RTE is as bland, boring and bourgeois as it gets. Staffed and followed by the same stuffy, soulless and inoffensive sorts who think they're the shit as they work in an office job, are members of the local golf club, shop at Superquinn, aka. lame individuals without an ounce of creativity, curiosity or rebelliousness. Individuals who are as fun to be around as watching paint dry.
I know, believe me. I've appeared several times on a variety of shows from Live at Three with Pat Kenny, also on his morning radio show (live takes direct from the main studio floor) ten there was Nighthawks, The Late Late Show, other afternoon chat shows on both radio and TV, and when our De La Salle Ballyfermot school team made it to Croke Park, an interview with Marian Finucane about sporting life in Dublin 10.
Every time I dealt with them it was a howl watching them screw up one thing after another, and always with the union rule book in hand: '
don't touch that lamp again, it's the electrician's job to move that..'
'For fuck's sake, it's burning my ankles -
MOVE the fucker, you dopey cunt'.
It gets you nowhere though, they spent more time arguing about who is allowed to do what and when. Even simple things like asking for some ice to chill the soft drinks left in the dressing room (
no booze and no green room until evening time) or trying to get some warm and edible food in the canteen (
with a bunch of vouchers in hand to claim it) then there's the make-up people, the costume and wardrobe crew, the intermediaries and reps all chewing on their bones, and of course the show hosts (the only time it was ever any fun was on Nighthawks with Shay Healy. He at least knew what entertainment was all about but the chaos on the studio floor (designed to look and act like a real bar) with the tech crews was fucking horrible.
Of the two appearances on Nighthawks, the first went down like a lead balloon: we were supposed to get a 3/2/1 signal from this safari jacket-wearing auld fella in short pants with a million pockets sewn in to them. First he fucked up the intro, then signaled us too early at the outro. We looked fine, but the sound was shite. Next occasion was when Shay was interviewing James Whale, an English bloke with his own show. I won't mention the name of the act (
I was only sitting in to make up the numbers) but Whale loved the band and had them his show too.
Of course on that occasion with the BBC things went by the book too - but at least the crew knew what they were doing.
RTE is like scaling a high flat cliff-face: going up is tough going, but fall and you'll be on your arse in seconds flat.
What never ceased to amaze was the sheer waste out in Montrose. Vases packed with fresh flowers in the entrance hallway, coffee stands every five paces, a complete madness of dressing and costume rooms off endless identical corridors that had to be fitted with large arrows to point you to the stage. Anything that could go wrong is bound to go wrong. Nobody gives or takes any blame, they shrug it off like it doesn't matter.
Mostly because it doesn't matter a fucking hoot.
They're the stars - the guests are like unwelcome relatives sleeping on your sofa in the lounge for three weeks.
It all reminds me of Dan. While everyone else in school was dreaming of becoming a rock star, Dan was saying to himself "I can't wait to live in white picket fence suburbia, drive an SUV, work in an office shuffling paper...sure what more could you ask for?"
How anyone could aspire to the suburban American lifestyle is beyond my ability to understand.
It's no wonder he has to lie and spoof his way through life.
Were you or I in his shoes?
The rope.
Get it.
Quick.
'Pidgeon'.
It always seemed to me that interaction with RTE is like the kiss of death for any new, bright young thing, or anyone with something to say, or who is thinking about doing something.
It remains a necessary evil one has to deal with. They are the national broadcaster and if you get the call, then naturally you want to make it work as it should. But it won't. It can't - it's hit and miss, touch and go, from the first foot in the door until you're back outside in the fresh air lamenting the horrors you just endure over nine hours in the studio creating three minutes of live TV.
Whatever interaction, from the briefest interview to bagging a comfortable pensionable job for life with them, they somehow manage to, if not outright kill true individuality, filter it to present a dismal distortion of it.
Tradition is king in Montrose. They've been left to do things their own way for decades, and like any Irish enterprise funded by the people's free money, they'll continue to do what they've always done - which is why I know I dodged a bullet with Katie Hannon and her producers.
Indeed you may well have dodged a bullet Mowl, but respect due for drawing their notice all the same, well done.
Thanks, it was nice to read his email and think that he was at least open to alternate views of Irish life and society. But when I was left dangling for weeks I knew something had happened: our back and forth was clear and simple, but I know he must have read any of a half a dozen slates on RTE and their profligacy and it must have shocked him enough to cease communications.
But you'd never know with these fuckers. Some where down the line they may well ask again - it just depends on whether the tide is coming in or going out. Things can and will change overnight when dealing with these fuckers. What's cool today will be iced tomorrow. What's said over here isn't said over there. Public favour can shift on a dime and opinions get dragged along for the hell of it.
Anyway - Hannon's way out of her depth hosting that show.
She's stiff, distracted, interfering, interrupting, dismissive, and not very interesting on the eyes or ears.
Who knows? Maybe they would've wanted to set me up and destroy me with a cunning plan of revenge for things said and done?
You never know with these fuckers.
