Dublin's Project Arts Centre - with its quasi-Pompidou Centre makeover and its nose-ring-wearing, leather-clad cool dude hangers-on - looks an ideal spot for informed debate about the arts, for philosophical and critical discourse, for wacky but thought-provoking art installations . . . but what's this? A TV Club?
It's Monday night and we're lounging on sofas in the Centre's Green Room, giggling and munching popcorn, ready to goggle at Wanderlust (made by Tyrone Productions). The group includes the artistic director of Project, Kathy McArdle, who confesses to not replacing her TV since it was stolen recently. "Anne" [not her real name], an artist, has come simply "to bitch": "I have no TV either. I just know I'm going to hate this programme."
Tim Brennan, curator of talks and critical events at Project, tells us why he decided to set up this TV Club, and two others which focus on football and newspapers: "I deliberately chose aspects of the dominant culture not normally integral to an arts organisation."
Our "convenor" for the TV Club, vivacious playwright Irma Grothius, gets a general chat going. Ian, an artist, pipes up: "Yeah, the nation's conversation tends to focus on soaps. Soaps have replaced gossip." Monica, who works in the area of arts and disability, agrees: "It's like Big Brother - everyone talked about it like they personally knew all the people. TV is replacing a sense of community."
Wanderlust is a location-based Irishmade cyber-version of Blind Date. We watch an old episode on video - Project is still trying to get its NTL link-up sorted. "It's all about real people providing real drama," says Ian. "That's what is popular on TV now."
While Ian goes on to pontificate about the ramifications of watching TV in the dark or with the light on, Irma wonders "if people who are normally cruel about TV at home will be polite in a group like this". Her fears are not to be realised. As Wanderlust explodes in our faces with its mix of loud music, chopped-up images and in-your-face revelations about the sexual intentions of its participants, our reactions are equally candid.
There are no "aesthetic judgments" (Tim's phrase), merely a horrified unanimous groan when David, a callow Irish student, says of his gorgeous Maltese date: "You don't look at the mantelpiece when you're poking the fire."
"O my God! That's so rude, I can't believe he said that on national TV," squeaks Michelle, who works with Bedrock Theatre Company. Tim is critical of the presenter, Brendan Courtney, who barges in on the other Irish participant in her bra and socks: "He's second division Graham Norton." We all enjoy the beautiful shots of Malta's seascape and the underwater diving sequences with exotic fish. Malta at least comes out well.
David continues to make crass remarks and, as the action unfolds, we agree he is probably still a virgin and is covering up his inexperience by saying laddish things he has learned down the pub. The chorus of groans gets louder when the programme finishes with a shot of David crashed out on his bed in his underwear. His most telling confession: "I think I scored last night, but I'm not sure."
Afterwards, Kathy McArdle complains: "It was forced and contrived. I'm disappointed with the lack of a sense of the dynamics of the relationship as it unfolds." Anne takes satisfaction in having her expectations confirmed: "I knew it would be horrible, but it was completely cringey. I much prefer Blind Date; at least it doesn't have all that drinking and bad language."
Later everyone agrees to watch Sex and the City next week. "Why do we like watching this stuff?" wonders Ian. Perhaps it's a welcome relief from existential angst and creative block. Anne is happy: "I've never seen it and I want to give out about it in an intelligent and informed way." Kathy asks: "Can we all dress up?"
On to Saturday and it's time for the Football Club. We gather in Project's Meeting Room, where Tim throws a football on the table. It is fondled appreciatively by the convenor of the Football Club, Ciaran Murray (station manager of NEAR FM). He laments the fact that it's OK to talk to another man in a pub while a game is on - but if you try to prolong the conversation, "it's taken as evidence you're gay".
The theme of football supporters is expounded upon with some passion by Laura, a visiting Italian student who has just received a doctorate in philosophy: "I am from Livorno in Tuscany. Our football team is not in the premier league, but the supporters love the team. I go every two weeks to see the match. Livorno is not so famous, so you can see the real love for the football from the supporters.
"In Livorno, if the supporters don't come, there won't be the money for the team to keep playing. The supporters still have a voice too. They fight with the team if the players don't do what they want." She concludes: "Supporters are the heart of football. If they don't have a voice, if it is only for money and TV, football will be destroyed."
Colm, an artist from Clare, tells us about his love for the game: "Our history, so much of it, is caught up with football. A football is a very precious thing to a boy. I collect footballs, I must have about 3,000 now and each one has a story."
There's a debate about whether winning is as important as playing the game. "It is about winning," insists Ciaran. "The more games are won, the more the fans will go."
There are some complaints about "football saturation". "I heard people say that they watch less football because it is on TV five nights a week," notes Laura. "I watched three games in a row once," says Colm. "It was too much. You wouldn't watch three films in a row. But championship leagues throw up a lot of meaningless games."
Ciaran mentions a match that took place earlier in the afternoon: "Tottenham played Villa today. It was nil-all, going nowhere. They can't get into Europe. Even for die-hard fans, a meaningless game doesn't have the same tension. You know players won't injure themselves or get bothered for a match like that."
The next day I earwig on the Newspaper Club. It's Sunday afternoon and the table in the Meeting Room is now strewn with papers, from the Observer to the Sunday World. Mick Wilson, an artist, convenes the discussion on Sunday newspapers. There's too much of a focus on celebrities, we agree. "Even the Observer runs stories on Posh and Becks these days," says Elaine, a lecturer.
"Supplements are a reason to advertise cars," says Alan, an artist, as he leafs through the glossies. "There's a blurring of news with infotainment and advertorials," says Mick.
Alan buys the Sunday Times because "it has good arts coverage and the other Sundays don't. The Sunday Independent makes me furious, it has no news, no information and is full of bad D4 gossip".
Mick notes the editorial style of the Kilkenny People: "The regional papers are very solid, like this editorial on the tour of St Therese's relics. It covers the crisis in the church, child molestation, the fall in vocations, but then celebrates this turnaround, with the huge popularity of the tour. It speaks confidently to an audience as though we all share this Catholic fervour."
"That's quite different from the coverage in the Irish Times Saturday supplement recently," says Lisa, a teacher who also dabbles in journalism. "Patsy McGarry, who wrote the piece, looked on the tour as an out-of-date, rural phenomenon."
Mick believes the Sundays are going through "a crisis of definition", leading to more supplements and more visuals in an attempt to keep readers from simply switching to the Internet. He notes that newspapers are "habitually constrained by norms of behaviour which are imagined to be there". We all confess that in spite of all the recipes for pesto in the Sundays, none of us have the kind of dinner parties where we might actually make our own pesto.
"People are anxious around consuming," says Lisa. "The newspaper gives them advice about what to buy and how to talk about it." Lucie, a playwright, suggests that newspapers, whether tabloid or broadsheet, aim to pacify the reader. Frank, a computer science student from Germany who is currently studying at TCD agrees: "They put the piece about Posh and Becks at the top of the page, and then the piece about the bomb in Iran at the bottom. Telling us, `You don't have to worry about anything, dear reader'."
So, asks Lisa, can we trust newspapers? Elaine responds - reassuringly to my ears, of course - "If you were far away and you got a copy of The Irish Times, you'd be so happy. It would be like hearing from an old friend."
For information about any of Project's three clubs, call 1850-260027