Say cheese

In one of the more bizarre episodes of Father Ted, Irish television executives faced with the appalling vista of having to stage the Eurovision song contest every year, contrive upon a device to ensure that Ireland would fail miserably in the event. They selected the most hopeless song ever written, 'My Lovely Horse' by Father Ted Crilley and Father Dougal Maguire. Of course real-life harassed television executives would never use such a sly tactic and no parallels should be drawn with You're a Star, but producers in RTÉ must fervently dream of concocting some similar diversionary device every September when faced with the annual ordeal of having to put together Up for the Match (RTÉ 1, Saturday, 9.40pm). There are certain things that, if they wish to avoid looking silly, people should avoid dressing up for – sex and football matches being two of them. Up for the Match bristles with enthusiasm and ingenious ways to fill 90 minutes with parochial pride, be it pictures of sheep dipped in the Kerry colours, interviews with the daughters of selectors or a brain teaser quiz as to whether the Tyrone jersey bears the emblem of the Red Hand of Ulster, The Red Rose of Tralee or the Red Cow Roundabout. However, Up for the Match is part of what we are and at least television executives needn't look worried about it again until next September. In the meantime, enough worried looks to fill a quota in a five-seat constituency were contained in the opening episode of RTÉ's medical drama, The Clinic (RTÉ 1, Sunday, 9.25pm) where Cathy (Aisling O'Sullivan) is having severe trouble in coping with life and business after the break-up of her marriage to fellow doctor Ed. I missed the first series and so don't know if anyone ever smiled in it, but amid the disarray and naked ambition and manoeuvring for succession rights, this medical centre is possible the most fraught workplace I have ever encountered. It is lovely though to see the marvellous and underused Máire Ní Gráinne on screen again and, even if a bit-top heavy with angst in the opening episode, The Clinic is well acted and produced. It is also comforting to know that money (or at least €80 for a two minute consultation) doesn't automatically bring happiness. For a whole generation of Irish people, happiness frequently came in the post, or to put it another way, the cupid winged messenger of love in rural Ireland was Fear an Phoist on a pushbike. Produced by Anne Roper and directed by Karen McGrath, Love Story (RTÉ 1, Wednesday, 7.30pm) makes simple and highly effective use of old RTÉ archive footage to examine the various ways in which Irish people fell in love, be it finding each other through being pen-pals or through a shared love of the outdoors. Particularly effective was the story of writers Vincent and Joan McDowell who began their courtship through exchanging letters and then photos. Joan, (who had suffered from polio as a child but refused to let it in any way coral her life) was convinced that when he saw the photograph of her leg, he would be put off, while Vincent, once he saw the same photograph, was convinced that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Love Story was a neat montage of everyday stories about how ordinary people found partners for life. It possessed the glamour of reality, an entirely different glamour from that available on Paparazzi Secrets (UTV, Fridays, 11pm) which took the externalist notion of the anti-hero to extremes by leaving the viewer unsure whether to feel most disgusted by the young vulture-like photographers in hoodies who roam London in pursuit of celebrities, or the desperate fame-seekers who roam the same streets in pursuit of paparazzi who might make them famous. The majority of alleged hidden camera shots (or "snatched-posed" as they are called) of C-list wanabees are set up through careful collusion between managers and photographers. Paparazzi Secrets followed one such shoot where a minor model and a soap-star met for the first time for an arranged shot to further the fabricated story of an alleged romance between them. Not only did they travel with the photographer on their "date", but posed carefully for him before he retreated to use a long-range camera to add the illusion of voyeurism. This shot was sold to the tabloids who knew the story was rubbish. The shots they couldn't sell were of all the would-be Jordans outside night-clubs who had only to catch sight of a camera before their tops were being pulled up and their jeans rolled down in a desperate attempt to be noticed and make the newspapers by appearing in the type of photographs that one suspects Fear an Phoist rarely carried in his sack when bringing cupid's messages across rural Ireland. Dermot Bolger is writer in Residence with South Dublin County Council.