OVER "prawns St Jacques, fillet of pork with caramelised apple, raisins, calvados and three chocolate terrrine, French white and Spanish red" middle England sat down to dinner. You had to suspect that these pork eaters would be dished up as lambs for the ritual documentary slaughter. After all, Paul Watson, whose The Fishing Party gutted Thatcher's Britain, had them in the cross hairs of his camera.

True enough, right from the hors d'oeuvre, the knives were out. Seeking fresh victims, Watson had advertised in the Sunday Telegraph and, in a big house by an East Anglian river, Bridget, Richard, Jon, Catherine, George, Henry, Bill and Judith offered themselves for our consumption. It seems there is no end to the number of exhibitionists prepared to become the subjects of fly on the wall (or, in this case, fly in the soup) documentaries.

Cutting Edge's The Dinner Party was appropriately cutting. But, in watching this band of mostly slavering Tories tuck into the prawns, the pork and the prawns again, it was clear that the cutting of the film was even more elaborate than the cutting of the grub. Still, though the ethically questionable director's cut may well have been the unkindest of all, there was in any order, enough smugness and bigotry on the menu to make you want to throw up.

Blacks, gays, poor people, beggars - they didn't stand a chance. As the French white and Spanish red hit the spot, anybody who wasn't a white, middle class, provincial Tory was devoured. George, a craggy, Yorkshire publican, insisted on telling "a joke about Rastus, the big black man". Henry announced that "we don't want fucking queers in the army". Judith barked that she "doesn't think anyone (in Britain) is genuinely poor". She'd sort out the unemployed: "No, you're feckless, you're workshy. Off you go nothing for you."

Perhaps it was all quite predictable. But when, while attacking black people, one of the barbarians grinned and whispered shoot the bastards", you might have thought that even the Tories would observe the law against such a degree of racism. Maybe the wine guzzling bigot was just performing for the camera. But, even if it was a case of hyperbole, the racism was clearly in his gut before prawns, pork, wine and TV cameras released it.

As a portrait of pre election Conservatism, The Dinner Party suggested that those in mourning for the Thatcherite 1980s know that the game is up: eat, drink and be nasty for tomorrow we may be out of power. It is true that the Tories have ruled for 18 years on a menu of new money, old bigotries and Old/New Labour splits. But the dominant impression left by this documentary is that, in Britain, there remains a stratum of people who live by the maxim that the class that preys together stays together.

The most awful aspect, really beyond the racism, homophobia and smugness was the fact that these diners genuinely believed in their own "self reliance Refusing, or unable to recognise, that they relied on their colour, their expensive private educations, their connections, their exploiting, they saw themselves as warriors for truth, justice and the Tory way.

"Look, I don't want an equal society," said Bridget. "People who earn more shouldn't pay more tax." This is an ideological view and, fair enough, if people genuinely believe it, they're right to say so. But, when given all sorts of advantages to begin with, they have no right to claim that it all comes down to "self reliance". There is always a valid case to be made for individual responsibility, but part of that responsibility is to recognise your own parasitism.

Most of the eight were vile people. Presumably, they imagined that their cocktail of grub and guff would show them as a kind of executive version of an Afiu Dark group. So, such a misconception is a typically middle class fantasy. What dinner party group doesn't believe that it can right the world with sparkling wit and repartee? And surely RTE could find an Irish dinner party - in one of the Celtic Tiger's booming house price, wine bore suburbs. Any moral indigestion would be justified by the comedy of watching the Tiger's cubs stuff themselves with food while they filleted themselves with folly.

LIFE in Manli, Utah is rather different. There, men can stuff their homes with wives. There are 450 polygamist families in Manli. All belong to the True and Living Church of Jesus Christ of Saints of the Last Days (TLCJCSLD, for short). The first bloke we met was the aptly named Randy - though, as he had just two wives, Patti and Sam, the name, at least in the context of the TLCJCSLD, seemed unduly boastful.

The TLCJCSLD is "an antique Mormon" group, re established in 1994 by a bloke named Jim Harmston. Jim, who sidled in and out of this documentary, is a ringer for Colonel Saunders of Kentucky Fried Chicken infamy. Despite his white suit, white hair and white beard, Jim was rather dark presence. We saw him give sermons and heard, from members of his flock (herd? brood? whatever) about his advice.

For instance, he advised Cindy, a matron with a glint in both eyes, to join the much younger Dan and Natalie. Cindy was in retreat from an unsuccessful union with Jeff Manli's chiropractor and Jim assured her that she was "called by God" to make the new move. Dan, young, eager and built like Tom Cruise, knew duty when it arrived. Cindy purred, but observing polygamous protocol, said: "You don't French kiss your husband in front of his other wife." Natalie paled.

Apparently - though, polygamy is not about sex. It's about religion and righteousness. Sam, Randy's only wife for 19 years, admitted to being an emotional person. "I cry at commercials," she said. So, when Randy brought home Patti, Sam was upset. So was Randy - or, so he said - but religious duty must come first. "It sure was tough dropping Sam off, when Patti and me were going on our honeymoon. But, I had to do it."

That was a couple of years ago. Now, Randy looks tired. "Ahm not gittin' any younger, of course," he said. Still, watching Randy, Sam and Patti shop in the supermarket was perplexing. Not since cameras followed Maire Geoghegan Quinn from veg to meat counter had I seen such dramatic shopping. Perhaps the supermarket drama could become a new television genre.

Even though polygamy is not about sex, it was explained that there can be no gay or lesbian carry on in the TLCJCSLD. Upright husbands may sleep with only one wife at a time. "Wives don't marry wives." The impression left was that, like football, this religion is best suited to young men. But then we met Douglas, an artist in his 60s. Douglas has three wives and the foursome seemed very happy.

Bart was the coolest though. He has four (or maybe, five - it wasn't clear) wives. "He's a real gentleman," said one of the four (or five). "He says goodnight to us all, regardless of whose night it is." Bart also knows his duties. "Polygamy's got to be for pure reasons or don't even think about it," he said. Such self sacrifice, restraint, duly. Bart has all the qualities of self reliance and hard work so admired by Middle England - even if he does his thing in Extreme America.

IN a tame season of Late Late Shows, Gay Byrne convened a group of old pros to generate controversy. Between them, Vincent Browne, Nell McCafferty and Mary Kenny - with Father Jackie Robinson booming from the audience - produced a show of gusto. It was part dinner party, in terms of the guests' self assuredness and confident candour, and part showbiz. Certainly, there was no shortage of self belief here.

Tricky Slickies, criminal clerics and the argument that the media is stoking fears about crime were discussed. Mary Kenny, getting more like Margaret Thatcher with every TV appearance, would have been the toast of Paul Watson's dinner party. Pining for traditional, Catholic Ireland, she made arguments about the role and effects of religion here which were, quite simply, codology.

To contend, as she did, that the traditional Catholic church promoted equality is nonsense. Not that contemporary Ireland is much better in this regard. Tigers, after all, lack compassion. That is their nature. Now, such traits are being extolled. But really, Ms Kenny's use of the professional controversialist's most basic trick of opposing the consensus, while, admittedly, being a legitimate device, is, in her case, as tired as Randy.

Vincent Browne was right in maintaining that the hierarchical structure of the church "contributed to the anti democratic strain" in Irish society. For such an acute media analyst, he might have added that the equally hierarchical structure of the media - for all its pleading about being in the interests of democracy - is equally negative. But then, the show was dependent upon the fact that Gay Byrne and his were all media grandees.

The nastiest skirmishes of the night took place between Ms McCafferty and Father Robinson. She accused him of pulpiteering. He sought to get her to eat words which she had written about priests and child sex abuse. "Ach, you're shouting again now, wee boy - forget it," she spat at one stage. The sentiment, though clearly heartfelt, didn't quite require such an idiom. It is possible to be honest without being rude.

Still, it was, at least, a talk show with admirable verve. Then again, Vincent Browne, Nell McCafferty and Mary Kenny have been contributing to lively Late Late Shows for a quarter of a century or more. They are not the cubs of the Tiger. They were the young of Ireland's moral civil war and of the North's troubles. If it takes such mature media figures to generate a Late Late of vigour, we must suspect that the Tiger's cubs have no claws or are just too busy making money and talking guff at crass dinner parties.

FINALLY, the Oscars. Don't they become more hideously self regarding every year? As ever, precious prats with ponytails were interviewed about the clothes, the make up, the pecking order for the bash. Billy Crystal is an excellent and professional presenter but the general aggrandising about all aspects of the movie business must make even him blush.

The PR language about "the Academy" and "motion pictures arts and sciences" - remember, these are "the flicks" that are being honoured - is intolerable. Then there are the rig outs and the fuss made about them. Enough said. In a week of excellent and telling documentaries and a meaningful, albeit showbizzy chat show, the pure showbiz extravaganza was about as tasteful as month old prawns St Jacques, whatever they are.