SUNDAY NIGHT. My godchild Hannah calls me. “Snot faairrr,” she wails without introducing either herself or the topic she wishes to discuss.
“He’s RUBBISH and there are much better singers than him and it’s sposed to be a SINGING competition. I HATE Wagner.” She pronounces it Wagner. As in Wagon Wheel and not Wagner as in the German composer. I don’t tell Hannah about the phonetics issue because I can tell she’s too upset to take it on board. Instead I offer some reality TV counselling. “I know,” I say. “TreyC was infinitely better and so was Intense Aiden but unfortunately it’s a gladiatorial stage suffused with unexpected plot twists designed to stop the masses rioting and keep them tuning in to the televisual opium peddled by Cowell and Co.”
"What are you talking about?" she sniffs. I tell her not to worry, he'll get his marching orders next week, the Brazilian chancer, and she puts down the phone a little calmer, job done. I am supposed to be working. I text my friend. "Help. I can't stop watching reality television, X Factoris over but I'm A Celebrity Get Me Out of Hereis about to start." "I know, can't wait," she texts back. Good. It would have been really annoying if she had told me there was an off button or something unthinkable like that.
The jungle-bound celebrities arrive. Turns out I have previously enjoyed the company of two of them, a woman and a man (Nigel Havers and Britt Ekland). There’s a former politician called Lemsip and, oh look, that awful McKeith woman from the telly who looks through people’s poo to find out how bad their diet is. She’s got a spider phobia and is afraid of “everything”. Ant and Dec – I’d watch it just for them – introduce a game involving kangaroo penises, called Who wants to eat a willy on-air?, and I am hooked.
The following night, when McKeith is buried underground and I am wondering whether she will last five or 10 seconds, my boyfriend starts talking about a bailout or something and do I think it will happen and I am like, OMG, what has that got to do with the price of witchetty grubs?
I text my friend. "Is it wrong to put head in sand and escape to reality TV land when country is in ruins?" "No," she says. "Nearly had heart attack earlier when thought was missing D'Apprentice, but it's just on later than usual. Phew."
The ECB/IMF might be at the door, but Bill Cullen is talking about liathroidí in the boardroom and it’s the ultimate distraction. These candidates are so lacking in basic cop-on that they make you feel like Donald Trump.
So naturally, when reality television comes calling in the form of TV3's The Apprentice: You're Fired, I am powerless to refuse. For the pre-recorded filming I have to go to a nightclub in an industrial estate in Swords that appears to have been designed by Hugh Hefner's surrealist cousin. There are mannequins wearing a variety of women's underwear decorating the unisex toilets and what looks like a tree in the middle of presenter Anton Savage's dressing room. I don't get too close because I am afraid I might be blinded by his astonishingly white teeth.
We get to watch the episode we are going to be talking about. Tara Whatsername is fired because she can’t make a viral. I make copious notes and then just before we are about to go on, the researcher, Jane, who doubles as Bill Cullen’s pretendy secretary on the programme, tells me I can’t use my notes. I have a head cold and can hardly remember my own name. Comedian Karl Spain, who is also on the show, doesn’t appear to need notes. I am doomed.
The kindly floor manager gives me some tissues that are steeped with menthol. I hide the tissues behind me on my chair. The cameras roll. Anton's teeth sparkle. I speak. I tell Tara Whatsername not to interrupt me. Suddenly everyone on the show is agreeing with me and saying I am making excellent points. This would never happen on The Frontline. Or even The Daily Show. My dalliance with reality TV is an utter success.
I am brought down to earth post-broadcast when a straight- talking friend of mine tells me I looked atrocious and what, she wants to know, was going on with my make-up and hair? I catch sight of myself by accident on one of the endless repeats. She is right. I look terrible. Who cares about my quality contributions when viewers were just looking at my split ends and bad posture and chins? Oh, I could blame it on the production and the harsh lights and console myself that even Karl Spain isn’t looking as hot as he usually does, but the truth is that television is not my friend.
“Well, at least you got paid,” my friend says.
I decide not to tell her that the fee was €1.
Now, where’s that remote control?
THIS WEEKEND Róisín will be picking out a present for Hannah’s 10th birthday party next weekend. I hope she enjoys her
Ultimate Wagner: The Essential Masterpieces
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