Tooraloo ladies, touch me magical charms and I'll show you me pot o'gold!
I wondered what had happened to him? Perhaps Seóige had eaten him? She certainly seemed capable of it. Would she be sitting in his dessicated remains, sucking the last droplet of glimmering leprechán sweat out of his papery skull while asking Twink about the menopause in a dead Galway monotone?
It was worse. O'Shea had been replaced by another Seóige. TWO SEÓIGES, sitting side-by-side on the studio couch, like a pair of Austin Powers fembots, grilling Larry Gogan with about as much chemistry and fizz as a half a dispirin dropped into a puddle of catpiss. I watched in horror, riveted. I could see poor Larry's thin hair rustling in the wind-tunnel of the combined boom of two Seóiges' voices operating in tandem. Glued uncomfortably together at the hip (by some sick RTE executive with a double Seóige fantasy no doubt) they traded weakly scripted jokes and honked fake donkey laughs at the risible puns.
Example:
Little Seóige-"of course, you'll be more familiar with Larry's radio show than me. Because...you're so much older!"
Big Seóige (looking at her like she is going to shoot her to death with one of the retractable guns in her robotic tits)-"HONK HONK HONK! HONK ALL ROUND!"
Larry-"Don't eat me."
Did I mention how close together they were on the couch? They were attached. Like siamese twins. My sister's succinct verdict? "It's a bit weird". No shit sister sherlock, it is the weirdest fucking thing I've seen on RTE in a long time. I mean, why are they so close together if not to tickle the "tag-team Seóige" fantasy so beloved of every wild, masturbating bachelor swinging off a rusty gate in Tuam? Are RTE hoping there will be more sexual tension between them than there was when O'Shea lurked on the couch, face twinkling away and an enormous erection in his pants? All I know is I would shit my pants being interviewed by these two. They freak the fuck out of me. The show itself is drivel of course, muck of the worst RTE hue, albeit with a sinister air of discomfort and dread. I mean, put one Seóige in a blonde wig and you have your next David Lynch film right there. It's that fucking weird.
MP3: Bobby Vinton-Blue Velvet
My next blog is going to be weird too. It's going to be about sleep paralysis.
10/9/08
The wasteland...
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There's a new show on RTE called Seóige. I switched over to it because I remember it used to be called Seóige and O'Shea, on account that it featured that sinisterly overgrown Corkonian leprechán, crinkle-faced O'Shea.
Tooraloo ladies, touch me magical charms and I'll show you me pot o'gold!
I wondered what had happened to him? Perhaps Seóige had eaten him? She certainly seemed capable of it. Would she be sitting in his dessicated remains, sucking the last droplet of glimmering leprechán sweat out of his papery skull while asking Twink about the menopause in a dead Galway monotone?
It was worse. O'Shea had been replaced by another Seóige. TWO SEÓIGES, sitting side-by-side on the studio couch, like a pair of Austin Powers fembots, grilling Larry Gogan with about as much chemistry and fizz as a half a dispirin dropped into a puddle of catpiss. I watched in horror, riveted. I could see poor Larry's thin hair rustling in the wind-tunnel of the combined boom of two Seóiges' voices operating in tandem. Glued uncomfortably together at the hip (by some sick RTE executive with a double Seóige fantasy no doubt) they traded weakly scripted jokes and honked fake donkey laughs at the risible puns.
Example:
Little Seóige-"of course, you'll be more familiar with Larry's radio show than me. Because...you're so much older!"
Big Seóige (looking at her like she is going to shoot her to death with one of the retractable guns in her robotic tits)-"HONK HONK HONK! HONK ALL ROUND!"
Larry-"Don't eat me."
Did I mention how close together they were on the couch? They were attached. Like siamese twins. My sister's succinct verdict? "It's a bit weird". No shit sister sherlock, it is the weirdest fucking thing I've seen on RTE in a long time. I mean, why are they so close together if not to tickle the "tag-team Seóige" fantasy so beloved of every wild, masturbating bachelor swinging off a rusty gate in Tuam? Are RTE hoping there will be more sexual tension between them than there was when O'Shea lurked on the couch, face twinkling away and an enormous erection in his pants? All I know is I would shit my pants being interviewed by these two. They freak the fuck out of me. The show itself is drivel of course, muck of the worst RTE hue, albeit with a sinister air of discomfort and dread. I mean, put one Seóige in a blonde wig and you have your next David Lynch film right there. It's that fucking weird.
MP3: Bobby Vinton-Blue Velvet
My next blog is going to be weird too. It's going to be about sleep paralysis.
Tooraloo ladies, touch me magical charms and I'll show you me pot o'gold!
I wondered what had happened to him? Perhaps Seóige had eaten him? She certainly seemed capable of it. Would she be sitting in his dessicated remains, sucking the last droplet of glimmering leprechán sweat out of his papery skull while asking Twink about the menopause in a dead Galway monotone?
It was worse. O'Shea had been replaced by another Seóige. TWO SEÓIGES, sitting side-by-side on the studio couch, like a pair of Austin Powers fembots, grilling Larry Gogan with about as much chemistry and fizz as a half a dispirin dropped into a puddle of catpiss. I watched in horror, riveted. I could see poor Larry's thin hair rustling in the wind-tunnel of the combined boom of two Seóiges' voices operating in tandem. Glued uncomfortably together at the hip (by some sick RTE executive with a double Seóige fantasy no doubt) they traded weakly scripted jokes and honked fake donkey laughs at the risible puns.
Example:
Little Seóige-"of course, you'll be more familiar with Larry's radio show than me. Because...you're so much older!"
Big Seóige (looking at her like she is going to shoot her to death with one of the retractable guns in her robotic tits)-"HONK HONK HONK! HONK ALL ROUND!"
Larry-"Don't eat me."
Did I mention how close together they were on the couch? They were attached. Like siamese twins. My sister's succinct verdict? "It's a bit weird". No shit sister sherlock, it is the weirdest fucking thing I've seen on RTE in a long time. I mean, why are they so close together if not to tickle the "tag-team Seóige" fantasy so beloved of every wild, masturbating bachelor swinging off a rusty gate in Tuam? Are RTE hoping there will be more sexual tension between them than there was when O'Shea lurked on the couch, face twinkling away and an enormous erection in his pants? All I know is I would shit my pants being interviewed by these two. They freak the fuck out of me. The show itself is drivel of course, muck of the worst RTE hue, albeit with a sinister air of discomfort and dread. I mean, put one Seóige in a blonde wig and you have your next David Lynch film right there. It's that fucking weird.
MP3: Bobby Vinton-Blue Velvet
My next blog is going to be weird too. It's going to be about sleep paralysis.
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9 comments:
Brilliant, I'm in stitches here. I can't say I've had the pleasure of watching tandem Seoige on Seoige action but the older one certainly came across as a bit scary on TV3. What is it with Irish chat shows? For a nation supposedly gifted with the gab, we've produced Kenny, Tubridy and now these.
Ive had some really freaky occasions of sleep paralysis - terrifying! Did you see the old lady?
Yes I would. But I concur, between splurts and giggles. That there was some funny writin'. I don't have much to go on here (except that time when she was on The Panel) but Big Seoige strikes me as a blasted conservative - maybe I'm wrong on that count. Although I could never stay on the channel when that tremendous cunt O'Shea was on, so I never got a chance to get a real sense of her, other than to observe that I certainly would, if she asked nicely.
That hoor Fergus Gibson was on the couch the other day. Merciful hour. The interview was telling - it transpired that, having been encouraged by his father to use crystal balls and tarot cards on a regular basis, he suddenly discovered the ability to see other kids' "auras"! Oh yes. He mentioned a classmate whose aura glowed black - the next day, who'd have thought it, the boy had expired. Typical retrospective, revisionist storytelling from yet another hideous fraud. "Sure didn't I tell you he was going to die?" "Eh...no, shut up now Fergus, stop that talk, you're at a funeral."
I had the good fortune to get a tour of TG4 last summer, and the female staff looked like billionaire debutantes. It was like an episode of "The Hills", set in a regional, minority-interest language station's headquarters. (That's not to knock the mother tongue; I'm a fluent Irish speaker and it's fierce important dontcha know, etc)
Ryan Turgidy, though - what the fuck? Can he please die already?
Fergus Gibson?? Yikes forgot about that particular grotesque blast from the past Ape. Wasn't he a poor man's Russell Grant? All decked out in a star-spangled mumu like his English counterpart. I remember he had these huge bottle top spectacles. Maybe the way the light refracted off their wonky lenses helped create the 'auras'. Sometimes smoking a bit of crack will put you in touch with an aura too.
Ronan- yep I will be talking about the old lady, the hag. Many's the sweaty night she or one of her nocturnal cronies have lingered too near my frigid face.
mytopfive-Remember the Daniel O'Donnell chat show? That was the best of all!
Heh heh, brilliant stuff. I can't even bear twenty seconds of that programme. It confuses me on a profound level.
"about as much chemistry and fizz as a half a dispirin dropped into a puddle of catpiss.about as much chemistry and fizz as a half a dispirin dropped into a puddle of catpiss."
I'd say that would be fizzy enough.What do you expect from rte daytime tv? RTE probably think they've struck programming gold with all the stay at home mammies. I wonder what average modern mammy thinks about it...
Ahhh Fergus Gibson. One of my highlights of coming home after school and getting me horrorscopes on Live at 3.
lauren, yeah 20 seconds is too much. Bring back live at 3!
rrright, the average modern mammy thinks about me coming around to fix the washing machine.
Lolo, horrorscopes? Yikes I wouldn't want me horrorscope read. Especially not be the eminently creepy mr gibson.
Apparently he did a session with David Bowie before his gig in the point and read his aura or some equally naff labyrinth shit.
Good enough for Bowie, good enough for me!
Speaking of labyrinth randomly I just realized there are two electronic acts called Daedalus and Minotaur Shock. And both are playing here soon. :O
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