Sadly, this week's Fantasy TV Review has been written very much under a cloud. On Tuesday, I received a message from my editor summoning me to an urgent meeting in her office. I immediately presumed that it would be for informal afternoon drinks and that no serious business would be discussed. This is a very normal part of a journalist's life. Many years ago, when I was writing for a national newspaper (sadly no longer in existence), it was customary for me to make regular visits to the features editor's office, where we would discuss the issues of the day, eat Bolands cream crackers with Calvita cheese, drink fine wines, and inevitably end up in bed together. The last thing I expected on Tuesday morning was a stern dressing down and an official warning that I had better get my arse in gear (!) and start reviewing television programmes properly. Apparently - according to my editor - in recent columns I've spent far too much time on other matters, including my relationship difficulties (which led to me being kidnapped for a short time - an unhappy period brought to a satisfactory conclusion by prompt action by the gardai), and my ongoing campaign to publicly name the cast members of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat who burnt down my house in 1975. While I admit that discussion of these matters is not strictly TV reviewing, it gives a fascinating insight into the personal background of a typical television reviewer, and thus adds to the overall understanding of the programmes under review. In a similar fashion, the novels of, for example, Alan Titchmarch, are better understood when one understands that he isn't a novelist at all, but a gardener. Unfortunately, the conversation with my editor then took a nasty turn, and all too predictably - because by this time much drink had been consumed - the argument became very personal. Some deep resentments came to the surface, and we both, very sadly, but again predictably, resorted to mindless violence. There is no need to go into detail at this point, but if you were to take a blue biro, and encircle my right eye on the photograph above, it would give a fairly accurate portrayal of my current physical appearance. Thankfully, after a while, things settled down a bit, and she suggested that I meet the managing director on Thursday afternoon for a further chat. I was under no illusions that my Fantasy TV reviewing days were at an end. However, my editor told me that my journalistic career in The Irish Times was not necessarily over. There was vague talk of a move to Presbyterian Notes, which I was assured, in strict journalistic terms, is a promotion. At that moment in time, I knew absolutely nothing about Presbyterianism, but if that was to be my next destination, then I was determined to become an absolute authority on the subject. The Bridge column was also mentioned, but the only personality that I know of connected with bridges is Isimbard Kingdom-Brunel. I'm not an expert. On Thursday I met the managing editor. I was half-expecting that he would suggest that I could possibly move to the sports department or the foreign desk, but his first words to me were: "Have you ever worked with black plastic bags?" Apparently, there were several vacancies in taking the rubbish out the back. When this opportunity was mentioned, my initial reaction was to see it as something of a step down from TV reviewing. Also, I probably wouldn't get as much money, drugs or sex. Nonsense, he said. The last lad who put out the black plastic bags actually got more money, drugs and sex than anyone else on the newspaper. "Really?" "Yes!" Suddenly, putting out the black plastic bags began to sound quite appealing! I just hoped the managing editor wasn't lying to me just so I would take a job that no one else on the newspaper wanted. I'd heard that when Conor O'Clery was told that he'd have to do it, he moved to China. So, a new career beckons. Next week, I'll fill you in on what happened on my first week taking out the black plastic bags. Watch this space! (Or a smaller, less prominent space elsewhere in the newspaper).
With all the excitement, I'm afraid I didn't get to see Channel 4's Top Ten World War Two U-Boat Commanders. I'd say it was great.
Arthur Mathew's comic novel, Well Remembered Days, is published by Macmillan
