All home improvement programmes are terrible, but Irish ones just seem to go one step further in awfulness, for some reason, and I can’t figure out why. Is it because they come from RTE-land. Is that it? Maybe that’s the reason Irish home-improvement programmes are shite.
What the fuck is going on in RTE-land, anyway, and indeed what the fuck is going on in media-land as a whole? You can’t open a paper or turn on the telly without some twat telling you about the latest Flinkenberger cooker for 18,000 euros, or a door-mat for only three grand.
So, tell me Sorcha, how much was that divine fitting you have on the wall, there – what do you call it? Mm-hmmm?
That’s called a shelf, Fiachra, and you can get them now in the Shelf Shop in Dalkey for only nine hundred euros.
Only nine hundred, Sorcha? Isn’t that great?
Isn’t it, Fiachra? Just great, and it’s solid chipboard, y’know?
Oh yes, Fiachra. But if you really want to splurge, why not call to Ankkinhainenanenenanenakkuinheainens Interiors in Blackrock?
Ankkinhainenanenenanenakkuinheainens you say?
That’s right, Fiachra. Ankkinhainenanenenanenakkuinheainens of Blackrock. They do the latest in Finnish shelf design. For only twelve hundred euros, you can get a shelf nearly two feet long and it’s made almost entirely of real wood!
Get away, Sorcha!
No, Fiachra. It’s true!
That’s the kind of shite we have to put up with night and day lately, but the worst wanker of them all has to be Duncan Stewart.
I made the mistake of switching on the telly this evening before heading out to my pub of choice, and there he was, the smarmy git, slithering into somebody’s half-built house with all his slimy blather.
Oh, hello there, Declan and Nuala. Is the kettle on?
Ah!, shout the two stiffs, obviously terrified, Hello Duncan. We didn’t see ya comin’.
(Which, you have to admit, is fucking incredible, considering he brought an entire television crew in two forty-foot articulated trucks).
So tell me, Nuala, says Duncan, what have you done since our last visit?
Now that’s an opportunity for most sane people to reply, Well we got rid of you for a start, Duncan, you mad cunt.
But no. Instead, they show the mad bastard around their half-finished house while he points out things that would be painfully obvious to a retarded underpants.
Ah, right, Declan. That’s the roof, isn’t it?
‘Tis, Duncan, you daft bastard.
And Nuala, if I’m not mistaken, that’s the floor. Good choice of location for a floor, Nuala. Down low. Very good.
That’s right, Duncan, you insane fucker. When are you going to fuck off out of our half-built house?
That wouldn’t be too bad, if he’d just leave it with the tea and the bikkies and Declan and Nuala and all that shit, but no. He can’t. Instead, he had to have a make-over.
Aw fuck off, you’re joking!
I’m fucking not. I wish I was.
More Dublin fuckers. Come here a minute: is everybody in Dublin paid about forty-two times the wages of the rest of the country? I only ask that because firstly, RTE is concerned only with Dublin people (I know some of the rest of us pay the TV licence, but when has that ever been an issue?) and secondly, it seems to me from watching these programmes that everybody has a favourite little place in Dun Laoghaire where you can pick up a piece of ORT for about twice my annual salary.
Oh dear God!!
Tonight, they had two designers doing a make-over of a high-end property. (Note to outside-Dublin-people: a high-end property in Dublin is anything with its own toilet and more than one bedroom).
The guy was as gay as a badger, which is ok with me, except to ask, are there any straight interior designers in RTE-land? Never mind. He was a nice enough guy, and I liked what he did with the house.
The girl was going to do a house based on Feng Shui.
What the fuck is this Feng Shui thing? Question number uno. Why do these fuckers insist on saying Feng Shway? Why? If the Chinese pronounce if Feng Shway, why do we write it to rhyme with Chop Suey? The Chinese don’t write Feng Shui. We do.
Anyway, this woman is laying out chairs and tables , and you know, I can agree with a lot of the principles of Feng Shui. I don’t much like clutter either, though it takes me several years to tidy any room that’s gone a bit messy. So there we are laying the whole thing out nice and easy and airy and feelgood, until the woman utters the dreaded E-word.
Shock. Anger. Offence.
What might the E-word be?
What? Oh, sorry. That word is energy.
They say “energy” like they know what they’re talking about. Even worse, they say “energies”.
Your woman says, Oh, I like to choose different woods for the different units: it helps to offset the energies of the room.
Eh? Explain that. Define energies you empty-headed, superficial twit.
Wasting your time asking. These gobshites have no idea what they’re talking about.
And then the big poncing gobshite Duncan chimes in:
The energy of the room.
There they are, all dressed in reflective jackets and helmets like they’re building the Eiffel Tower, and what are they really doing? Decorating a house, that’s all. Decorating a fucking house!
That’s RTE-land for you