Today, Starbucks is my favourite place in the world

I walk into this coffee shop and I am greeted with the soothing aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the soothing tones of light jazz and my eyes are relieved by the soothing combination of light browns, yellows and greens. The muscles in my body slacken. I take a deep breath and savour the moment. I am soothed.

There is an elegant plastic sign in my Starbucks that reads “We promise perfection”. I am reassured by this. It is important for me that my coffee shop brings the same attitude as, say, a German car manufacturer, to the creation of its product. I want my coffee designed and engineered to precision. Error is not an option.

The first thing I do when I arrive in my Starbucks is to join the long queue. I am glad the queue is long. If it was short I would be worried that the place had lost its appeal, that perhaps their standards of perfection had been compromised since my last visit.

Queuing gives me the opportunity to survey the wealth of options on the enormous menu board above me. I am delighted to see several coffees that I have never heard of and don’t understand. Salted Caramel Mocha. Espresso Con Panna. Macchiato. Chai Créme Frappuccino. I know that I am in a place that is at the cutting edge of creativity.

I learn about Starbuck’s record of responsible corporate governance on their knowledge and education notice board. “We have been working with communities in Ethiopia to provide clean water...” I know that I am an ethical consumer. I feel good.

I ask my barista, dressed in a fetching green apron, for a small Americano. I am reminded that it is called a “Grande” in Starbucks. She asks for my name and writes it on the cup. It smells oaky and warming. My small (tall) coffee is what other coffee shops would describe as “very large”. The customer before me bought a large (“Venti”) coffee. I know she is going to feel terrific later on because she is about to consume her body weight in liquid.

I sit down at a small wooden table. It is covered in the debris from its previous incumbent. Used coffee cups. Empty muffin wrappers. My fingers are sticky when I touch the table. One of my favourite things about my Starbucks is that the staff only occasionally clear the tables or clean the surfaces. It makes it homely. It’s just like being in my own sitting room. I am comforted by the squalor.

I look around me. There is a painting on the wall. It depicts some abstracted figures enjoying cups of coffee around a table. I like that the art reflects the very activity that I am currently engaged in. Art really does reflect life.

My eyes wander to the ceiling. I count eleven security cameras. I feel safe in the knowledge that if I am attacked or robbed as I enjoy my Americano, there will be a record of the event from multiple angles.

I am surrounded by fellow coffee lovers. Men and women. Young people and old people. We are a community. I remind myself to get a Starbucks Reward Card which will incentivise me to enjoy my coffee here until I die.

I finish my Americano. I can feel a familiar sensation in my stomach. My bowels are churning. I enjoy this symptom of my Starbucks coffee. It means that I can spend the rest of the day on the toilet, my second favourite place in the world. My hands begin to shake. My nervous system is reacting to the caffeine. I am now fully alert and ready for anything.

Did I mention which Starbucks outlet I am describing? I’m afraid my memory isn’t quite what it used to be. I think it is the one at the Green Park end of Piccadilly in London. Or is it the one at the Haymarket end of Piccadilly? Actually, it could well be the one on Dame St in Dublin. Come to think of it, perhaps it is the one on Rambla de Catalunya in Barcelona. I can’t remember exactly.

Today, Starbucks is my favourite place in the world. Yesterday, it wasn’t. And tomorrow it probably won’t be either. But today it is, because I have tried, Oh so desperately, to like the thirteen aspects of Starbucks mentioned above. If I try to love something that I hate, perhaps I can understand it better. I have loved, with every fibre of my being, the very things I detest most about a coffee shop. 

ENDS

"Do you want a bag?" Shopping's new pitfall.

“Do you want a bag?” This question plagues me. In the past, bags were a non-issue. They were plentiful. With the increase in the environmental levy, bags have become the central and most agonising aspect of my shopping experience. Choosing what to buy is no longer the primary concern of the shopper. The problem has shifted to how we contain the items we have purchased. What is the solution?

Last week I carried a basket of groceries and a number of clothes items to the cashier in Dunnes Stores. “Do you want a bag?” she asks. “A paper bag,” I say (they’re usually free). “Paper bags are for drapery only. How many bags do you want?” she says. This is a difficult question to answer. It assumes that one has the ability to very quickly calculate the combined volume of one’s shopping items and cross-reference that figure with the estimated volume of the bag.

I quickly try to do the maths. But time is my enemy. I can feel the shoppers behind me in the queue. I presume they think I am a complete cretin. “I’ll have one please,” I proffer. Beads of sweat begin to gather on my brow as I see the bag filling up, with many items yet to be accounted for.

What are the potential solutions to the bag problem?

Firstly, one could invest in a “Bag for Life”. This is a bag that you will have a relationship with for the rest of your life. It is expensive and durable. It is a commitment that one should not enter into lightly. It is rendered useless if one doesn’t have it on their person at all times. Shopping trips are often off the cuff decisions. At 29 years of age, I am not sure that I am ready for this level of dedication to a bag. Just as puppies are not merely for Christmas, neither are Bags for Life.

Secondly, one can try to befriend the cashier. Achieving this can have long-term benefits, especially if you choose the same cashier every time you shop. If he or she likes you, they may waive the bag levy as a goodwill gesture. I began this process a few days ago with my Tesco cashier. On reaching the conveyor belt I clocked her name badge. “Good evening Sinead,” I say with a big smile. The danger in using the employee’s name is that most people don’t usually do it. The name badge is simply a redundant formality.  Therefore it can be construed as a little unsettling for the cashier. She looked uneasy but I think she warmed to me when I told her that the uniform enhanced her figure. I finished off with a flourish: “Thanks Sinead, you really are Tesco’s Finest”. She hasn’t given me a free bag yet but I am confident it will happen soon. Next week when she asks me if I have a clubcard, I will say “Oh yes, every little helps Sinead”.

There is one last option: forfeit the bag entirely. This removes any bag-related confusion. It can also help build an image of yourself as a green urbanite. In response to the perennial question “Do you want a bag?” one simply purrs, “Oh no, I don’t do bags”, as you gingerly scoop up your items and carry them off into the distance. Trepidation is required however. I was a little too ambitious when I tried it, Lloyd Grossman crashing to the floor, thus heralding the kind of attention which I had been trying to avoid. Not only was everyone staring at me but then it was broadcast over the tannoy. “Spillage at exit three. Schnell, schnell!”

Finally, after all my efforts, I found a solution. Online shopping. Done. 

I bought a drill. I am now a man.

A few weeks ago I bought a drill. My first drill. I don’t have a car. I don’t play football or rugby. I’m not tall. I don’t have a wife or anyone who calls me “Dad”. I don’t catch or kill my own food. I don’t smell. But I do have a drill. This is an important affirmation for me. Ever since I bought it, I feel a little bit different. I am now a fully formed man.

What I have learned over the past few weeks is that a drill doesn’t necessarily need to be a functional or practical tool. It doesn’t even need to be used really. Rather, it is a monument to one’s masculinity. I keep it on my bookshelf, next to my volumes on Caravaggio and a history of the theatre. When I have guests for dinner, I like to hold the drill in a casual, free-and-easy sort of way which suggests that I am comfortable with power tools, that I’m just a regular kinda guy who knows how to fix stuff. It’s the great balancer in my life. It lends me a certain virile gravitas whose deficiency I occasionally suffer from.  

Feeling confident in my new role as a fully fledged man, I invited a lady to dinner in my apartment last week. The garlic quail was sizzling and my cous cous was steaming in readiness. The drill sat proudly on my bookshelf, recently buffed in preparation. As we chatted about the Australian Riesling we were enjoying, I gently encouraged her towards the bookshelf. “Wow, you have a drill” she cried. “I grew up with power tools. They’re just a part of my life”, I venture. “I thought your entire family was into art and all that?” she says. “That too. Art and power tools. It’s a heady mix”. She pushes me. “Can you use it?”. I laugh. “Show me”, she retorts. A heavy, nauseous sensation fills my stomach. “Show you?” I had never contemplated this happening. I slowly lift the drill from the shelf. “I was going to hang a picture here actually”, I say, gesturing to the wall. “Why don’t I drill a hole , show you how this baby rolls”, I proffer, tempting a terrible fate. I place a drill bit in the mouth of the tool. This is easy, I can do this. I fire it up and start revving it like it’s an extension of my masculine prowess. I stare into her eyes as I feel the powerful vibrations racing through me. I start drilling into the wall. But it’s not drilling. It’s not even piercing the wall, let alone making a hole. What the hell is wrong? You’re a drill, now drill a damn hole already! I halt my drilling. “There we go”, I say. “You haven’t drilled anything” she says. She pulls it out of my hand, studies it briefly, clicks a switch and hands it back “The drill bit was going backwards. It needs to turn clockwise to make a hole” she says. A part of me slowly dies deep inside me. I have put the drill back in its box now where it will remain forever, a monument not to the masculine prowess I had dreamed of, but rather to a wilting attempt to align myself with the world of DIY, which has proven so successful for so many men in the past. Sadly, I am not one of them. 

© Simon Tierney 2012 

Withering at Bloom

When my mother asked me to go to Bloom with her (Ireland’s answer to the Chelsea Flower Show), I anticipated a small, quiet affair with pensioners, cake and flowers. What hits me on arrival in the Phoenix Park is something far more extreme. Hoards of hungry vegephiles. Flower junkies desperate for their next hit of horticulture. Huge teams of security to deal with the crowds. These gardening types can get out of hand very easily. Garda motorcycles career past me. The lockdown experienced during the Queen’s visit pales in comparison. Seemingly, if just one flower has their security breached it will be a national catastrophe.

My father and I are entrusted with looking after my eight year old nephew (his grandson) as my mother and sister in law go off to examine the plants. The nephew says his mum is “bonkers” about plants and “can’t stop thinking about them”. My mother is equally obsessed (she spent most of my child benefit on plants when I was growing up. I forgive her because while I didn’t have any shoes to wear as a kid, at least I had a nice garden to play in). We wave goodbye as they skip off, nattering in Latin about Golanthus Nivalis and the like. We head for the coffee tent to escape the carnage. We eat rocky road and chocolate buns, to the delight of the nephew. When he asks for another coke, I give it to him on one condition. If his mother asks what we got up to, he must tell her we went to a lecture by Gerry Daly, Ireland’s gardening Deus. My dad pipes up. “Gerry Daly? Is he not dead?” “Why would he be dead?” I say. “Well, he’s not on the telly anymore, is he?” The nephew practices his line about Gerry and then happily devours his second coke, his face now smeared from ear to ear with melted chocolate. Pensioners at the neighbouring table “tut tut” in disapproval, clearly insinuating that we are the worst caregivers in the world. I decide it might be time to go and look at some flowers but the suggestion is not received well. My Dad wants to see if he can sneak another coffee because the waitress guarding the hot drinks machine has left her post. The nephew tells me he hates flowers even more than girls. I ask him what his least favourite thing about flowers is. “Looking at them”. Now I am imagining his mother forcing him to sit in front of a flower bed for hours on end as she recites their Latin nomenclature. A sort of horticultural torture system, utilised for crimes against botany perhaps.

We’re late for our rendezvous with the mother and the sister in law. We stumble out of the coffee tent, exhausted from our feed. We’re supposed to be having a picnic now. My dad is desperate for the toilet because he has processed more coffee than Brazil this morning. The sister in law asks the nephew what we’ve been doing for the last hour. “We went to a lecture by Tess Daly” he says proudly. “Gerry” I whisper. “And Gerry. Tess and Gerry Daly” he says, as I vigorously rub the chocolate face-mask off his head using metholated spirits and a wire brush. How can children not feel when their faces are covered in food? Does it not feel uncomfortable? I never understood that.

© Simon Tierney 2012

The Dark Side of Fruit and Vegetables

 Simon Tierney shares a near death experience...

Two months ago I went on a health drive. I had never done this before. I was about to be 29 and I had become used to feeling “grand”: the Irishman’s answer to any inquiry about his health. An Irishman could be stretched out on a road, having been run over by a large bus and would still tell the panicking paramedics that he is “grand”. It turned out “grand” wasn’t sufficient for me anymore. I wanted to feel fantastic again.

I was aware of the incessant promulgating of the famous “5 fruit and veg”malarkey. I set about making a plan to eat five portions of fruit and veg per week. I bought two bananas, a bag of salad and two kiwis. While espousing my lofty ambitions on the subject, my friend informed me that the requirement was five fruit and veg per day. This thwarted my plans completely. How could one possibly achieve such a goal? Surely that much can’t be good for you? Would I not experience abdominal failure? Would I change colour? Where would I find time to do other things or would my days be consumed with the constant processing of vegetation?

I returned to the shop and bought twelve more bananas, eight more kiwis, three more bags of salad and several punnets of blackcurrants. My kitchen now resembled the Garden of Eden. Stepping through the door was like entering the rainforest. Monkeys started to develop a habitat in my banana grove. I could hear birds chirping as they grazed on my blackcurrants. The transformation of my kitchen from a haven of batter and frozen food treats to vegetal paradise was unnerving at first but I soon got used to it. The fruit affected me. Slowly it began to change me. I became a sort of mother-earth figure, welcoming guests to my flat by first asking them to remove their shoes and then offering them a banana smoothie served in a large conical-shaped leaf. I began to speak more slowly and played Enya on my stereo. After several weeks I abandoned electricity and used only dim candle light. I wore only a loin cloth. I stopped showering. Instead, I squeezed oranges over my body to purify the soul rather than preoccupy my mind with trivialities like cleanliness. I changed my name to Brother.

 After several weeks of my new life I began to notice some worrying physical developments. I was examining my reflection in a puddle of water, when I noticed my skin had developed a very fine layer of fur, just like a peach. My hair had developed sharp spikes, just like a bramble bush. My fingers were beginning to flake. I picked at my index finger and realised that I could peel a layer from it. Underneath the surface was a sticky substance. I licked it. It tasted sweet. I bit into it and chewed the honeyed fabric of my hand. It tasted delicious and I could not stop eating myself. Suddenly both my hands had been consumed and I had started on my left leg, which tasted like passion fruit: moist and juicy. Then I passed out.  

I woke up in a hospital several days later with a drip attached to my body and bandages around my amputated limbs. The doctor told me that I had a severe case of FADS. This is a condition that I had never heard about before. Five a Day Syndrome affects one in a thousand people and involves the extremely dangerous obsessional behaviour associated with the consumption of fruit and vegetables. The doctor informed me that I was a very lucky man because a few days more without treatment and I would indeed have become a fully formed piece of fruit. As it is, I will now live the rest of my life with a right foot which contains not bones, blood and human flesh but rather seeds, omega 3 fatty acids and calcium oxalate. I bruise easily.  

I intend to make it my life’s work to raise awareness of FADS. I am the man responsible for National FADS Day (July 21st), when we will be handing out oranges, stuffed with human flesh as a sort of controversial campaign to edify the public about the dangers of fruit. I am also hoping to conteract Jamie Oliver’s Schools Campaign by running workshops with 5-11 year olds where we will attempt to teach them about the dangers of fruit and vegetable consumption and how they can be replaced with alternatives such as chocolate and burgers.

If you are interested in FADS, please watch my documentary on RTE (July 12th, 8pm). In this programme, I visit the Central FADS Clinic in Dun Laoghaire where I meet a number of human vegetables, including a pear, an avocado (people who eat avacadoes are very prone to FADS) and a lemon who is particularly bitter about his experiences. Of particular interest is the special case of a woman who turned into a melon and then exploded when she was put next to a radiator. She is putting her life back together piece by piece.

If you are a vegetable or any of your family are vegetables, follow us on Twitter...@humanvegetable

FADS – The Delicious Killer, RTE, June 12th, 8pm

National FADS Day – June 21st 2012

Lost in Ikea - the last great challenge for mankind

                                   Ikea: the last landmass to be conquered by mankind

Last week my friend Kate and I got lost in Ikea. We had managed to traverse the highlands of bedroom interiors and had even scaled the heights of the kitchen units section with great success. Suddenly we found ourselves in deluxe bathrooms and panic struck. We had meandered off the designated trail and found ourselves in an unfamiliar world of bidets and Swedish shower heads. With the help of the GPS on my phone, we eventually made our way back to the designated trail, clothes torn, hungry and bodies trembling. They say that Antarctica was the last great land mass to be conquered by man. Last year we celebrated the achievements of Roald Amundsen and Captain Scott. These were indeed great men but what about the first man to conquer Ikea? Why do we not celebrate this arguably more impressive feat? Why do people not say they are walking the “Ikea Trail” for charity? I would happily give money to someone who set themselves such a grave challenge. For too long these brave Ikea adventurers have been overlooked. Having seen the scale of the challenge, I will now make it my life’s task to raise awareness of the perils of Ikea and to highlight the magnificent achievements of those who have conquered her successfully.

Ikea, the world’s largest furniture retailer, has one store in Ireland. Its lack of ubiquity is compensated for by the sheer size of the Ballymun premises. To call it a shop is like calling Australia an island. Sure, Australia is an island but the term doesn’t really express the enormity of the experience. Equally, I’d rather call Ikea a “destination” or a “resort” rather than a shop. I have never heard anybody say they are going to “pop into” Ikea, because that is impossible. The resort is designed in a way which does not allow for “popping into”. Rather, the customer must set aside vast tracts of time in order to navigate around the carefully laid out maze which one has no choice but to tackle, just in order to find the exit. This maze is known to Ikea staff as the “Long and Natural Path”. This somewhat celestial name suggests white light and the promise of eternal life but alas, that was not the case in my terrifying experience. The maze takes you through every conceivable aspect of the home, with the intention of luring you into buying as much as possible. Kate and I had heard about this maze before we arrived and had strong intentions of not allowing ourselves to be sucked into the beautiful displays and show rooms. No! We would be steadfast in our pursuit of three items: a bed, a sieve and a couch for my new flat. This was the list and nothing would steer us off our course. Oh dear.

522 million people visited an Ikea store in 2011. With this number of customers, the company clearly has its business model very well oiled. One can tell this immediately on entering its unforgivably yellow gates. As we approached the entrance to the maze on the first floor, I began to sweat. I could see the crowds. I felt like I was entering Jurassic Park: excited but nervous that I might die. We followed the trail of the maze, being careful to keep with the crowds. We knew if we strayed off that we may never get back on the trail again. Once we arrived at the Greater Couches Area, we had begun to loosen up. This isn’t so bad. We can do this. Our confidence had built. We tried some couches for comfort and we even took a note of the reference number of the one I wanted. Easy. By the time we got to the Kitchenware Province we were like old hands, regularly separating from each other and going off-piste into the Swedish wilderness. Our initial intention of sticking to our concise three-point shopping list had been overruled as we began to snatch at items which seemed to be such a bargain that it would be “a shame” not to use the trip to pick them up.  A Skoghall laundry basket for €5.07, yes! A Vaggis notice board for €3.95, have to have it! Soon we were throwing things in the trolley whose actual function was unknown, but they just looked so shiny. And, sure, it’s a bargain, forgetting that all these little bargains add up to a bill so large that a puffin would be proud to call one its own. At one point I saw Kate scrambling in a bargain basket for the last two-pack of toilet brushes. “Kate, you don’t need toilet brushes”. “I have to have them, they’re so cheap. The opportunity is too magnificent”, she cried. I tackled her to the floor, and began tearing her grip from the beautiful red toilet brush. “Kate, you have to let it go! I know it’s hard but we must be strong!” Her talons loosened and I lifted her shaking body away from the Toilet Accessories Region. I carried her in my arms. She mumbled something inaudible. “Yes, we are lost, but we will find our way out. Trust me”, I said as I carried her through the undergrowth of endless shower curtains and bathroom storage units. She was a broken woman. Ikea had defeated her but I had to be strong. One of us had to be strong. Otherwise all would be lost. I didn’t want to have to camp and sunset was fast approaching as we saw the millions of show lights slowly being extinguished on the horizon.

Happily my GPS came to our rescue and after foraging for leftovers in a bin, we eventually stumbled across an Ikea Park Ranger who happened to be doing one last sweep of the territory before locking the gates. A foil towel was wrapped around Kate. We had survived. Sure, we had been through something I never want my children to experience but we had survived. And we even had the couch, sieve and bed we came in for. 

© Simon Tierney 2012

The Irish chat show is exhausted

Gay Byrne, the original presenter of The Late Late Show

When The Late Late Show premiered in July 1962 it revolutionised Irish television, becoming an important catalyst for social change in this country. It is the longest running chat show in the world. Its format has been little changed in its fifty year history. Its record-breaking run has become one of the reasons to keep it alive, perhaps the reason why it hasn’t changed. The evolution of the Irish chat show is being suffocated. Now, change is required.

Ireland’s main chat shows, The Late Late Show, The Saturday Night Show and Craig Doyle Live, struggle when compared with their British equivalents. Up until recently, Michael Parkinson hosted his highly successful brand of chat and light entertainment on BBC and subsequently, ITV. Many people have compared The Late Late Show to Parkinson’s format. However, there was always a significant difference. While Parkinson’s programme usually maintained a light touch, The Late Late Show continues to straddle a fine line between celebrity guests and the controversial social issues of the day. It is this mix that The Late Late Show struggles with the most. While its original incumbent, Gay Byrne, usually managed to deal with the demands of such a heady mix, neither of his successors have had those capabilities. Hosting The Late Late Show is an almost impossible task because it requires a wit and a sense of fun on the one hand and then it requires deep penetrative skills the next. An amusing interview with Dylan Moran could suddenly segue into a panel discussion on abortion. I used to think that its current malaise was entirely due to its host, but it is not. It is the format that is to blame. It is trying to be all things to everyone. It needs an overhaul.

In British television, there is a clear separation between the light, celebrity-driven chat show and the more political and social, issues-based show. Newsnight, Question Time and other similar formats deal with the latter while Graham Norton, Jonathan Ross, Alan Carr and others deal with the former. What do these three names have in common? They all host highly successful chat shows on BBC, ITV and Channel 4, respectively. They are also all professional comedians, with backgrounds in either TV comedy or stand–up. Their pedigree is rooted in the strongly honed skills of making people laugh. The main reason for the success of this British model is the fact that their employers have invested in a particular type of host- the comedian. Not only are their opening monologues witty and entertaining but they are also sharp and at ease with their guests. They know how to banter. They are skilled at dealing with potentially awkward or difficult guests having had to face hecklers on tour in their earlier careers. People watch these British chat shows as much to see and enjoy the hosts as to see their guests. The Irish equivalent of Alan Carr’s National Television Award winning show, Chatty Man, is Craig Doyle Live. They are both intimate, small studio shows. While Carr, a professional stand-up, is consistently and reliably funny, easygoing and at ease with the task at hand, Craig Doyle is in a constant battle with himself in front of the camera. He is not just ill at ease but he is transparently contrived in the way he approaches his subjects. He tees up his jokes about an hour before telling them and has little natural flair. The irony is that the format of his show is crying out for a host like Norton or Carr. At present it is suffocating and stifled. In last Tuesday’s show, Doyle was accompanied by his panellists, Mareid Farrell and Eric Lalor. They were desperately attempting to cast their witticisms on the week’s topics of interest to little avail. Their remarks sounded wooden and scripted. At one point, Lalor was even reading out his jokes from his notepad. The comedy was forced as opposed to arising naturally from the material itself. It is this lack of symmetry between the hosts, the guests and the material that jars. When Doyle tries to be cutting edge and approaches topics like sex and male grooming, he sounds stilted and it is embarrassing to watch. The material he is being asked to handle requires a professional comedian.

There is an interesting contrast to be drawn between Ryan Tubridy’s recent interview with Cuba Gooding Jr and Graham Norton’s interview with the same man during the same week on BBC One. Gooding Jr is a famously boisterous and colourful chat show guest. He requires a confident and sharp interviewer to deal with him. Tubridy was completely in over his head while Norton handled him deftly, helped by the format of his show which has all the guests on at once, thereby alleviating the pressure of a one-on-one interview. Equally embarrassing was his recent interview with Mia Farrow. His uncomfortable line of questioning led the actress to tweet afterwards that he was “not very gracious’.

While the viewing figures are still high for The Late Late Show, one wonders if its demographic is rapidly ageing. If Irish television wishes to rescue the ailing chat show it needs to take some audacious steps in the direction of the British model. Firstly, it needs to decide what it wants to be. The Late Late Show is currently trying to be everything to everybody. It needs to throw off the shackles of being “Ireland’s voice” and concentrate on a new identity. While the Saturday Night Show has a slightly clearer sense of its intentions, it suffers from the shortcomings of its format. The one-on-one interview style in light entertainment has become redundant. The second overhaul that these two shows need is a change of hosts. If RTE wants cracking and energetic programming it needs to hire professional comedians. We are aware of RTE’s financial woes. However, resources need to be relocated in order to make Irish exports such as Dara O’Briain an offer they cannot refuse. This country has such a wealth of Irish comic talent which RTE seems to be happy to send packing off to the UK where their television networks quickly pick them up. This attitude has been typical of RTE over the years, most notably when it shrugged off Graham Linehan’s and Arthur Matthew’s Father Ted. Channel Four came along and made a fortune out of it. RTE’s commissioning of shows like The Savage Eye is to be encouraged but these opportunities need to be afforded to their chat show formats too.

The time has come for Irish television to recognise three things- the success of the British chat show needs to be replicated here and we need to invest in our home-grown comedy talent rather than exporting it. Finally, and most importantly, we need to match the material to the host. This can only happen once the television network has a clear sense of the identity and intentions of its chat shows. 

© Simon Tierney 2012