Picture the scene. Montrose, the recent past. "Dessie, we'll give you Gaybo's slot Mondays and Tuesdays, the power, the glory and all that entails. There's just one condition."
"Anything, Helen. Anything."
"At the end of your first week, you have to go to Old Trafford and do a Manchester United tribute programme."
A pregnant silence, followed by weeping, gnashing, the lot. The pits of hell open and Dessie does the Faustian thing.
I have it on no particular authority that it happened like that. But, really, the irony of it. No sooner was Pat "Man United Man" Kenny's show over on Friday than the Gay Byrne Show (RTE Radio 1, Monday to Fri- day) was linking up with Cahill, Ireland's foremost United-basher, to mark the 40th anniversary of the plane crash in Munich that killed most of Busby's Babes. In fairness, Cahill is a pro, and his jokes have never sunk next nor near the depths plumbed by those Liverpool terrace-dwellers who sing about the Munich disaster. There is no real reason that he shouldn't help convey the powerful emotions still felt about that tragedy; and with surprisingly well informed help from Gaybo, that's just what he did.
It's too early to tell if Gay 'n' Des will be a double-act to rival Bill 'n' Tony. Their rapport was not the essence of Friday's show; Harry Gregg was.
The former United goalkeeper and Northern Ireland international was one of a handful of players who survived the crash. He has told the story before, but his recollections were a startling combination of practised narrative and raw emotion. "I can get guilty and emotional about my feelings," he said. The guilt didn't hold back the memories, including those of his extraordinary heroism in rescuing other passengers from the smouldering wreckage. It was the sound of a calling child that drew Gregg ("I thought I was the only one alive") back to the plane when he should have been running away; having pulled the child clear, he was back for the mother: "I didn't take her out; I put her in the hole, put my two feet behind her and kicked her out." The programme resonated at so many levels: the vivid memories of the violent event; the sense of collective and continuing grief from the Dublin funeral of Liam "Billy" Whelan; the paternal affection and tragic dignity of Matt Busby; the breakthrough in British-German relations; the footballing loss of Duncan Edwards, perhaps the greatest player of his generation - who spent a fortnight in hospital before his death ("What time is the kickoff against Wolves on Saturday? I'm gonna play in that game"); and finally, according to Pat Crerand, a sense of taboo: "No one ever spoke about Munich in the time I was at Manchester United."
Less smiled upon than Dessie by the new RTE regime was Treasa Davison, who until recently brought pleasure to punters (and relief to radio columnists) with her wonderful Playback. On Sunday she was welcomed to the panel of Sunday Supplement (Today FM) and went straight into the maws of Ulick O'Connor. Welcome to the private sector, Treasa, where the viciousness is on-air.
