Just for a second, Ray D’Arcy (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays) sounds like a beaten man. “It’s all gone horribly wrong,” he laments as he closes Tuesday’s programme, broadcast from Liverpool in advance of the Eurovision semi-final. The host’s despairing statement might sound like a premonition, given the subsequent failure of Irish entrants Wild Youth to qualify for the song contest’s grand final, but in fact he’s talking about his own show.
D’Arcy’s cri de coeur comes as he vainly attempts to corral Marty Whelan, Linda Martin and Dustin the Turkey into some kind of order. As well as sounding like the set-up for a particularly convoluted joke (“A disc jockey, a singer and a puppet walk into a studio…”), this roster of guests causes on-air chaos for the host, who struggles to be heard above their collective din.
Most of this is down to the reliably disruptive Dustin, who’s been using D’Arcy as a straight man since their TV days on The Den, though Whelan does his bit too, throwing himself into proceedings with such vim that at times he seems to forget it’s not his show. No wonder D’Arcy appears anxious for things to wrap up. “We’ve run out of time,” he repeatedly tells his guests, in the manner of a harassed barman trying to clear a rowdy pub at last orders. It’s a hoot.
Far from going awry, it’s actually a week when things go right for D’Arcy. Audibly energised by the friendly atmosphere in Liverpool, he captures the sense of occasion in advance of the Eurovision. In between lively vox pops from reporter Sinéad Ní Uallacháin, he discusses Ireland’s dismal recent record with 1992 winner Martin and gets a reality check from Ukrainian presenter Timur Miroshnychenko, who genially recalls covering last year’s contest from a bunker in Kyiv. Even the generic chat with Wild Youth is notable for its undercurrent of pre-performance distraction and tension.
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I think of it a bit like a rundown train running on a poorly maintained track and it’s always late. Is getting rid of the driver going to fix it?
— Michael Kealy, RTÉ's Eurovision chief
By Wednesday, D’Arcy is back in Dublin, contemplating Wild Youth’s early exit.
“Yesterday we were full of hope and anticipation, and today we’re full of disappointment,” he says dutifully. Maybe so, but he still seems on a high from his Merseyside jaunt, as he assesses the country’s dwindling Eurovision pedigree in chipper fashion: “Let’s be honest lads, we’re bottom of the class.”
His interview with RTÉ's Eurovision supremo Michael Kealy is conducted in a similarly light spirit, asking questions about the song selection process without ever getting too tetchy. After all, the competition is supposed to be entertainment, Kealy’s glum description of his increasingly thankless task notwithstanding: “I think of it a bit like a rundown train running on a poorly maintained track and it’s always late,” he says. “Is getting rid of the driver going to fix it?”
D’Arcy can surely sympathise. There have been times when his show has seemed at risk of going off the rails, whether due to uneven content or the stagnant ratings that have perennially dogged the mid-afternoon slot. But here, he dispels such listlessness with zesty ease. It’s not just the Eurovision that D’Arcy covers so enthusiastically. His conversation with writer Eoin Colfer is engaging and infectiously good-humoured: the only problem is it’s too brief, as the author talks about teens being disproportionately affected by “climate anxiety”.
Either way, it’s an improvement on the meandering monologues that the host is sometimes prone to, offering his two cents on sundry issues about which Ryan Tubridy has already offloaded his spare change earlier in the schedule. Of course, D’Arcy can’t rely on pan-European television spectacles for a lift every week. But when on song, he’s worth tuning into.
Continental glamour
There’s a frisson of continental glamour on Sunday with Miriam (RTÉ Radio 1), when Swedish movie star Britt Ekland is one of Miriam O’Callaghan’s guests. In the 1970s, Ekland seemed like the epitome of celebrity glitz, as famous for splashy tabloid coverage of her personal life as for her celluloid career. O’Callaghan commendably concentrates on the latter aspect: she talks to Ekland about her role in cult horror movie The Wicker Man, though possibly overeggs matters by calling her guest “one of the most enduringly recognisable names from film history”.
If such gushy praise is characteristic of O’Callaghan’s approach, so too is her determination to call out the sexism that her guest habitually faced. “Does it annoy you that the men in your life were spoken about almost as much as your great film roles?” O’Callaghan asks. “No, it comes with the package,” Ekland replies phlegmatically, to gently dubious hums from her host.
Britt Ekland stresses her ability to stand up from a chair without touching the sides. She certainly makes the audience sit up and listen
Ekland adopts the same philosophical attitude when asked about her “traumatic” marriage to the comic actor Peter Sellers when only 21 years old (“To marry after 10 days is the worst stupidity”) and the prevalence of #metoo-style sexual abuse in the past: “I knew it happened all the time, but I wasn’t attacked.” In both mood and substance, it’s a perfect Sunday morning item, highlighting the obstacles faced by women while emphasising Ekland’s resilience and positivity: now 80, she stresses her ability to stand up from a chair without touching the sides. She certainly makes the audience sit up and listen.
Elsewhere, O’Callaghan forms a different but no less effective rapport with Sandy Kelly. The country singer is on the show to discuss suicide awareness, following the death of her sister Barbara, who took her own life in 2018. Understandably, it’s difficult subject for Kelly to broach, but O’Callaghan handles things delicately, making her guest feel comfortable while gently guiding her into troubling territory: “Tell me a little bit of what happened.”
It’s tough to hear Kelly describing her pain and anger after Barbara’s death, but the encounter never feels voyeuristic. O’Callaghan’s sensitivity engenders an atmosphere that’s empathetic and instructive, and absorbing too: it’s a pitch perfect performance.
