We went to The Frontline this evening, myself and my pal Mirabilis, and sat in the corner furthest away from anything with the other proles who weren't for speaking up, just lurking.
Several times during the broadcast I had to fight off the urge to shout the word 'penis' out, much as one must stand back from the platform as a train approaches. Death by RTE One.
It's hot under those studio lights, and with 827 cameras and lights and microphones hanging overhead it gets a little bit disorienting. I remember exactly half of fuck all from the first segment - something to do with builders and developers and that hoary old chestnut - as I spent most of it wondering how Pat Kenny got to look so aged, skin like some leftover turkey.
Michael Noonan was on then, talking about his wife Flor's struggle with Alzheimer's. Tough to see any man so broken, before the Jews versus the Arabs and some lefty in a 'Free Gaza' t-shirt heckling the Israeli panelist with semi-hearted jibes of 'murderers.' Or something. He was duly hushed, all the impact of a fart in a tempest.
No fiery exchanges. Not really, though our two friends from out yonder got a bit cross with each other, and it was over very quickly.
Then out into the pissings of rain where I got splashed - Benny Hill-sketch style - by a passing bus before I got a taxi home with the priest from Father Ted, the lad who spoke of lagging jackets and different humming noises. Tortuously boring.
No part of me wanted to know about his rhododendrons.