and there are various food-themed shows, all pretty much cloned from originals from across the water.
But there’s one particular rut that RTÉ seems to be stuck in - celebrity reality TV. Fáilte Towers was on while I was away on holiday, but in truth, I doubt if I would have been able to sit through more than five minutes of it anyway. The problem with these programmes is that we don’t have a deep enough pool of willing or desperate celebrities to feature in these shows, and before long you can hear the distinct tone of a barrel being scraped. Whatever about the celebs, it’s the ideas that seem to be getting more desperate.
So here are a couple that might be of interest:
Celebrity Confessor - the public are invited to phone in (on a premium rate line, natch) in order to unburden themselves on a celebrity who will listen to their trials and tribulations with a sympathetic ear. But going “Yeh! Yeh! That’s desperate, altogether!” won’t be good enough. The celeb will have to get as much salacious background info as possible, the quality of which will be analysed and rated by an expert panel to include Joe Duffy, Brenda Power and Fr Brian D’Arcy.
Prison Food - Just as Jamie Oliver revolutionised school dinners in the UK, one of Ireland’s celebrity chefs would be invited to come into Mountjoy prison and bring the menu there up to the 21st century. Out would go the grey slop and in would come the rocket salads and crushed potatoes, and what have you. The cells would be miked up, so that the chef gets to hear the reaction from the inmates. It could also test the supervisory skills of a team of celebrity prison officers, as one prisoner would be involved in the kitchen and would have access to a supply of mobile phones, weapons and drugs, which he has to try to conceal in the food for passing on to his fellow prisoners. The public could place bets as to how long it would take till a riot starts, with all the proceeds going to charity.
They could be runners, I reckon.
Brian McFadden: Misunderstood Artist?
Meanwhile Brian revealed the moment he wanted to quit his former boyband was when they were asked to record a cover of Barry Manilow's Mandy.
The Irish singer announced his departure just months later and started making plans for a solo career.
He said: "We never got any respect as artists because we didn't write all the songs and we weren't a self-producing product. We were being controlled more like puppets than anything else."
The last four words of Damien’s piece sums up where he’s at.
So We're Back
I’ll probably do a few in-depth posts about “Mo Léathanta Saoire” when I get time (500-odd photos to arrange, tag and back up first), but the highlights were as follows:
The beaches, especially Carantec. Even though we had pretty awful weather for a lot of the time, we were still able to spend several hours paddling and building sandcastles when the rain stayed away.
Locronan. A beautiful, almost perfectly preserved medieval village.
Our gite. Spacious, comfortable, well-equipped and very quiet. It was located in a sleepy little village and owned by a lovely elderly couple.
The ferry. Lots to do to pass the fourteen hours of a crossing. Surprisingly good food, too. And the passage from Ringaskiddy out through Cork harbour to Roches Point is magnificent. Sod flying, this is the way to do it.
The parish closes. Extraordinarily complex church architecture and decor in a cluster of small villages near Morlaix.
Cidre de Bretagne. Yum!
The coastline. Cliffs, inlets, lighthouses, islands… you name it, it’s there.
But Before I Go…
The subs reply.
Choice quotes below the fold.
Wait! There's More…
Holliers
I’m going to turn comment moderation on, just in case any ne’er-do-wells stop by and decide to treat the comment facility as a toilet wall.
Many thanks to Brittany expert Treasa for her advice on where to stay and what to see.
Unlike my good friend Willie Joe, I will not be sending bloggy postcards while I’m away.
And for good measure, ‘tis my birthday tomorrow too.
See yiz in a fortnight.
Abbeyleix
Some remain, and the longer they remain un-bypassed, the more their notoriety grows. As time passes, the big bottleneck on the road from Dublin to Cork has moved through Kildare and now lives here in lovely Laois. Abbeyleix is a nightmare on a Friday and Sunday, as the traffic moves at snail’s pace through its long main street. On bank holiday weekends, it’s a disaster.
If you drive from Dublin to Cork on a Friday evening and are approaching Abbeyleix, you may notice a number of cars turning right about a kilometre before the town. These aren’t local cars, and few of them sport LS reg plates. No, these drivers have discovered the Unofficial Abbeyleix Bypass, and I’m going to tell you where it is.
Directions (going south):
About 1km before Abbeyleix, the road sweeps round to the left, and a ghost island allows a turn to the right. Go right here. Go over a bridge and take the first left. Follow this road until you reach a staggered crossroads, where you go straight through. Follow this road to the end and then turn left. After 300 metres or so, you will see the gates of a Georgian house on your right. Take the right just after these (warning: it’s a really shitty little road). Follow to the end and turn right, back onto the N8 south of Abbeyleix.
You might be asking yourself why I’m publishing this and letting people in on the secret. To be honest, the 50 or so readers I get here each day are hardly going to cause a tailback even if they all decided to use the route at the same time. It might be a different story if someone like Damien Mulley published it.
Some B & W
Yesterday evening, Aoife was playing with her watering can in the garden. I did a few shots in B&W, just to see how they would come out.
Results below the fold.
Wait! There's More…
The Shame Of the Name
Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii.
I honestly can’t understand why any parent would burden their child with such a ridiculous name. It’s natural that parents might have nicknames for a small child, and I am one of the worst offenders in that regard. There must be a couple of dozen nicknames that I have used for my daughter since she was born, but none of them appear on her birth certificate.
This isn’t a new phenomenon, as we are well used to celebs giving their kids daft names. Frank Zappa famously called his son Dweezil and his daughter Moon Unit. Nicole Kidman has called her new baby Sunday Roast or something like that. There used to be joke about the late Paula Yates, whose three daughters all sport very silly names. The drugs squad call to her house and when she asks them what they want, they say they are looking for magic mushrooms. Paula replies that she’s not home from school yet.
Another one I don’t understand is when parents with the surname O’Brien call their newborn son Brian. Or Cormac McCormack. Or Patrick FitzPatrick. There must be a good reason for that, and as yet, I haven’t heard it.
Another joke regarding names
Johnny Cash performing A Boy Named Sue:
The Low Fares Airline?
None of these apply. The little one
will be past her second birthday by then and will be
classed as a child (2-16 years), as opposed to an
infant (0-2 years).
They must have forgotten to include the fifth
condition, so I have done it for them:
Deja Vu
(Click to enlarge)

