When we were in our early teens and living in two-channel land, like the majority of Irish households, we faithfully watched The Late Late Show on Saturday nights, not Fridays as it is now.
This often proved embarrassing, especially when the topic for debate was of a sexual nature, prompting my father to take leave for a quick pint in the local pub.
Nonetheless, the younger members of the household found the most cringeworthy aspect of the programme to be the part when the presenter Gay Byrne would chat to members of the audience who wished to say hello to the folks at home.
We found this to be embarrassing in the extreme, particularly for the unfortunate relatives of those seated near or behind the chosen few who tried to “get in on the act” with pathetic waving, mouthing of names and even the odd banner thrown in for good measure. Oh the horror.
My mother was quick to take this on board, and she and my father began to drop hints about a friend who had got a job in RTÉ. This mysterious friend was now a source of tickets to The Late Late Show.
The worst threat my parents wielded was their new-found power to go on The Late Late Show and wave frantically at the camera at every possible opportunity, say hello to their children back home and name and totally shame the lot of us.
That we were model teenagers, well-behaved, polite and studious was a credit to well-honed parenting skills and to the constant and ever-present threat of Late Late Show mortification.
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