The Grammys have always been the lamest of all awards ceremonies. And in a crowded field including the Oscars, Booker and Young Entrepreneur of the Year, that’s saying something.

The Grammys are so lame, Jesus himself couldn’t heal them, even in full miraculous-powers mode. This is a shindig whose most rebellious moment was when Bono used the f-word a decade ago.

Wow, how cool. I mean if wanted to hear a middle-aged man swearing, I’d just eavesdrop on the average Under-12 soccer team coach berating a group of teary youngsters for not “giving it 110 per cent”.

So lame are the Grammys that the only thing of note that ever happens are the outlandish costumes worn by single-brain-celled attention-seekers like Rihanna, J-Lo and suchlike. You want a washed-up singer doing acrobatics while wearing a flesh-coloured cat-suit in a desperate bid to make the world remember her again? No problem, madam, Pink will be along with that in just a moment.

You’d wonder, then, why the award organisers issued the notorious dictate this year, warning attendees that they’d better cover up, or else… Well, I’m not really sure what. Maybe they’d have parking valet privileges removed, or have to sit in a seat near the door for the loos.
Any road, a leaked memo decreed that “buttocks and female breasts (be) adequately covered”, while “thong type costumes,” we were solemnly told, were “problematic.” Yes, I’d imagine they could be.

They really got into icky detail with the next paragraph, imploring attendees to “avoid exposing bare flesh under curves of the buttocks and buttock crack…be sure the genital region is adequately covered…” And so on.

Naturally, the reaction from press, public and those skeezy celeb gossip websites like Prez Hilton was one of mockery first – as in the early part of this here piece – and then a weird sort of po-faced disapproval.

The Grammys, some folks hilariously claimed, had gone too far, were acting like the PC police, and had lost their sense of humour/fun/marbles/whatever. They should let these wimminz put on whatever they liked – or more to the point, not put on whatever they liked.

Now here’s the weird part: I think I agree with the Grammys on this one. Yes, you read that right. Me, Darragh James, the coolest sumbitch this side of Frosty the Snowman eating a Mr Freeze in a walk-in refrigerator…in Antarctica. And I’m agreeing with something done by the Lamest of the Lame.

Now, maybe I approve of a ban of this sort for different reasons to theirs. The Grammys are probably looking at keeping advertisers happy and not upsetting their corporate sponsors and all that. But I agree with the move nonetheless.
I agree because the world is almost literally saturated with sexuality, and to be honest, I’ve kind of had enough. I’m no prude – in fact I’m a total pervert once I get behind the heavy oak doors of my sadomasochism Saturday night club in darkest Soho of old London Town. As Madame Sadistica will enthusiastically attest.

But still, everything in its right place. And for quite a while now, sex and sleaze have not been in their right place.

It’s one thing a woman, man, woman-man, man-woman or somewhere in between parading around half-naked in a strip-club or burlesque house or brothel or whatever. You may not approve of it, or on the other hand you may think it’s the best thing since sliced bread – the point is, it’s being kept in its right place.

Mainstream TV, by contrast, is definitely not the right place for all this. The pages of daily newspapers, that’s not the right place either. Entertainment websites – you’re way ahead of me – not the right place.

There used to be something disreputable, dodgy and even a little dangerous about aggressively sexual costumes and behaviour; you tended to find these things in blue movies, scuzzy magazines, obscure TV channels or, yes I admit it, Madame Sadistica’s Pleasure Palace of Pain. Nowadays it’s been sanitised, packaged and sold to everyone from grannies to – yeeuch – little kiddies.

And that, my friends, is FUBAR. (Look it up on acronyms-explained.com.) I couldn’t really care less if some loser is trawling the sex shops of Amsterdam, buying rubber underwear for himself and an electrified truncheon for the gimp he keeps locked up in the basement, for that special romantic evening they have planned.

But the thought of a little kid seeing some yoke like Rihanna strutting about like a five-buck hooker, and worse, looking up to her, and worse again, wanting to be like her: that makes me feel ill. Even more than the Grammys usually do.

I’ve been to a fair few places, but I’m not a massive fan of travelling. In fact, I sort of hate it. Specifically, the amount of hype, hoopla and horse-poo which is written and spoken about it.

The worst thing is how travelling inculcates an intolerable self-satisfaction in devotees – as if they pick it up on their journey, by some strange metaphysical process, along with email addresses of Kiwi students they’ll never contact, one of the nastier STDs, and a prodigious collection of foreign currency in denominations so small the bank’s foreign exchange teller glares at you as if to say, ‘Are you taking the mickey or what?’

‘Oh, but you have to travel!’ the returned voyager will shriek. ‘It’s changed me forever! Travelling totally broadens the mind.’ Does it, though? I guess it depends on what sort of mind you have in the first place.

Any moron can backpack around the flesh-pots of the world and return an even bigger troglodyte than they were leaving. By contrast, many writers, philosophers and other beautiful minds spend their lives in the same small town and yet are truly perceptive, liberal and open-minded. So put that sticker on your backpack, dude.

You don’t need to actually go anywhere to be ‘well-travelled’, a fact I am about to prove. I’ve seen next to nothing of Planet Earth but now present the world’s first speculative atlas, based more on hearsay, assumption, national stereotypes and random junk pulled out of the ether, than real knowledge.

So it’s informative, as well as entertaining.

Kazakhstan

Enormous blank space on map of Asia. Location for Soviet A-bomb tests. Supposedly has lots of oil, but who can say for sure? Dusty. Made famous by unfunny 2006 comedy starring that git in the cheap blue suit. Population: sixteen million (fourteen million humans, two million irradiated monsters underground). Main tourist attraction: it’s not Kyrgyzstan.

France

Large Western European nation. Bad at wars since Napoleonic times. Good at shrugging and being blasé about spouse’s affairs. Said to be cursed with wicked garlic breath. Women beautiful and ‘complicated’. Interesting fact: only people on earth allowed hold arrogant notion that their culture is superior to all others. That’s because it is.

Jamaica

Small Caribbean island. Former colony or sugar plantation or something. Home of Rastafarian religion, horrible reggae music, enormous multicoloured woollen caps. Once ran bobsled team in Winter Olympics. Population: what am I, National Geographic?

Africa

One massive country south of Mediterranean (note: check veracity of Sarah Palin statement before publication). Very hot. Setting for racist Johnny Weissmuller movies in the thirties. Fauna includes lions, hyenas, Indian elephants and Venus flytraps the size of the Sears Tower. Main exports: aid money to Swiss banks. Main imports: luxury cars, high-end weaponry.

Russia

Troubled history of internecine slaughter and needlessly depressing epic novels. Funny alphabet with backwards letters and nonsensical squiggles. Industry based on steel, vodka, international espionage, ice-skating and ice-skating-related enterprises. No longer cannibal except in outlying regions. Area: enormous. Christ, it really is. It’s gigantic. I mean, have you seen it on the map?

Australia

Smallest of the continents but also a country, which is just confusing. Stolen from peaceable natives in nineteenth century. Full of kangaroos and discarded beer cans. Approximately six months behind rest of world, hence celebrate Christmas in June which is actually the previous January. Weird/comical accents. Famous sons: obnoxious former tennis champ Pat Cash, guy who directed Moulin Rouge.

Saudi Arabia

Makey-uppy Middle Eastern state. Political system: sand-blown theocracy. Currently celebrating arrival of twelfth century. Don’t seem to like women very much. Floating on endless oceans of oil, hence Western world’s indifference to fact they don’t seem to like women very much. Main industry: marrying six-year-old girls to their geriatric first cousins.

Ireland

Island in northern Atlantic. Comes in forty shades of green (see accompanying shade-card for full selection). Birthplace of Bono and notorious Prohibition-era hoodlum Vincent ‘Mad Dog’ Coll. Blew up a whole bunch of stuff in Britain during the 1970s. Climatically temperate, meaning soft drizzle for 362 days every year. Hard drizzle rest of the time. Religion: Catholic, Church of Ireland, cult of hating Bono.

Japan

East Asian country. Famed for politeness, intricate art of folding paper, rice-based alcoholic drinks, vacuum-packed schoolgirls’ panties. Incredibly over-populated. Really, they’re living on top of one another. Lost WWII on a knockout. Periodically beset by earthquakes and bouts of national self-flagellation. Main industries: potentially fatal raw fish-based delicacies, tiny electronics, vacuum-packed schoolgirls’ panties.

Rumgaria

Doesn’t exist.

Costa Morada

Doesn’t exist either.

Luxembourg

Does exist, but really, what’s the point?

Colombia

South American slum. I mean nation. Most dangerous place on earth ™. Torn apart by politically obsolete narco-guerrillas and fat druglords in linen suits and oiled-back hair. Considerably more depressing to visit than Paraguay, but pees all over El Salvador. Interesting fact: fat druglords always call their daughters ‘my little princess’. Yecchh. Creepy.

Valentine’s Day is coming soon. And you know what that means, don’t you? It’s Dean Gaffney’s 35^th birthday! I know, I can’t believe it either!

Oh, and there’ll be romance and flowers and Westlife ballads and what-not on the go too. The impending arrival of Valentineses got me thinking about the notion of romantic love: has it changed much over the last few years, in this online age?

The internet has altered the world in all sorts of ways. Once upon a time if you wanted to access pornography of a graphic and usually German nature, you had to put on a sleazy trench-coat, shuffle into a shop of ill-repute with an ironically cutesy name like Princess Imelda’s Apothecary of Earthly Delights, and fork over 10 bob for a copy of Der Grossen Sadomasokkkism Frauleinz XXX. Or so I’ve been told.

Nowadays they virtually give the stuff away free with supermarket loyalty tokens. Is this an improvement? Almost certainly not. Unless your trench-coat is in the wash.

Likewise, the internet has changed how people meet prospective partners. Once upon a time there used to be this thing called “dating”.

Here’s how it worked: someone would ask someone else out on a “date”, meaning a pre-arranged meeting at a restaurant, cinema or similar, with the express intention of a romantic engagement. The question would be put through a formal structure known as “having a conversation”, during which two human beings shared physical proximity and exchanged sentences composed of words and syntax, and delivered via the communications medium technically termed “your mouth”.

If the people on this “date” liked each other, they might finish the evening with a coffee/kiss/drunken scrape on a fire escape ladder, and arrange to meet for another “date”. If they really liked each other, they would generally continue meeting on a somewhat regular basis, leading to a set of circumstances in which they would be said to be “dating”.

Then they’d do the Vince Barnes a few times, get married, knock out a few kids and stew in simmering hostility towards each other for the next 60 years or so. Ah, love – ain’t it grand?

Now, though, dating seems to have gone the way of the dodo. For one thing, nobody talks to nobody in person anymore, so you can’t have that aforementioned conversation. It’s all texting and Skyping and the Twitter and the Facebook and I don’t know what it all means.

Literally: I don’t know what any of those words mean. Is Skyping the evil computer that destroys mankind in the Terminator movies?

Anyway, I can’t imagine trying to ask someone out via text. I’m picturing it going something like this:

“U wan go out” “OK where” “Drink R movie wevs” “Nah MAD hungover never again!!! LOL” “Wot bout movie den” “Seen all D gud 1s” “Sorry don’t undrstand wot U Mean” “Seen em all nuting gd out” “Yeah but date with me tho” “Date is Jan 29 why U ask” “No asking U” “asking me wot” “oh for fcks sake” “Wots Ur prblem” “This is a message from Vodafone, you are out of credit. Text 55555 for a two euro top-up”.

And so on and so forth. Or try asking someone out on Twitter: you’d have to compress all that pent-up emotion and heart-wracking longing into 140 characters, and then before the other person could answer someone else would see it on their timeline and join in the conversation, and before you know it, there’d be 15 of you getting pointlessly annoyed at something stupid said by some lame-ass American politician who has nothing to do with any of your lives. Which you are now wasting by getting worked up about him.

But it’s all moot anyway because as far as I can tell – from reading hysterical newspaper articles written by middle-aged creeps with an unhealthy interest in the sexual doings of young people – nobody under 30 dates anymore. They don’t date regularly, they don’t even go on single dates and skip the traditional kiss and coffee, moving straight onto the drunken scrape on a fire escape ladder.

Today’s young people apparently just “hook up” with each other. This seems to involve: posting a picture of yourself naked on Tumblr or some junk; having Biblical relations with a large watermelon, an uncorked bottle of Riesling and two randomers you met at the bus stop; joining one of those “find a SEX partner in your area TONIGHT!!” type websites that keep spamming me when I’m semi-illegally downloading bit torrents of movies; and then texting whoever you last slept with and whose number is near the top of your “dialled” list.

“Hey U wanna do biz 2nite?” “Yeah that’d be gr- This is a message from Vodafone, you are out of credit. Text 55555 for a two euro top-up.”

Satire never goes out fashion. Which is unfortunate, really, because it wouldn’t be necessary if we lived in an ideal world. In Heaven, for example, there’s a total dearth of good satire (Jesus tried it once at the celestial comedy club’s open-mike slot: went down like the Tower of Babel).

Down here, though, we’ll forever be beset by pomposity, stupidity and people who insist on giving their children names like Woden and Poppy-Sparrow, despite all appeals to common decency.

We’ll always need satire, and always have. The great American humourist Ambrose Bierce published The Devil’s Dictionary a full century ago, and it remains just as relevant today.

The book is bilious and spectacularly bitchy: in other words, great fun. So good that I’ve been inspired to update it for Ireland 2013.

To exhaustively lampoon everything that makes modern life rubbish would mean colonising this whole newspaper for a decade. So we’ll limit it to the annoying things people say nowadays: the clichés, jargon and gobbledegook that have become a part of (and here’s one) “the national discourse”.

Rereading a collection of George Orwell essays recently – yes, I am that intellectual – I was reminded of how these people seem to speak from the back-brain, almost unconsciously, yapping away on auto-pilot without processing what they’re saying.

It’s time to take back Hiberno-English from the drones and robots. It’s time to make a stand for linguistic truth and elegance. At the very least, it’s time to poke fun at some idiots, which is both amusing and morally justifiable.

It’s time for The Divil’s Dictionary.

• “May I begin by saying”: Yes, you may. The host has just asked for your opinion. You don’t now need permission to speak.
• “First and foremost”: tautology at its finest. First and foremost? It’s a two-for-one offer!
• “It’s a real Marmite sort of film/book/whatever”: what you mean is, it’s likely to divide opinion. But you’ve expressed this by reference to a vegetable-based British sandwich spread which has never been consumed by anyone in this country. You might as well reference Krav Maga or monkey-brain soup.
• “Awards season”: oh there’s a season now, is there? What is it, Winter, Awards, Spring, Summer, Autumn? Gah. You probably say “Fall” too, just to be doubly annoying. And while we’re here…
• “Gong”: prize, award, statuette. No human being in history has ever used “gong” in spoken English.
• “Luuurve”: this stupid pronunciation of the word “love” is much, eh, loved by DJs on those late-night shows playing smoochy classics for romantically inclined insomniacs. “Now we’re gunnatogaliddlebidaboud luuurve.” Must we?
• “101”: hey, it’s Psychology 101, you guys! It’s Trolling 101! It’s “Saying 101” 101! …No, it’s Idiocy 101.
• “-ista”: this suffix has become an unstoppable plague. Hedonista, fashionista, recessionista…I’m just surprised we haven’t seen psychopathista or homelessista yet. But we will.
• “Aw, bless”: no, because a God could not exist which permits you to use a phrase like “Aw, bless.”
• “Empowering” this has become so meaningless, Microsoft Word is refusing to let me type it in. It keeps deleting the letters. Did you know stripping is empowering for women? It really is! Presumably being gelded and crucified was empowering for the slaves of Imperial Rome too.
• “Mum”: as a proper word in advertising. You mean “mother”; “mum” is a pet-name some, but not all, people used for theirs. Anyway, why not mam or mammy?
• “Gingers”: ignorant neologism for people formerly known as redheads. Any Irish person making jokes about red hair should have their passport confiscated. Anyone pronouncing it to rhyme with “singer” gets beaten to death. Harsh but fair.
• “The beautiful game”: said of association football. It may be, but your constant reversion to cliché isn’t.
• “Oligarchs”: when used to describe rich Russians, or indeed anyone not the head of an Abrahamic religion or a city-state in Ancient Greece.
• “I’ll get my coat”: please do, the Funniness Police are waiting to arrest you for crimes against humour.
• “The real issue here”: is that I’m about to stab you in the throat if you continue that sentence.
• “Outraged”: by nothing remotely outrageous.
• “Appalling”: never even close to it.
• “A man who needs no introduction”: then why are you introducing him? Just let the dude amble up on-stage.
• “During the course of the week gone by”: such a short sentence, so many unnecessary words in there.
• SPECIAL RUGBY SECTION: “Big ask, hard yards, front up, grubber, try time, grind his testicles into the mud Alan.” /END SPECIAL RUGBY SECTION
• And finally, the two phrases most beloved of our – ahem – commentariat: “It’s a real game-changer” and “The only show in town”. Well which is it, game or show? I need to book tickets.

This is a piece explaining The Polka Dot Girl which I wrote for the Evening Herald last Saturday:

The classic noir-style detective story always features a femme fatale: gorgeous but deadly dames whose loyalties are questionable, who’d as soon stick a switchblade in your back as kiss your face. The wise-cracking hero, with his trench-coat and ever-present cigarette, desires and fears her at the same time. The femme fatale is a human black widow.

When I came to write my take on the noir mystery, I decided to bring this one step further – and fill the book with (potentially) fatal femmes. All the characters in The Polka Dot Girl are women.

That’s right: every one. The homicide detective, Eugenie Auf der Maur, investigating the murder which opens the novel. The coroner and patrol cops at the scene. The fearsome de facto ruler of Hera City (my invented setting for the story). Genie’s fellow detectives, their bosses, their bosses’ bosses. The psychopathic assassin who uses an extendable steel baton to kill. The local mobster who runs gambling and dodgy nightclubs. The hired guns and heavy muscle, forensics experts and psychologists, lawyers and judges, politicians and priests.

And yes, the femme fatale: Cassandra the wonder woman, an angel come down to earth – or maybe a devil in disguise.

They’re all women, which makes The Polka Dot Girl pretty unique in literature; certainly, I’ve never come across a novel like this before, but I stand open to correction. And there’s an added twist of spice in the genre itself: these aren’t a bunch of girls hanging out, being nice and placid and, you know, girly.

They’re bad-ass and kick-ass and evil and brave and ruthless and self-sacrificing. All the things you get in a great noir story, but filtered through a feminine prism. As the book blurb has it, this is Sam Spade in lipstick and a dress.

That was kind of the whole point, I think, in writing a book with only female characters, set in a fictitious all-women universe. You’d always be hearing about the lack of good female roles in, for instance, cinema: famous and well-regarded actresses constantly bemoan the paucity of decent jobs, especially when you’re not young and pretty.

But even then, women get the short straw. They’re usually reduced to ciphers: the girlfriend, the supporting act, the victim, the sex object. Hardly ever are they given really complex, interesting, believable and challenging parts to work with.

There’s even a thing called the Bechdel Test: to pass it, a movie must have a scene where two or more women have a conversation about something other than men. Not many films pass the test.

Virtually the only movies where women are the main characters are sappy melodramas, and maybe they don’t want to do those kinds of stories. Not every woman wants to make them, and definitely not every woman is interested in them. Lots of women love action and suspense and violence.

Books are better when it comes to gender balance, but not wonderful either. Much literary fiction, for instance, either ignores women for tedious, up-their-own-bottom explorations of self-indulgent male academics, or ghettoises them in those self-consciously arty novels about six generations of an Indian family, or what-have-you.

Crime fiction is better yet – the field has a lot of female writers, at any rate – but again, most of the heroes are male, as are their associates and the villains. In fairness, this probably reflects the real world of crime and punishment fairly well, but still: I wanted to do something nobody else had done, and populate an entire mystery novel with women.

I read yet another interview with a Hollywood star lamenting the lack of good female characters, and thought, fine: I’ll create something with nothing but women, and see what happens.

The Polka Dot Girl isn’t a pastiche or a spoof; there’s no post-modern winking at the audience, no in-jokes about the fact that there aren’t any men; it’s all played out totally straight. (Actually, there are two or three in-jokes, but they’re so understated, I’m probably the only person who’ll get them.)

It does pay homage to classic noir stories, for sure, with all the requisite elements of that genre: the aforementioned list of characters, and also a serpentine plot, outlandish deeds, larger-than-life feel, a mystical-religious undertone. But it’s its own book, with its own style, taking place in its own world.

Hera City is a hermetically sealed universe. It’s never explained, as such; there’s no back-story, no historical background, no quasi-scientific explanation for how a society of women can evolve, have children and so on. And although all relationships are between two women, there’s no homosexuality per se, because there are no men, so there’s no heterosexuality.

These women just do, and are. The reader suspends disbelief and buys into the concept, much like they would do with a fantasy novel or any kind of fable.

And within this world, we have dozens of women who act and talk like noir characters always do – tenderly, violently, brutally, lyrically. This, I hope, creates a really interesting tension between the darkness and edge of the genre, and the fact that the protagonists are female: traditionally seen as sweet and submissive.

Of course, I made sure it was a good, twisting, entertaining yarn anyway – the story would stand on its own, even without the all-female hook. But that is what it hangs on, and I’m glad I wrote it. It was about time somebody did.

My second crime novel, The Polka Dot Girl, has just been published. It’s a noir-style mystery with a twist – all the characters are female. And it’s fabulous, so you should all buy a copy. Or twenty. I won’t stop you. See here for more info and here or here to purchase.

Now, to sweeten the deal – though it hardly needs sweetening, considering how great the book is – and mark publicatio, I’m running a competition. Buy The Polka Dot Girl and you’ll be entered into a draw, run by me under the strictest conditions of fairness and probity. And the prize is: I’ll name a character after you in a future book.

A published book, not just a file I have lying around my computer marked “Completely Unpublishable Avant-Garde Junk Prose-Poem.” Although that does sound good, now that I think about it.

It may not be a major character, but it’ll be someone cool, nice, interesting. It won’t be a villain or a character who has something embarrassing happen to them or anything like that. It’ll be good. The minor details will be decided by fate.

The book might sell a million. (Ahem.) Or it may not sell much at all. But one way or the other, literary immortality is assured.

So email me at darraghmcmanusATyahooDOTcom, or tweet me @McManusDarragh, with a picture of you and the book. (Or you and the file beaming out of your e-reader thimgamabob if it’s the electronic version). And you – that’s right, YOU – could win yourself a place in history.

[Winner to be decided by swirling bits of paper around a giant hat. Judge’s decision is final. No correspondence will be entered into. The Darragh Corporation accepts no responsibility for anything whatsoever. All rights reserved. Quality guaranteed. Guarantee is not a guarantee. Patent pending etc. etc. etc.]

A few days ago I wrote this piece in the Irish Independent about the lack of female presenters on Irish radio. The head of RTE radio, Claire Duignan, contacted me about the piece to argue a few of the points raised – I’m reprinting her letter below (with her permission), in the interests of fairness and the right of reply.

(Incidentally, I replied to Claire myself that, to be devil’s advocate, the really important detail is that there are only three women presenters on some 10 Radio 1 shows from 7am to 10pm weekdays – the prime slots for radio – and none at all from 9am-4.30pm. I said two, should have been three. And also to be devil’s advocate, I still think the situation could be much better. There really should be a 50/50 split? People may decry enforced gender quotas and positive discrimination, but their arguments only stand if we lived in an equal society – we don’t – women always have to battle an ingrained negative discrimination. Finally, the piece was mostly about presenters, not reporters/contributors.)

Dear Mr McManus

I am writing in response to your article in the Irish Independent (Friday 4 January 2013) entitled Radio Often Feels Like Last Bastion of Old Boys’ Club.

I always enjoy reading your reviews and your informed analysis of radio in Ireland. I do think however that your article underestimates the presence of female presenters on RTÉ Radio. While I cannot speak for other stations, RTÉ Radio features a significant amount of women on-air, in richly varied roles, working across our four FM services and six Digital Radio channels.

Your article refers to RTÉ Radio 1 having “only two women across more than 10 shows” on the air. This is a significant underestimation. Morning Ireland alone features two regular female presenters, Aine Lawlor and Rachael English, along with Deirdre Purcell, Fiona Kelly and Valerie Cox, who regularly presents the programme’s It Says in the Papers item. On Drivetime, Mary Wilson is the regular presenter, whilst Audrey Carville presents our political and current affairs programme, Late Debate. This is closely followed by music programme Late Date, regularly presented by Lillan Smith.  During our weekend schedule on RTÉ Radio 1, we have an abundance of female presenters including, but not limited to, Eileen Dunne (The God Slot), Marian Finucane (Marian Finucane Show), Marian Richardson (Playback), Miriam O’Callaghan (Miriam Meets) and Avril Hoare (This Week). It is also worth noting that Claire Byrne has presented her own weekend news and current affairs programme, Saturday with Claire Byrne, each Saturday between 1pm – 2pm since September last year. This is not to mention the host of female stand-in presenters (Kathryn Thomas, Edel Coffey…), reporters (Valerie Cox, Brenda Donohue, Della Kilroy…) and regular contributors (Olivia O’Leary, Éanna Ni Lamhna…) that RTÉ Radio 1 avails of.

It is also necessary to have a look across the schedules on all of RTÉ Radio’s services to get a true sense of the importance that RTÉ places on women’s contributions to public service broadcasting in all its forms. RTÉ 2fm, RTÉ lyric fm, RTÉ Raidió na Gaeltachta and indeed RTÉ Radio’s digital stations all employ a high volume of female presenters and contributors. I have attached a document detailing RTÉ Radio’s regular female presenters for your perusal.

You are not the first writer to shine a welcome light on this topic, and this is not the first time that I have written to journalists and newspapers on this topic.. I agree with you that we cannot underestimate the need for gender balance on our airwaves-indeed this is a theme to which I have returned many times during my career in broadcasting. In assessing whether or not that balance is achieved, it is important however to fairly reflect the role that women do play. RTÉ Radio is a proud leader when it comes to women on air, and I feel it is only fair to fully acknowledge the extent of representation of women on air across RTÉ Radio.

Kind regards,

Clare Duignan

Managing Director, RTÉ Radio

LIST OF RTE RADIO PRESENTERS AND REPORTERS

RTÉ Radio 1

Morning Ireland: Aine Lawlor, Rachael English, Deirdre Purcell (It Says in the Papers) – Mon – Fri 7am – 9am

The John Murray Show: Kathryn Thomas (Stand-in presenter) – Mon- Fri 9am – 10am

Today with Pat Kenny: Valerie Cox (Reporter) – Mon – Fri 10am – 12 midday

Mooney: Brenda Donohue (Reporter) – Mon – Fri 3pm – 4.30pm

Drivetime: Mary Wilson, Olivia O’Leary (Contributor) – Mon – Fri  4.30pm – 7.00pm

Arena: Edel Coffey (Stand-in presenter) – Mon – Fri 7.30pm – 8.30pm

The Late Debate: Audrey Carville – Tues – Thurs – 10pm – 11pm

Late Date: Lillian Smith – Mon – Fri – 11.25pm – 2.00am

The God Slot: Eileen Dunne Friday 10pm – 10.30pm

The Weekend on One: Grace Waller (Stand-in presenter) – Saturday – Sunday 6am – 8am

Playback: Marian Richardson – Saturday 9am – 10am

Marian Finucane: Marian Finucane – Sat & Sun 11am – 12 midday

Saturday with Claire Byrne: Claire Byrne  – Sat 1pm – 2pm

Countrytime: Sandy Harsch – Sat 11pm – 12 midnight

Miriam Meets: Miriam O’Callaghan – Sun 10am – 11am

Sunday Sport: Jacqui Hurley – Sun 2pm – 4pm

This Week: Avril Hoare – Sun 1pm – 2pm

RTÉ 2fm:

Weekend Breakfast with Louise McSharry: Louise McSharry – Saturday, Sunday 7am – 10am

Ballbusters: Fiona Looney – Saturday 12 midday – 2pm

Weekenders: Ruth Scott – Saturday, Sunday 2pm – 5pm

Jenny Greene’s Electric Disco: Jenny Greene – Fri & Sat 7pm – 10pm

RTÉ lyric fm

Liz Nolan’s Classic Drive: Liz Nolan – Mon – Fri 4pm – 7pm

Trish Taylor’s Daybreak: Trish Taylor, Saturdays, 7am – 10am

Movies & Musicals: Aedin Gormley – Saturdays, 1pm – 4pm

The Music Box: Trish Taylor – Sundays, 10am – 12pm

The Sunday Matinee: Aedin Gormley – Sundays, 12pm – 2pm

Trish Taylor’s Daybreak: Trish Taylor – Sat & Sun 6.30am – 9.30am

RTÉ Raidió na Gaeltachta

Nead na Fuiseoige: Gráinne Ní Dhomhnaill – Mon – Fri 7am-8am

Adhmhaidin: Gormfhlaith Ní Thuairisg Mon – Fri 8am – 9am
Iris Aniar: Eibhlín Ní Chonghaile– Mon – Fri 9.10am – 11am

Barrscealta: Áine Ní Churráin – Mon – Fri 11am – 12 midday

An Saol O Dheas: Helen Ní Shé – Mon – Fri 12.10pm – 1pm

Nuacht a hAon: Máirín Ní Ghadhra – Mon – Fri 1pm – 2pm

Thall ‘s Abhus: Sinéad Ní Uallacháin Sat 10 am

An Ghealach Ghorm: Áine Hensey – Sat 9pm – midnight

Béal Maidine:  Neansaí Ní Choisdealbha, Áine Hensey – Sat & Sun 7am – 9am

Ceol Binn ó na Beanna: Neansaí Ní Choisdealbha – Mon, Wed & Thurs 7pm – 9pm

Blas: Louise McCreesh – Sun 9.30am – 10am

Spórt: Gearóidín Nic an Iomaire

Sruth na Maoile: Mairi Anna Nic Ualraig – Mon 2pm –3 pm

RTÉ Digital Radio

RTÉ 2XM: Aoife Barry, Caoimhseach Connolly, Jacqui Carroll, Louise Noone, Paula Flynn, Niamh Hegarty, Gabby Sanderson Ann-Marie Duffin and Annabelle Brossard

RTÉ Pulse: Orla Feeney, Aifric O Connell, Zoe Mc Grath, Hilary Rose, Ciara Buckley

RTÉ Junior: Emma Power, Audrey Donohue, Grainne Clear, Louise Denvir, Rhona Tarrant and Emma O’Driscoll

Not a lot of people know this about me, but I’m actually of royal blood. My real dad is a guy called God – he’s like the King of this place Heaven? Major big deal.

He sent me down to earth to spread peace, love and good vibes, and also brutally kill and dismember all of Take That if I get the chance. “But don’t stress it if you don’t get around to that one, Dazzler”: those were the last words of my pops, God, before I hopped on a cloud-bus and scooted down to your planet.

By the way all this is top, top, TOP secret, so I’m swearing several thousand U magazine readers to silence.

The reason I mention it is because the royals have been in the news loads lately, especially because of Kate and Wills’ impending bundle of joy. This boy or girl is, quite literally, heir to the throne, and not just in the sense that some dingbat who owns a carpet warehouse will hold up his infant and declare proudly, while pointing at Rugs-R-Us Discount Vortex of Death, “Someday all this will be yours, my child. You shall inherit it all.”

The royal baby really will inherit a throne, a crown, one of them Bo Peep-style crooked stick things with jewels all over it, a flipping big castle, a few more flipping big castles, and some other stuff I couldn’t be bothered to list off here. Servants and land and the right to whip the Chancellor of the Exchequer with a cat-o’-nine-tails down the Olde Kente Roade for scurvy treason, that sort of thing.

But is it right, this institution of inherited privilege? Should Baby Katwill be given all that wealth just because of who their parents are – or to be specific, their father?

I think you should have to apply for the role of royal. Now, I have no problem with the childer of existing monarchs getting first dibs, and if they pass the test fair play to them, they get the job. But if they prove not up to the mark, we give someone else a try.

First up, a questionnaire. Do you like eating quail? Can you ride a horse? Do you look a bit like a horse? If male, is your name Henry, John, George or William? If female, is it Elizabeth, Catherine or Anne? Do you have someone dress you every morning? Do you believe that the concept of social equality is bad? Are you likely to be shoved up against the wall and executed in the event of a revolution?

If you answered Yes to all of the above, you’re halfway there.

Next, the physical test. You must shoot a pigeon from the sky while snorting in an odd kind of way, guffawing loudly at something quite hilarious Esmeralda said about Tarquin, and slapping a working-class oik about the head for daring to address you common. Oh, and you must be squiffy on champagne at the time.

If you can manage to do all this while still retaining enough bodily co-ordination to commandeer the old man’s Bentley and drive it through the front door of Tossingley Manor, you’re two-thirds of the way there.

Next, the audition. Can you sing stupid rugby songs, if male? Or do side-splitting impersonations of chavs you’ve seen on telly, if female? Alternatively, dress up as a Nazi or African chief, complete with “black” face, and go to a fancy dress party, with absolutely no sense of shame.

If you can do this, you’re almost there.

The final test: genealogy. We must be sure to get the right kind of blood on the throne, eh? So: are all your ancestors related to each other quite closely? And are you fairly likely to marry someone you’re related to? And have children whose genes are so completely fubar that it’s a miracle they’re not born with 12 toes and four heads?

If you answered yes, then congrats: you’re ideally qualified to be a royal!

Of course, here in Ireland we don’t got no aristocracy, having bombed the baxterds out the country in 1920 or thereabouts. But we do have a Presidency, on which we vote every seven years.

The only problem with this is that the public are, by and large, a shower of morons who can’t be trusted to do the right thing. It’d be much better if I just picked a president-for-life, right here and now, and then the nation can get back to me when this one dies and we need a new one.

And our new overlord is: me.

Oh go on, you knew I was going to say that. Anyway I already have the kingly beard, the megalomania, the 12 toes, and I simply adore eating quail and beating the plebs. Or eating plebs and beating quail, whatever.

First published in U Magazine December 17 2012

Ah, television. ’Tis as much a part of Christmas as plum pud, unwanted CDs and arguing with Granny about whether or not turkeys really did taste better when she was young. And it’s the exact same thing each year…

10am: FILM – The Wizard of Oz

Another inexplicable early-morning outing for one of the most terrifying movies ever made. Cower behind the sofa as that witch with the green face lets out her bowel-movingly frightening cackle. I know that’s where I’ll be.

Noon: I Love Last Christmas

Tedious nostalgia-based excuse of a programme, in which various slebs muse on their favourite festive moments from last year. Highlights include: Caroline Flack on the really funny reindeer-related joke she found inside a cracker, and Jeremy Paxman on his bitter disappointment that he messed up the taping of Toy Story 2, inadvertently setting the video for Antz instead.

2pm: News Round-up

All the day’s news from around the world, with a feel-good story about a lost puppy tacked on at the end to make it feel more Christmassy. Including a report from Lapland on the continuing stand-off in Santa’s Workshop between Special Forces and secessionist elf terrorists, and an interview with the Easter Bunny about feelings of isolation which can strike non-Christmas-specific mythical figures at this time of year. Followed by the weather with one of the Three Magi. The one who brought myrrh.

3pm: FILM – Casablanca

The classic romance in which Humphrey Bogart doesn’t say ‘Play it again, Sam’, but merely ‘Play it, Sam’, as will no doubt be pointed out by the cinephilic pedant sitting on the couch next to you, ruining your enjoyment of the picture with his incessant prattling.

5pm: Only Fools and Horses Festive Special

Cockernee fun and games with the irrepressible Trotter boys. Loveable rascal Del Boy Jason and his son/brother, Rodney Plonker, come across a stash of blow-up Santa sex dolls, and try to offload the lot for a large turkey and a fourth wheel for their Robin Reliant, with comical results. ‘Yule’ laugh yourselves sick!

7pm: FILM – Some Bond Movie or Other

Enjoy the interchangeable delights of this enduring movie franchise, as the world’s top superspy plays roulette, drinks too much and does the wild thing with an improbably named Eastern beauty, before saving the world from a mad genius who lives under the sea or on the moon or some shit. Pierce Brosnan may or may not star. It depends.

9pm: The Gilbert O’Sullivan Song ‘n’ Dance Xmas Xtravaganza

The 1970s’ ninth most popular singer-songwriter brings his patented blend of showmanship, singing chops and stupid hats to bear on this cabaret craptacular, which has been pretty much just thrown together over the last week or so. Baby Spice – that’s what we’ll always call her – drops by to strangle an innocent song to a painful death, while a bunch of precocious stage school kids do their bit for birth control by demonstrating just how incredibly loathsome some children can be.

11pm: FILM – Fletch Gets Old and Tired

Uncharacteristically downbeat Chevy Chase vehicle, in which his comic private detective meanders through an unfulfilling and lonely late middle-age.

12.50am: Closedown

Go to bed now, sheep. It’s all over for another year.

A lifetime ambition – one of them – was realised last Sunday when I was reviewed in the Sunday Times book pages. As in, Even Flow. Kristoffer Mullin was generally positive about the novel, though he had a few criticisms too. The article is behind the Times paywall, but I will see about getting permission to post it up here. In the meantime, a few choice quotes (only good ones, naturally):

“McManus’ novel has plenty of charm and humour, and raises rousing points about society… Disdain for misogynist yuppies steams off the page; the prose hisses and spits about the horror and injustices of the sex trade… In the end, like (Danny) Everard, you may not like everything here, but you’ve got to admire its guts.”

I also had a Q&A in last Saturday’s Irish Independent to promote Even Flow – not available online, so I’m reproducing here:

Favourite Writer, and why?

Don DeLillo. His novels explore the mysteries and meaning of existence better than anything I’ve ever read. He somehow can capture those vague, intangible thoughts we all have and make them real in language.

Best advice on writing you’ve ever heard?
Don’t fall in love with your own words. Which I probably have a tendency to do! Editing kills me.
Last book you read and loved. What did you think of it?

The Cold Moon by Jeffery Deaver – one of his Lincoln Rhyme thrillers. The guy’s ridiculously skilled at plotting: the twists start coming about halfway through, and keep coming, and each one makes sense.

Favourite book and why?

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. A riveting story in a brilliantly realised future, a profound moral fable, and then the language he invented to tell it – an explosion of pure literary talent.

The book you could never make it through (and why?)

Tried and failed to read Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities more than once. I just didn’t get it. Is this supposed to be funny?

Best stage production you’ve ever seen. Why?
Acrobat, a physical theatre troupe I saw at the Black Box during the 2003 Galway Arts Festival. The things they were doing were so amazing, I was almost rubbing my eyes in delighted disbelief.
Favourite film and why?
Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. A perfect dream of a movie, with thrilling action scenes, understated and powerful performances, and a script like something from Buddhist literature.
Last film you saw and loved? Why?
Mission Impossible 4! Honestly, it’s very enjoyable – like a concentrated distillation of everything that makes the movies entertaining.
Last film you saw and hated? Why?
Snow White and the Huntsman. Dull, confused, too long, too slow; the story was simultaneously stupid but incomprehensible; every shot felt second-hand; and worst of all, it didn’t properly use the lovely Kristen Stewart.
Favourite painter (if you have one). Why?
Andy Warhol. He basically invented much of what we now know as modern society and culture.
Favourite TV show (and why?)
The Mentalist. I love Robin Tunney, love all the characters, love how Patrick is more than a little crazy, and love the Red John storyline, which is properly scary.
Favourite radio show or presenter. Why?
I’ll plead the Fifth, so as to maintain professional integrity as Irish Independent radio reviewer!
Favourite website and why:
Used to be Wikipedia, before I found out it’s all made up. Maybe Twitter now – massively useful for writers and journalists. And good fun, too.
Favourite city/country and why:
Ireland, probably, because it’s where I’m from and what I know…and it ain’t a bad old place, when you balance it all up. Plus the weather is mild – always a bonus.
Favourite food/restaurant:
Mushrooms. Any kind, in any form, anywhere, anytime. If I could live on mushrooms, I would.
Wine or beer?:
Beer! Tastes better with a cigarette.
Cultural blindspot (eg modern art, classical music etc)

Reggae music. Tuneless and repetitive style, violent homophobia, those awful drum/bin-lid things they use…maybe I’m missing something!