Weather reports on Irish television have become laughably redundant, what with global warming and the coming apocalypse. When I was a kid it was all sunny spells and scattered showers, now apologetic RTÉ presenters (I'm looking at you, Gerald Fleming, and that other fucker with the mad Louth twang) give anxious warnings about rain, and announce sunshine with such tentative, doubtful optimism that you wonder if they fear a lynching. I think that if I were to accidentally pay a TV licence fee, the weather report would be an awful way to waste my money. Perhaps not awfuller than Fáilte Towers, but RTÉ weather neither informs nor entertains me and the European forecasts that they occasionally carry on with are just insulting; like watching cheffy wonders on Saturday Kitchen while you hoover up stale cornflakes. Those two minutes would be better spent with a second Angelus. That at least raises a smile.
So respeck!! to Martin King, who jazzied up the weather reports in the early days of TV3 by turning it into some Winning Streak cum Parish News style form of entertainment. The weather slot opened its sticky embrace up to Joe Public and invited viewers to bump uglies with its content. Birthday wishes! Send us in a photo! It's like the art slot on The Den, only for nanas. Nanas from places like Longford, and Ballina.
TG4 have the right idea; just go with some tits. Scorchio.
But I digress - this post is supposed to be all about Mr. King. I did develop some small affection for the bould Martin back when I worked as a fraud detective* for an Irish financial institution whose name rhymes with "make the tea". I'd rouse myself from my bed at 7am each Saturday when Martin's dulcet tones shrilled at me from the radio alarm clock. His Breakfast Show on Today FM was the perfect soundtrack to those mornings; wake up, sniff the air (vodka, cigarettes) and realise with a crushing sense of defeat that it was Saturday and I had to go to work. His pithiful patter seemed to sit well with my awkward transition from drunk to hungover, as I sat looking balefully at my shoes, trying to find the will to breathe, and to tie my laces. I'd muse over "What's That Sound?" and marvel at the chirpy idiocy of the contestants ("is it Rice Krispies, Larry?" "Well Pat, it's Martin King here and I'm afraid that's not the answer we're looking for!" "Oh..." says Pat, trailing off confusedly and uncomfortably). Our hero Martin lets that awkward silence hang.
These days I can't bear to listen to talk radio - inane presenter prattle and insane, irrelevant callers. I no longer work on Saturdays, I have more pleasant ways to spent my time and more pleasant sounds to rouse me from my slumber. Like the heart-attack inducing beep of an alarm, or the insistent whine of my bladder.
So respeck!! to Martin King, who jazzied up the weather reports in the early days of TV3 by turning it into some Winning Streak cum Parish News style form of entertainment. The weather slot opened its sticky embrace up to Joe Public and invited viewers to bump uglies with its content. Birthday wishes! Send us in a photo! It's like the art slot on The Den, only for nanas. Nanas from places like Longford, and Ballina.
TG4 have the right idea; just go with some tits. Scorchio.
But I digress - this post is supposed to be all about Mr. King. I did develop some small affection for the bould Martin back when I worked as a fraud detective* for an Irish financial institution whose name rhymes with "make the tea". I'd rouse myself from my bed at 7am each Saturday when Martin's dulcet tones shrilled at me from the radio alarm clock. His Breakfast Show on Today FM was the perfect soundtrack to those mornings; wake up, sniff the air (vodka, cigarettes) and realise with a crushing sense of defeat that it was Saturday and I had to go to work. His pithiful patter seemed to sit well with my awkward transition from drunk to hungover, as I sat looking balefully at my shoes, trying to find the will to breathe, and to tie my laces. I'd muse over "What's That Sound?" and marvel at the chirpy idiocy of the contestants ("is it Rice Krispies, Larry?" "Well Pat, it's Martin King here and I'm afraid that's not the answer we're looking for!" "Oh..." says Pat, trailing off confusedly and uncomfortably). Our hero Martin lets that awkward silence hang.
These days I can't bear to listen to talk radio - inane presenter prattle and insane, irrelevant callers. I no longer work on Saturdays, I have more pleasant ways to spent my time and more pleasant sounds to rouse me from my slumber. Like the heart-attack inducing beep of an alarm, or the insistent whine of my bladder.
*Not as exciting as it sounds.
