Time to go
By Sean O Donaíle
- Prime Time (RTE1)
- Michael Moore Show (Channel 4)
- Godzilla (in Spanish!)
When one's TV reviews are reduced to Godzilla on Spanish television, one
realises that it is time to move on; no more the Pot Noodles and 25 cups of
tea ; no more the builder's crevice and the can of lager perched on the
tummy; no more the drawing of the curtains on a sunny weekend to secretly
watch The Waltons; no more the frantic rush through the TV listings at half
eleven on a Tuesday night; no more the empty promises to go for a run
tomorrow, listen to classical music and read a novel or two; no more the
cynicism and no more knowing everything but interested in nothing which
overexposure to television brings.
To those of you under 45 and in bed by 4.30am, Godzilla is the wonderfully
tacky 1960's Japanese Horror series, based on the goings-on of a hairy
gorilla and the cardboard cutout professors who track his every move.
The fearless furry was this week having a bout of fisticuffs with Danny the
dinosaur, destroying all in their path and scaring the wits out of the
pitiful tourists who should have read their holiday brochures a little
closer!
There wasn't much else to garner from Gran Canarian telly, so one was
confined to the endless mind-numbing cycle of beach, pool, pub, tacky
restaurant, disco bars and more beach - why so many people spend their
year's savings on valiant attempts to sunburn their buttocks and nipples is
beyond me.
In fairness to the Germans, they were quite successful, browning 99% of
their bodies, but alas the Irish were in the main pink or peeling, which is
no harm I suppose, as the rest of the year is spent in wellies and
raincoats!
Why the Brits travel is even more mysterious, spending their time
complaining about the food and wolfing down Cornish pasties, downing
copious amounts of lager in tacky pubs and looking for a fight - activities
which are all too common back home.
The influence of TV is all too clear, promoting the so-called `pleasures of
life' in a materialistic manner, and we should know better.
Back home, a first-time visitor could be forgiven for believing that 12
July is but a carnival, given the coverage of the event by much of the
screen and print media.
With unionists yet again trying to change the rules, RTE's Prime Time sent
the interprid Ciaran Fitzgerald to the backwaters of Kellswater, where the
Lamont family were busily rattling their drums for the big day.
The affable Stephen Lamont spoke of generations of drums, tea and
sandwiches, sabre rustling and marching round in circles. This year he is
joined in the ranks by his 18-year-old sons, who spoke of the respect shown
to them by neighbours on seeing their `dedication'.
Twelfth morning was spent polishing shoes and mother, `knowing her place',
ironing the sash and making the sammidges, and then they marched to the
parish hall, where one would be forgiven for thinking you were on the set
of Little House on the Prairie.
On then to Ballymena for more tunes, where Catholics no doubt had drawn the
shutters or departed to Donegal for the week, and to the infamous `field'
for tattoed men in Rangers tops and bellies and The Most Worshipful Wizard
was brewing magical potions and ranting amid candy floss, bigotry and
courting behind the bushes.
RTE omitted to supply sound for much of their report, sparing us from
further bootlicking and no doubt further alienating the already paranoid
brethren of Ballymena.
The final target of my cynicism is the once incisive Michael Moore, whose
talk show is nothing more than aimless wandering and inane humour,
parroting the sickly Chris Evans. (Ah, go easy on the big guy - Ed.)
Moore correctly highlighted the 20,000 yearly gun-related murders in the
USA, but then proceeded to send his cast to the perimeter of the Walmart
store, where guns can be purchased with CDs and tins of beans, where they
aimlessly attempted to rile
store attendants and passers-by, with no effect.
This was followed by a failed attempt to engage Sgt Swanson of the
Portadown RUC barracks in a decommissiong conversation.
Finally, a word of apology to all those Mother Theresa and Bernard McHugh (
the Donegal stripper of Blind Date infamy) fans who were offended by my
recent insensitive remarks (You'll have to be more specific - Ed.); a sense
of humour is in the post!
Up the Banner!
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