Just as faraway hills are greener, some things begin to lose their glamorous aura at closer quarters. Listening to the Documentary On One: The Beach Boys of Rossnowlagh (RTÉ Radio 1, Saturday), the sun-kissed sea and sand associated with surfing fade from the imagination when the sport is transplanted from the California coastline to the rugged shores of north-west Ireland. It's unlikely that the music of the real Beach Boys would evoke the same carefree images of blue waves and bronzed bodies if, instead of Surfin' USA, they sang about surfin' Donegal Bay.
As the Britton brothers – Brian, Conor, Barry and Willie – describe how they first took to the waves in 1960s Donegal on surfboards brought back from a Bord Fáilte trade trip to the US by their hotelier mother, they recall wearing Aran jumpers and football jerseys to insulate themselves from the cold Atlantic swells. Unsurprisingly, their makeshift beachwear didn’t work. “We just foundered.” You had to be made of sturdy stuff to be an Irish surfer in those days.
This is just one of the enjoyable vignettes from Marc McMenamin’s pleasing documentary, which tells how the Brittons helped transform their eccentric pastime into a nationally-organised competitive sport. The improvisation that marked those early days is an evocative reminder of the pre-Internet age, when information was sparse and resources, such as wetsuits, were at a premium. Gradually, the Brittons built up a network of like-minded fanatics throughout the land, staging national championships that straddled the Border even as the Troubles raged.
The boys’ mother, Mary, may have inadvertently introduced them to surfing – she originally intended the boards to be used by guests – but took a dim view of the passion that turned her sons into what Barry calls “a bunch of beach bums”.
Meanwhile, fraternal fissures emerged. While the elder brothers organised competitions, the younger siblings hated the idea of surfing being judged – “codology”, in Barry’s eyes. Tensions came to a head when the 1979 Irish surfing championships were sponsored by a brand of vodka, causing the self-styled “black wetsuit brigade” led by Barry to protest against the event. Brian even recalls coming to blows with Barry on the matter.
In truth, it was a minor squall rather than a fratricidal split, which slightly deflates the documentary’s dramatic premise that surfing “almost drove the brothers apart”. Realising their relationship was more important than sport, they merely resolved not to discuss it any more.
The programme is much better as an affectionate portrait of four men whose hobby became a lifelong obsession, one which they’ve passed down the generations: Barry’s daughter Easkey is an internationally successful surfer, a “contest machine”, in her father’s ruefully admiring words. By the time we hear the brothers reunited on the Donegal waves for the first time in more than 20 years, Irish surfing has taken on an unlikely romance of its own.
Another niche sport comes under the spotlight on Tubridy (2FM, weekdays) when Ryan Tubridy interviews Gabby McDonald, a Tallaght woman who has been making a name for herself in the world of drag racing. It's an offbeat story, but it's more notable for Tubridy's curious asides. While the host is warm and enthusiastic with his guest – hearing that the races last four seconds, he joshes McDonald that it is "the world's laziest sport" – he also uses the subject to gripe about his peeve du jour, namely the media attention on the lack of female Fine Gael TDs appointed as junior ministers.
Having won the British junior championship in the unisex sport, McDonald says female drag racers are respected by their male counterparts, an observation that Tubridy seizes on. “If you’re good, you get the job,” he says. “It’s a bit unlike the cabinet, in the sense that we should be talking about your ability rather than your gender.” It’s a jarring outburst, all the more so given Tubridy has earlier commented favourably on McDonald’s looks, something he doesn’t usually do with male guests.
The host has already given his “tuppence ha’penny worth” on the junior minister issue, again saying that the focus should be on the ability of those chosen rather than the dearth of female appointees. “It’s not an anti-women thing, it’s a pro-calibre thing,” says Tubridy, which suggests he thinks it fine that half of the population should be entirely excluded at this level.
In a way, it's a refreshing bout of candour from Tubridy, who is barracked for being bland, but is often more wittily opinionated than he is given credit for. (He describes the anti-social elements on O'Connell Street as resembling "Adam and Paul meets Love/Hate – and that's not good.") But taken alongside his item on Miss Ireland contestant Laura McCormack, or his correcting himself after describing a woman as "a girl" by instead calling her "a lady", his grumbling gives off an unfortunately retrograde impression. It's a shame, as Tubridy normally comes across as more empathetic and engaged with women than the majority of his male peers on daytime radio. In this instance, however, he risks souring his appeal.
Moment of the week: Seeing double
Following the final, definitive, we-mean-it-this-time cancellation of Garth Brooks's Croke Park concerts, Fine Gael TD John O'Mahony talks to Matt Cooper on The Last Word (Today FM, weekdays), revealing he had tickets for one of the shows. "I'm disappointed it's not happening," he says. "I'm just two of the 400,000 people." The royal "we" is one thing, but clearly the going rate in Dáil circles is one TD for two normal people.
