The joys of mornings.

I stole all my wife's money because I'm addicted to gambling. Now I teach scum how not to be scum

Waking up to Jeremy Kyle’s pug faced rantings is not the most wholesome of ways to start a day filled with recessions, natural disasters et al. Television doesn’t really sit well down the local Spar. Spotty teens serving you, one eye on the till, one on the cast of the national  zoo during feeding time. Kyle is obnoxious, his manipulating would put the chubbiest of unemployed builder off his breakfast heart attack and life reducing ham and cheese jambon. Even a swig from the obligatory coke couldn’t wash down the sound of a fat pregnant Glaswegian berating her boyfriend for sitting on his pasty bum smoking copious amounts of weed and not getting a job. Thank god for radio.

Ah morning radio. It’s like a kinder bueno, the lite way to enjoy life. Tom Dunne still trading on his Dr Bill sketch, wearing thinner than the latest Americas Next Top Model contestant. Gerry Ryan leading a large group of overweight Irish people, as they whore themselves on both television and radio, denying themselves the porky pies that allow them to forget the 100 % mortgage hanging over their heads, heads covered by the sun roof of the monstrous Mercedes SUV they drive their one overweight child to the school that’s 125 feet from their front door. And of course there’s the king of them all, the most loved midget of mornings, Ray D’arcy.

What is it about Ray D’arcy that people love so much? Is it the same contributors he rolls in week, week out? Case in point, Maeve Higgins. Like, the way like, she reviews stuff, and um, like the way she’s like, so quirky in her like, viewpoints, makes me like, want to tune in every, like, week. This useless turd fills the national airwaves with her inane brand of humour (lets call a spade a spade and call it “humour-lite”, or at least use that spade to dig a large hole and throw her in), and has Ray gushing more your plumbing this winter. It doesn’t end here. Quentin Fotterell gives his opinion on why Mary didn’t text Ned after a recent date, was it because Ned never explained he had plenty of road frontage from the farm he fought his brothers for, or because he hadn’t because he knew that road frontage is no good without money to buy bricks. I don’t know whats more annoying, the way Fotterell raises his voice like an Australian soap high school student at the end of every banal statement he makes, or his pseudo American accent. Thats exactly what I want, a hiberno-amercian-antipodean giving me advice on how best to score a Bertha at half ten in the morning.

I talk shit. And I like Paulo Nuttini.

Contributors aside, its D’arcys music aside that probably keep most punters glued to the radio. Whats that song your playing Ray? I’ve never heard that one before. Paulo Nuttini you say? Thats a very Italian name for a man from the Caribbean. Oh he’s not from the Carribean you say? He’s Scottish? And he’s not 97? Jeez, this is a conundrum. Can you play him again for me again because I really want to get to grips with this enigma. And again. Yep, one more time. Ok enough. No Ray, I said enough. The real truth must be that Ray has shares in Nuttini Industries, and is making a mega fortune from playing the same songs everyday. And it doesn’t stop with the chameleon Nuttini, D’arcy has a select list of songs he plays, and he plays them with vigour. Yes he’ll throw in the odd PiL song, maybe a Stone Roses anthem, or even on a good day Love Will Tear Us Apart. But even these songs are repeated, albiet on a monthly rather than daily basis. I bet Ray was one of those guys who would fill the jukebox down the local with coins, play the same song 100 times, and leave laughing all the way home. He probably spends his afternoon watching Jeremy Kyle smirking at how much he’s annoyed his loyal listenership by playing the same songs day in day in day out day in (annoying isn’t it?).

The only way to overcome all of this is to quit your job and stay in bed until the one o’clock news. At least then you can revel in the fact that you didn’t actually quit your job, AIB bank took it from you.