TV View Keith DugganGaelic games have never been better served by RTÉ. With Breaking Ball emerging as the most clever magazine programme on any channel, The Sunday Game has moved with the times and is an indispensable part of the GAA weekend.
It makes cult figures out of its guests. Yesterday we had the hurling gurus Ger Loughnane and Cyril Farrell. It is a testimony to these two that when they get warmed up the actual match seems like an interruption.
In fine GAA tradition, RTÉ dress their guests up in a Sunday suit. But as a concession to modernity, they tend to combine bold and often disturbing shirt-and-tie combinations for their menfolk. Yesterday, Ger wore an elaborately knotted necktie of Fauntleroy blue while Cyril appeared in a complicated khaki design. It seems clear RTÉ's wardrobe department is merely recycling the range of clothing last worn by O'Brien in Wanderly Wagon.
But fashion does not in the slightest bother the hurling men, who are much more interested in substance. In fact, the only member of the panel remotely interested in fashion is Pat Spillane, the loose cannon of the club. The key to the appeal of The Sunday Game is that host Michael Lyster uses his easy affability to tease out the trenchant views of analysts like Loughnane, Joe Brolly and Kevin McStay. But with Lyster tied up on the lengthy live broadcasts, they have begun using Spillane as the chief (careful here) anchor for The Sunday Game reprise.
So far, this has been an uncomfortable experience. No less than David Brent in The Office, Pat seems convinced his true vocation is as a comedian. In recent weeks, televisions across Ireland have groaned under the tension Pat brings to his guest-host gigs.
Not so long ago, he was left alone in the studio with Pete Finnerty, the walking definition of no-nonsense. Pat warmed things up by complimenting Pete on his sartorial elegance. Finnerty shifted in his seat for several seconds before responding, "Let's get on with the hurling, Pat."
Last week, he inquired of Bernie Flynn if borrowing some of Páidí Ó Sé's hair gel would lend him a gloss of youth. Bernie, loquacious in the matter of goal- scoring forwards, was stumped on this one. Joe Brolly, it seems to me, would be a much more easy-going communicator in those times when Lyster is indisposed.
But Brolly clearly relishes his role as the scandalous charmer at the dinner party. He says things just for the craic, which is all you can ask of any guest.
The same is true of Spillane, who must lie awake at night dreaming up phrases with the power to make him an instant hate-figure in entire counties.
Colm O'Rourke appeared to go one better on Thursday night, alienating an entire province. The plain-talking sceptic of The Sunday Game accepted an invitation from Adrian "Logie" Logan to appear on UTV's GAA show End To End. Logie and Ger "Hoolie" Houlahan welcomed their distinguished southern guest and teased out of him his reasons for pouring scorn upon the love of their lives, namely Ulster football. O'Rourke was unmoved and observed something to the effect that he found it hard to see how his northern cousins could get so worked up about counties created by British imperialists.
Hoolie forced a smile. Logie's eyes popped. For an eternity, a breakdown in all-party talks seemed imminent. O'Rourke blinked his impassive blink, as if to say, "Well, you did ask."
Eventually, Logie restored peace by telling Colm he had "taken things to a whole new level".
In rugby union, another institution also went about taking things to a new level. In Sydney, the All Blacks appeared in fetching, body-hugging tops that might just work for the studio panel come the All-Ireland hurling final.
"It's turning into a massacre," yelped Sky commentator Chris Handy as New Zealand ripped through the Australians to take the first leg of the Bledisloe Cup by a record 50-21.
The traditional physical difference between backs and forwards has ceased to exist in the All Black team. Such was their power and speed and skill that it looked as if any of their players could play in any position. It was frightening.
Afterwards, Sky ran a solemn and hubris-filled advertisement for England's series of warm-up games in September against the French. It showed Clive Woodward gazing towards the heavens, Martin Johnson snarling and Matt Dawson pouting. How quickly we forget how irritating the whole Sweet Chariot thing is.
The thought of an invincible All Blacks team on the horizon was suddenly very comforting. There could be trouble ahead.
