Showing posts with label RTE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label RTE. Show all posts
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Radio clichés
X'crpt fromYKNY2.0, copyright Uma o'Gil 0018-0012
(...)
Finally, if I'm really desperate for topics and pressed for time, I can always resort to the Disguised Overkills. These are deadly: they bypass the brain almost entirely and go straight for the jugular; they tick the boxes that haven’t even been built. When I'm really stumped for ideas, I don't think twice, I bring out the big guns. Here is a selection of what I mean by that -Enjoy!
"Politicians -who do they think they are? Do you think they are special? In your judgement, do you think they deserve special treatment?"
"Traffic wardens eh... -shouldn't they be employed catching criminals instead?"
"Billions are starving in the world and we have this obesity problem here in Western Europe ...what gives??"
"The Queen of England... isn't it time she came to Ireland on a State visit? What do you think?"
This one is an all-time favourite with right-wing loudmouths, it is so wrong on so many levels it becomes sheer genius. Introducing the Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad sledgehammer: "How do you feel about this school in" (insert place name that can't be checked anyway) "that wants to ban Christmas this year for fear of offending non-Christian pupils?"
"Heard the latest from the European Community: they want to ban bendy bananas / they want to force circus acrobats to wear safety hats in keeping with the new Health and Safety regulations?" -This one adds a further layer: the European Community has actually become the European Union for fifteen fecking years now.
Sure, there is an awful lot of old junk out there, right up for recycling.
And that's even before the "cyclicals".
Now, the basic principle behind the "cyclicals" is simplicity itself: it is about hailing the socially established landmarks that time our lives ("-Eh?") ...or what regular events happen every bleedin' year. You start with New Year resolutions and move on from there. In no particular order (that'd take me too long), we certainly have plenty to choose from:
-the officially most depressing day of the year: January the 5th
-the shocking discovery that, three weeks on, gym attendance by New Year recruits is already collapsing
-the Chinese New Year
-much chin stroking and finger wagging after the quarterly publication of various official statistics detailing such things as personal debt figures and road fatalities numbers :-(
-the sitting of Leaving Certs exams throughout the land -i.e. the usual advice to be administered to the nervous young wans
-the publication of Leaving Certs results and attending condemnation of the drunken mayhem ensuing
-Saint-Patrick's Day, the inevitable warnings against public drunkenness followed by consternation at the nighttime vandalism
-the arrival of spring (hurrah!)
-the arrival of summer (hurrah!)
-the official end of the summer, and the countdown towards the end of the year: aren't days getting shorter?
-Left-handers day
-Women’s Day
-Mother's Day
-Father's Day
-Nan's Day
-Doris Day
-Easter
-Passover
-First communions
-the wildly (widely?) awaited Christmas office parties. How to avoid gross personal misconduct, wink wink
-Christmas and its shameless commercialism (there's always a Grinch on hand to solemnly declare in the mike that "This year, that's it, I won't be celebrating!")
-Valentine's Day and its shameless commercialism -but then no fellow out there would dare ignore it
-Bloom's Day and its shameless commercialism
-the Roses of Tralee, its innocent kitsh gone astray and its shameless commercialism
-the (January) sales and their shameless etc.
-the Easter Rising
-the end of WW2 (in which Ireland didn't take part)
-the start of the GAA season. The rising sense -mainly in the Dub' media- that this could be the year the Dubs will be mounting a credible challenge for the title
-the deflation at the Dubs' defeat
-the GAA final
-the rugby Six Nations, and how outstanding-yet-unlucky-with-injury Drico seems to be (the main thing being that we beat you-know-who, though)
-the FA Cup Final, featuring these well-known Irish teams Manchester United, Arsenal or Liverpool
-the summer music festivals, their line-ups, and the cheeky advice to mete out to revellers preparing to undergo the gruelling experience
-the presentation of this summer's uniformly American megabudget blockbuster sequels
-that one day in the year apart from Christmas when alcohol is scandalously not on sale
-the mad Irish horse race festival, over the water in Cheltenham
-the failure of the Irish soccer team to qualify for a forthcoming tournament ("to be honest with you, we're a small country")
-the Eurovision song contest, and why we should win really
-the Eurovision song contest, and how the "new" Eastern European countries have ruined it for everybody else
-the election of "Alternative Miss Ireland", and what it says about our new tolerant mores
-the release of the new U2 album, its importance for the national psyche and prominence on the world stage
and on and on. Like I said, simplicity itself! Pick an agenda (any agenda), leaf through the holidays marked, select the ones for which you have old bollix to recycle, and there you are: job done, boxed off!
Ah yes, there is a lot to be said about recycling old chestnuts ...right?
Sadly, this is not how it went today though; today I tried to be cute. Went off the script, went for originality -and now am pretty much up the proverbial creek. Luckily my allocated time is coming to a merciful end and my ordeal will soon be over. Enough with off-the-cuff sez she, enough with material that doesn't tick all the pigeonholes! (or something like that) Sometimes one shouldn't try to be too clever, the beaten path is the safest.
Marina's helping me out though; Marina's on my side. She is the programme's co-presenter and is dutifully emitting the little snorts of appreciation / disbelief befitting my edifying diatribe ("Fancy that! / Well I never! / Good girl yourself!"). I owe Marina big time.
I owe her even more when compared to a certain someone who is staying quiet -very quiet indeed- throughout the course of my ordeal.
That someone is Timothy O'Arnlan.
(tobecontinued)
An Evening At The National Library Of Ireland
xc'rpt from YKNY2.0 copyright Uma o'Gil 00000012, naturally subject to re-re-re-re-re-editing.
(...)
The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "do you mind, folks?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and adjust the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling. The start has never been so close...
The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" ("welcome, everyone") then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight need no introduction -which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy Mccabe.
The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on the big screen (the filum came out last week).
"And I suppose, in a way, it could it be said, given your very pronounced style, would you agree that (...) what did you have in mind when you wrote (...) were you drunk or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?" (Hang on, cross the last one out!)
Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you there Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... (Come on you bunch of mothers)"
Finally someone raises her hand: "What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?" As soon as the ice is broken, someone else does, and someone else -and here we go. Twenty minutes of questioning ensue:
"Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub... Anyway, meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??"
"Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?"
"Why aren't you funny anymore?"
"So who dunnit in the end then? Didn't get it..."
"I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?"
"On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap; then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his delightful panama" -What gives, pal?!"
"Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?"
"Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?"
"Me nan says that you're very bold, and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house."
"What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?"
"Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"
Twenty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are fully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid half-hour behind schedule, the lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again ("Thank yous all …again"). Why, thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stand poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:
-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm -like- your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy Deco", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.
I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).
By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glass. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance ("snap, snap, snap") -What about "lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But he doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register -Is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? Your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, schmoozing with the Library director. Well suit yourself eh! I won’t insist. So I scan the room and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise. But still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Sigh sigh sigh internally, sigh nevertheless. Well that's a bit of an anti-climax! Where the hell could he be?? Another one clearly biting the dust! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day –The hunk is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.
At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it a last try just to make sure -let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm" -nothing doing. He's deffo gone. (massive :-(( ) Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there is a match on the telly and he fecked off to catch it! Oh, whatever.
"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -Pardon? The toilets are this way, yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too -can you believe how fast time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language, he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose-, could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Dreadfully sorry about that -here, let me take another one... Oh. As you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much bad language though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Am afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"
Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile -no cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so that I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now. School night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, deffo, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less "feminine"! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with one fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you click it open and it lights up -alleluia! 'Not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!
Flat out on my fanny.
(tobecontinued)
(...)
The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "do you mind, folks?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and adjust the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling. The start has never been so close...
The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" ("welcome, everyone") then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight need no introduction -which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy Mccabe.
The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on the big screen (the filum came out last week).
"And I suppose, in a way, it could it be said, given your very pronounced style, would you agree that (...) what did you have in mind when you wrote (...) were you drunk or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?" (Hang on, cross the last one out!)
Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you there Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... (Come on you bunch of mothers)"
Finally someone raises her hand: "What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?" As soon as the ice is broken, someone else does, and someone else -and here we go. Twenty minutes of questioning ensue:
"Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub... Anyway, meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??"
"Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?"
"Why aren't you funny anymore?"
"So who dunnit in the end then? Didn't get it..."
"I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?"
"On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap; then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his delightful panama" -What gives, pal?!"
"Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?"
"Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?"
"Me nan says that you're very bold, and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house."
"What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?"
"Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"
Twenty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are fully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid half-hour behind schedule, the lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again ("Thank yous all …again"). Why, thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stand poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:
-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm -like- your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy Deco", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.
I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).
By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glass. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance ("snap, snap, snap") -What about "lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But he doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register -Is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? Your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, schmoozing with the Library director. Well suit yourself eh! I won’t insist. So I scan the room and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise. But still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Sigh sigh sigh internally, sigh nevertheless. Well that's a bit of an anti-climax! Where the hell could he be?? Another one clearly biting the dust! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day –The hunk is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.
At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it a last try just to make sure -let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm" -nothing doing. He's deffo gone. (massive :-(( ) Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there is a match on the telly and he fecked off to catch it! Oh, whatever.
"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -Pardon? The toilets are this way, yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too -can you believe how fast time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language, he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose-, could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Dreadfully sorry about that -here, let me take another one... Oh. As you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much bad language though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Am afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"
Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile -no cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so that I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now. School night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, deffo, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less "feminine"! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with one fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you click it open and it lights up -alleluia! 'Not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!
Flat out on my fanny.
(tobecontinued)
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