The Great Reality TV Director in the Big Studio Up Above was feeling hot and grumpy, recalls An Fear Rua …

Here He was on a Saturday afternoon with a bunch of trainee technicians from the Archangel Gabriel's Communications Division determining the following day's reality, before loading it up on the play-in machines, when he could be off enjoying himself somewhere else…

His eldest Son, for example, was off in his golden room somewhere in one of His many mansions twanging his Fender guitar and trying to improve his Roy Orbison impressions. The Holy Spirit had decided to fly off to Rosslare, in county Wexford, for some kind of pigeon fanciers' convention and wouldn't be back until Monday, when of course, he'd arrive back flaked out anyway and with a head on Him from eating too much barley corn seed on the way. 'Still', he mused, 'One out of Three ain't bad … on a warm weekend…'

And, when He looked back on it, it hadn't been such a bad week after all. He'd finally managed to help the canny Alex Ferguson unload Beckham onto Real Madrid. That so-and-so, Alastair Campbell, Blair's spin-doctor, was in very deep doo-doo of his own making and was continuing to sink, hopefully out of sight and without trace. In the Island of Saints of Scholars, the Special Olympics had a really fantastic official opening and a great week of it even though a couple of wasters had booed poor Bertie, and him with enough on his plate as is it already.

All around Him the Big Studio Up Above was busy, humming with the sound of hundreds of editors and technicians deciding on the reality for tomorrow for three billion people in more than two hundred countries around the world, in time for the deadline to load it all up on the reality machines. The Studio was open and in operation around the clock, seven days a weeks, fifty-two weeks of the year.

For next week, He was planning a few pleasant surprises. Maybe He'd finally get around to getting Britney's top to slip a bit as she gyrated around on stage and expose one of her tits. Oh! He knew well He wasn't supposed to use a word like tits. He couldn't remember exactly - because it was so long ago - but wasn't it forbidden to even mention them under one of those Commandments He'd handed down to that nosey guy Moses wandering around the desert? And, on top of that, He'd probably have Mary Magdalene and the Holy Women of Jerusalem around to Him again complaining, like the time He decided that one of those wans on the 'Big Brother' show would strip off and take a shower in front of ten million gawping viewers.

He was musing on these important thoughts when he felt one of Gabriel's junior technicians tugging at his voluminous sleeve. He was about to let out an Almighty roar, when he noticed it was Shauna, the lovely little redheaded angel with all the freckles. 'What is it?', he asked. 'Don't forget tomorrow is Munster Final day in Thurles', she replied. 'You need to decide what you want in that so that we can edit the tape and load onto the Reality Machine in good time', she said.

'Ah, yes', He murmured, 'The Munster Final … I remember it well. The crowds milling around Liberty Square with pints in their hands. The craic and the banter. The ticket touts being roasted. A three-card-trick man doing his best to dodge the Guards. The trek up the hill to the stadium past The Pecker Dunne and the grandkids playing great tunes. The Killinan End and the sun blinding them at the Town End. The stewards, the hawkers, the Seán Treacy Pipe Band from Moycarkey-Borris…Many's the time I went down there in cognito as it were…' It had always been a big disappointment to Him that, despite being something of a miracle worker, His only Son had not taken up the hurling, despite much encouragement and even though the Son was reputed to be almost as dab a hand at turning a hurley as Just-In McCarthy himself. After all, turning water into wine was only a doddle compared with helping certain counties He could name win a hurling All Ireland!

'Sure, we'll build in all the usual stuff anyway', He said, 'and we'll let the sun shine and the rain hold off', as the lovely Shauna duly noted it all down on her laptop.

'Yes', she said, 'but what about the game itself?'

'Ah, indeed, the game itself. Now that's a divil of a conundrum alright', He muttered.

He thought for a minute. Then dictated to her: 'I want it to be one of those games where Waterford start off like a whirlwind in the first fifteen minutes racking up scores from all angles. And give them the benefit of the wind, just to get them really relaxed, like. I like that Tony Browne. He's a decent lad, comes from a good family. So, let his ankle be OK for the first half at least. Then - because it's Waterford we're talking about - we'll have to have one of their star players injured early on. No, not McGrath! We did that before and deprived them of a Munster championship. No … this time, we'll make it … let's see now … Flynn! Yeah, that'll make it really hard for them'

'I have something else in mind for McGrath. Let's make it one of those games where he plays as if he hasn't really shown up. Oh, and I'm giving strict instructions that he's to miss every shot he takes, including frees. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes', Shauna answered. 'After all, you're the Great Boss Who decides all Reality for everyone'.

'OK', He said, 'So long as that's clearly understood around here.'

'Anyway', he said, 'Where was I? Oh yes. Despite having the wind at their backs, let Waterford go in at half-time only four or five points in front, instead of the ten or eleven their level of possession would justify … Now, are you listening carefully to me Shauna my dear? I want this to be one of those games where their opponents really come at them in the opening ten or fifteen minutes of the second half, scoring point after point without reply and eventually taking the lead. When that happens, I want a really huge roar from the Cork crowd. Just to make it interesting, you can make Waterford come back at them a few times during the second half, but make it clear that Cork are in control the whole way until the end.'

'Anything else, Oh Great One?' Shauna asked primly, as she dimpled her freckled cheeks.

'Eh, Yes', he replied. 'Do you know the way there's always one player in a Munster final that gets up the other fans' goat? Like the way we used to do with John Leahy when he was on the go for Tipp? Well, the man for that role tomorrow is … none other than John Mullane! But, we won't be too hard on him. You can let him score a few goals. You decide yourself the number. Then just drop in the usual 'atmosphere' shots, load it up on the Reality Machine, set the timer and Bob's your Aunt's spouse, so to speak!'.

'Anyway', He said, 'I've done me stint for today. I'm sure you have enough experience to do a few road accidents yourself and conjure up the usual tit-for-tat crap in the Middle East. Just make it up as you go along. I'm off meself for a few nice, cool pints with Ringey, Jack, 'Fox' Collins and all me other pals over in The Glen Bar. See you!'.

The Great Reality TV Director in the Big Studio Up Above slid out of his Director's chair and padded off towards His favourite celestial watering hole, humming the opening bars of 'De Banks' in a pleasant, light baritone voice.

One of the other junior technicians glanced at Shauna. 'I didn't know he was one of them', the technician said.

Shauna frowned and drummed her long, elegantly painted fingernails on the editing console. Now she'd never collect on that €10 she'd put on Waterford with Paddy Powers …

Related Topics:
Waterford Left It Behind Them
Mullane and the Win