Something very strange happened as I sat through last Sunday's final of Charity You're A Star.
The something very strange was that I began, almost without noticing, to enjoy myself. As in smile, relax and have a good time.
I'd been mainly using the programme as a source of irritation up to that point. All through the series a man I'd never heard of called, I think, Seán Bán Breadbin kept being voted back in by the amadán-loving Irish public. It didn't matter that he danced like a crazed leprechaun, sang out of time and out of tune and made it jubilantly clear he hadn't even bothered learning the words.
They say you can teach anybody to sing, but even Twink, who last year managed to coax an inoffensive noise out of plucky winner John Aldridge, had to admit defeat when it came to Seán Bán Bigneck. And he revelled in it. Made no apologies for the fact that, as Amanda Brunker, one of the judges, pointed out, he was to singing what George Bush was to world peace.
Each night, in a kind of sadomasochistic ritual, I sat on the sofa in disgust. I watched him mangle The Hucklebuck. Saw him sink the Yellow Submarine. He couldn't even manage the Irish-language songs, and he a Gaeltacht man. This was not "so bad it's good" TV. This was "so bad it's bad, it's worse than awful, unbearably bad, just excruciating" TV. But, of course, I kept watching anyway. His self-righteous indignation at any criticism, his frenzied dancing and his brass neck lured me back every time, like a baldy Siren calling a sailor to dangerous rocks.
And, yes, I know he made a lot of money for that worthy charity the Carers Association along the way. But what about the thousands suffering from post-SBB disorder? Who is going to raise money for us?
Charity You're A Starwasn't all bad, though. The cause of my surprise enjoyment was three more men I'd never heard of, dressed up in police uniforms and making quite a decent stab at singing You Can Leave Your Hat On. These guys looked like no guards I'd ever seen plodding around town.
I confess I got a bit carried away with their oddly erotic gyrations. When they peeled their shirts off you expected to be grossed out, but their bodies were strangely alluring. The bit where they crooked their fingers and sang "come over here" gave me a funny turn. At the climax they stripped down to (unnecessarily long) shorts, at which point I had a cushion over my head to disguise from my boyfriend the fact that I was in a state of high excitement.
That night I tried in vain to find their performance on YouTube. If anyone has a copy, could you let me know? It's for research, like.
These three men, the All Stars, are apparently very good at doing GAA-type activities. I couldn't care less. What I want to know is when their next gig is and if they do a fireman version of that number.
That's the thing about Charity You're A Star. (See the way Shinawil, the company that made it, called it "charity" rather than "celebrity", thus allowing people you've never heard of to take part? No offence, Seán Bán Brainiac. Well, not much.) You want to hate it, you know you should hate it, but then they go and spoil it all by sending out three slightly more mature fellas in Garda uniforms who can give Mickey Rourke's turn in 9½ Weeks a run for his money.
Brendan O'Connor, another of the judges, might have been going a teeny bit overboard saying the competition marked an extraordinary couple of weeks in the nation's history, but he made a good point on the final night. You wouldn't, he said, have found the likes of this year's Charity You're A Star anywhere else in the world. Well, no. They did The X Factor: Battle of the Stars in Britain, and the worst they came up with was Rebecca Loos and that posh major who had a fling with Diana.
Justice was restored in the end, though, and the All Stars won, which must have left Seán Bán Breakaleg regretting that he didn't shed a few clothes during The Hucklebuck.
I know what some of you are thinking. That I'm only jealous of SBB. You think I'm raging because I entered talent competitions as a child and can often been found singing in the private karaoke booths of Ukiyo, the Dublin restaurant. You might even believe this column is nothing more than a written audition, a desperate attempt to come to the attention of the organisers and get picked for next year's contest. Well, I've never been so offended in my entire life. (RTÉ, Shinawil: Call me. Please.)