I was exposed to the most horrendous torture last night.
I managed to grab the TV listings and sit on them. But I had to go for a pee.
Herself grabbed the listings while I was out of the room. By the time I got back, she had discovered that The Rose of Tralee was on.
Now you know why I was sitting on the listings.
I pleaded. I begged. I threatened. But she switched over anyway. She had the remote control and the frying pan, so it was out of my hands.
The Rose of Tralee is car-crash television at it’s best [or worst]. You find yourself covering your eyes, and then peeking through your fingers. It’s like the Eurovision, but without Terry Wogan to take the p*ss out of it. And it goes on, and on, and on, and on.
We saw the second half of the first part last night. Herself has booked it for tonight because she says there is nothing else on. I think I’ll stay out in the kitchen and extract my teeth with a pliers.
What gets me is that the girls are all exactly the same. Somewhere in China, there is a factory churning them out [presumably with a lethal lead content]. They try to disguise that they are different by giving them different accents [and the American ones have to say “so, like” every ten seconds] but the formula gives them away…
- They all do Irish dancing
- They all think the best thing that has ever happened to them is getting to the finals.
- They all wanted to be contestants when they watched the programme as children.
- They all wave to a rowdy banner waving bunch in the audience.
- They are all pursuing [or about to pursue] incredibly rewarding careers.
- Their mammies cry and their daddies look embarrassed.
- If they are not Irish, they are there because their great great grandfather was deported for stealing tunips.
- They all designed or made their dresses.
- None of them want to win. Being there is enough.
I’m waiting for the first girl to admit that she was thrown out of school in first year and that she has been a pole dancer since she was sixteen to support the five kids [Jacinta, Brittney, Jason, Brad and Mercedes]. She’ll tell Ray D’Arcy to f*ck off because he’s asking boring questions. For her talent spot she’ll sing a song she composed herself about her court appearances. None of her family will be in the audience, because they couldn’t get temporary release. She will finally flounce off the stage taking all the trophies with her [hidden under the blanket in Jacinta’s pram].
Now there’s a girl that represents modern Ireland!