Let’s not split hairs, this is the bald truth about this rich guy OFF AIR
RIGHT, cards on the table, I am perfectly willing to admit that I was already in foul humour by the time the opening credits rolled on this programme.
This might have had something to do with the fact that I inadvertently caught the closing moments of the preceding show. Even if I knew how to drive or had the slightest interest in cars, I’d like to think that I would still hate Top Gear.
The fact that the loathsome Jeremy Clarkson was turfed out on his ear is, of course, a good thing. But I can’t say that Matt LeBlanc, previously the weak link in the most over-rated sitcom in TV history, does much for me either.
The only saving grace is that I missed seeing The Stig (not a job for a grown man, surely) or the guest appearances by Bernie Ecclestone and the preposterous Jay Kay.
Even if it wasn’t for all that, though, I still wouldn’t have been in the best of form for Ireland’s Rich List. I’d seen the first instalment the previous week and, on the basis of not being wealthy enough to afford a new telly just at the moment, felt obliged to turn it off halfway through before sticking my foot through the screen.
The second instalment didn’t start off any better. There was ample footage of helicopters, yachts, cocktails with olives floating on the surface, flashy cars, brimming flutes of champagne, the Brown Thomas shopfront and yellow cabs cruising through the streets of Manhattan.
I should say that there were also shots of some ghastly-looking places I didn’t recognise, but I presume they were either Marbella, Dubai or both.
Meanwhile, presenter Joe O’Shea was putting everything into the foreplay. ‘As Ireland continues its steady climb back into the black, one group of people has already made it big time,’ he purred.
‘The annual roll call of success: Ireland’s rich list. Vital to some, toxic for others. It’s the bible of high achievers – an indication of wealth, status and success.’
The programme proper didn’t start well, largely because it involved a vox pop – the lowest form of journalism, in my humble opinion – in which various punters were asked who they thought the country’s wealthiest people might be.
It turns out that many of those
in the billion euro league could have been predicted by any of us: JP McManus, Michael O’Leary, Hilary Weston, John Magnier, Margaret Heffernan and so on.
But there were also a few names who meant absolutely nothing to me. One of them, a genial Galway man named James Murphy, has accrued a fortune of €165 million through his involvement in the hair restoration industry.
It seems that James made his fortune principally through the female market. The fans of his products include A-list celebrities such as Jennifer Aniston and Gwyneth Paltrow.
But I couldn’t help noticing that the 55-year-old, who is languishing at No. 76 on the list, has both a receding hairline and noticeable bald patch. Perhaps he should turn his attention to developing some sort of magic tonic for the male of the species. Who knows, next year he might find himself in the top ten.
I can’t finish without noting that the best bits of the programme were the unintentionally amusing contributions from Nick Webb, the floppy-haired business journalist.
He should really consider making a new life for himself either as (a) a pantomime dame or (b) the lead singer in a Marillion tribute act.
And I’m not even going to charge him for that career guidance advice.