Odd as it might seem for a boy from Ballyfermot to evoke comparisons with the poet laureate of British imperial ardour, there really are times when Joe Duffy’s on-air persona calls to mind the spirit of Rudyard Kipling.
Certainly, Duffy's role as sighing adjudicator in the fractious small-claims court of national grievances that is Liveline (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays) can stir up the famous lines from If, Kipling's ode to stiff-upper-lip paternalism. You know, "If you can keep your head when all about you / Are losing theirs and blaming it on you", then yours is the earth, or radio stardom at least.
On Tuesday Duffy needs every reserve of calm as the show’s titular line goes, well, dead. The programme starts promisingly. Duffy speaks to a woman from Ringsend, in Dublin, who candidly admits to being part of a group of 50-odd “concerned parents” who chased down a convicted child rapist living in the area (with Garda knowledge) and beat him up.
By way of mitigation the woman says that “only three or four men” jumped on the 6ft 6in “monster” whose name and photograph had been published in the tabloids.
With the troubling but reliably audience-arresting topics of paedophilia and vigilante justice on the agenda, the Liveline equivalent of a Lotto jackpot beckons.
But with the metaphorical winning sixth ball about to fall, things start to go awry.
The ensuing chaos recalls another line from Kipling’s poem, about being able to “meet with Triumph and Disaster / And treat those two impostors just the same”.
As long silences ensue between Duffy’s questions and his caller’s answers, the presenter mutters about problems with the studio’s phone system. Soon he has to abandon the item: the line fails completely.
The prospect of Duffy having to talk to himself looms, but help comes in the form of Philip Boucher-Hayes, the reporter and occasional Liveline host, who discusses a story on lead water pipes due to feature on Drivetime (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays).
Apart from occasional references to the supposed "jinx" that has befallen the show's phone lines, Duffy sounds unruffled as he resorts to ever more desperate measures. He dragoons in another Drivetime reporter, Fergal Keane, to talk about the IBRC commission of investigation. He even plays a song by The Corrs, a measure so drastic it makes a discussion on vigilante violence suddenly seem appealing.
Eventually Duffy bows to the inevitable and ends the show, apologising that he has to "clear the studio" for engineers to fix the gremlins. The rest of the slot is filled with oldies, starting with Good Vibrations, which seems like a cruel in-joke.
While the technical turmoil yields an unintentionally classic edition of Liveline, it also allows Duffy to remind listeners of his professionalism. The odd hint of tetchiness aside, Duffy handles the farcical situation with the same indulgent equanimity he affords his more deranged callers.
All of which makes his reaction the following day all the odder, as Duffy launches into Wednesday’s show without any acknowledgment of the previous afternoon’s pantomime.
To coin some sub-Kipling doggerel, if you can act as though nothing went wrong, then all will be forgotten by the throng. Though maybe not.
Duffy’s station colleague Ray D’Arcy increasingly sounds as if he could benefit from a similar mishap, if only to inject some excitement into The Ray D’Arcy Show (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays).
Since leaving the populist corridors of Today FM and the zingy bear pit of morning chatshows for the quieter environs of afternoon radio, D'Arcy has given off an uncharacteristically lethargic air.
Whether it is down to the shorter slot or more limited scope for audience interaction, D’Arcy’s new berth too often lacks the crackle of yore. His softball interview with the Ireland rugby player Peter Stringer about his forthcoming wedding encapsulates this lack of vitality, as does his ongoing irritation whenever he introduces the 3.30pm nuacht bulletin, as though it is an unwarranted intrusion into his personal space.
Otherwise the show is marked by material such as his talk with the Apollo astronaut Al Worden: diverting fluff, but missing any trace of relevance.
D’Arcy rediscovers his vim on Tuesday, triggered by one of his perennial bugbears. Talking to Colm O’Gorman of Amnesty International about the human-rights organisation’s critical report on Ireland’s abortion laws, which condemns the criminalisation of women seeking terminations, D’Arcy makes little attempt to hide his personal views.
Reading the report, he says, “made me very angry”, as successive governments “have done nothing” to address the problem that “our laws contravene basic human rights”.
His indignation is clear as he quotes passages from the report, freely uttering the expletives included in the testimony of those interviewed. O’Gorman frames the situation succinctly: by not conforming to basic international human-rights standards on abortion provision “we’re not respecting the law we agreed to respect”.
To hear D’Arcy approach such a divisive issue with an unabashed personal fervour is invigorating. Being so vocal is a throwback to his old self, setting himself apart from the bulk of his RTÉ compatriots. It’s a reminder that Ray D’Arcy is a potent presence if he’s moved by an item. But these days that seems a pretty big if.
Moment of the Week: Dogged faith
On Morning Ireland (RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays), Cian McCormack travels around the country’s shrines, reporting, illuminatingly, on today’s religious belief or lack thereof. Visiting Knock, he talks to one woman about the age of the pilgrims. “If you look around it’s all old people – the youth have given up religion mostly,” she says, adding that many of her own family no longer attend church. “My own little dog would come quicker than some of them,” she says ruefully.
radioreview@irishtimes.com
