John Boorman's 2020 vision

Boorman’s drama was driven by a palpable distaste for injustice absent from would-be Irish satirists

JUST AS FESTIVE overindulgence, from the Christmas-dinner blowout to the lingering half-life of sandwiches and fricassees, can make the bloated diner yearn for something fresh, so radio needs tart notes to counteract the traditional rich fare of the holiday period. Those seeking relief from the heartwarming speech programmes, musical specials and annual round-ups of the Christmas schedules could have done worse than tune into

Drama on One: 2020

(RTÉ Radio 1, St Stephen’s Day). John Boorman’s satirical play had a sharp tone that not only cut through the cloying excesses of the season but also sought to shatter any fond illusions one might still harbour about Irish life.

Written and directed by the veteran Wicklow-based film-maker, with a sterling cast in support, the drama presented a grim vision of Ireland's future. Set nine years from now, in a country that has defaulted, exited the euro and abandoned its currency and State institutions amid a global economic crisis, 2020followed two old friends, Joe (Brendan Gleeson) and Brendan (Stephen Rea), as they pursue contrasting paths. Joe leads a self-sufficient existence on the land, running a barter mart on the principles of "give what you can, take what you need"; seeking to escape this subsistence existence, Brendan proposes launching a new currency, the punt nua, with the aim of re-establishing the State's supremacy. Gleeson's character is content with life in postmonetary Ireland: "Now there's no money, there's no crime," he says. For Rea's character, this is proof that egalitarian frugality has robbed even criminals of initiative and motivation.

Boorman makes it all too clear where our sympathies are supposed to lie.

Brendan's new banknotes are adorned with portraits of Haughey and Ahern, while he promises the fickle mob that "your iPods will sing once more, your mobile phones will be clamped to your ears again". In the end, Joe's noble anti-materialism loses out to Brendan's appeal to baser consumer desire, helped by wider financial interests: in the world of 2020, the Chinese have bought up Kerry.

As the latter laboured gag suggests, Boorman’s play traded in the obvious too much for it to reach the Swiftian heights it aspired to. But there were some wry lines, such as Brendan’s pledge to “tempt Joe Duffy back from America to listen to your woes and triumphs, and tempt Pat Kenny back from Tahiti to keep us honest”. It was also difficult not to empathise with Joe’s manifesto for a country that works on the basis of “compassion, kindness, unselfishness, honesty and modesty”. Above all, it is striking that an English-born, seventysomething film director should be the one giving voice to such righteous anger.

Boorman's drama may have lacked subtlety, but it was driven by a palpable distaste for injustice absent from Irish would-be satirists such as Oliver Callan (who appeared in 2020) and Mario Rosenstock, who instead favour a bland parity of esteem when it comes to picking targets for their gentle mockery. As the latest addition to this overcrowded marketplace, Ireland's Pictorial Boatly(RTÉ Radio 1, St Stephen's Day) had many of the soft-focus characteristics of Rosenstock's Gift Gruband Callan's Green Tea, but this pilot edition also had encouraging glimpses of imagination.

An ensemble effort featuring Après Match's Barry Murphy and Gary Cooke and Ross O'Carroll-Kelly's creator, Paul Howard, Ireland's Pictorial Boatlywas most predictable when taking a pop at the likes of Michael Noonan and Enda Kenny. But other sketches exhibited more originality: audio clips from (the real) Gay Mitchell's election campaign were intercut with questions from Murphy's Teutonic therapist to lethally funny effect. A fictional vox pop with south-Dublin schoolchildren deftly skewered the prejudices, still prevalent among Ireland's privileged classes, about the less fortunate being responsible for their woes.

The show also punctured some of Ireland's most cherished tropes. "When you are abroad," went Murphy's wry voiceover, "eulogise about a brand of crisp you do not eat at home." Assuming it is even commissioned as a series, it is premature to assume that Ireland's Pictorial Boatlywill rescue contemporary home-grown satire, but at least it had some bite.

As a former cast member of Hall's Pictorial Weekly, the 1970s RTÉ TV show that lampooned the political class of the day, Frank Kelly might be expected to possess a healthy cynicism, but speaking on The John Murray Show(RTÉ Radio 1, weekdays) last Tuesday, he showed himself to be a big softie. "I do cry very easily," he admitted. But there was a stoical backnote to Kelly's appearance. After grappling with cancer for five years, he had got the all-clear a fortnight earlier.

There was no hint of self-dramatisation as he described his experience of the disease and the debilitating treatments. And when he said he felt very lucky, his sincerity and gratitude were obvious.

Seasonal excess is one thing, but the simple pleasures of life remain the strongest.

Radio moment of the week

An awful absence rather than a moment: listeners tuning in to The Weekend on One(RTÉ Radio 1, Saturday) on Christmas Eve will have immediately missed the steady tones and immaculate taste of host Donal Broughan, who died suddenly the week before last. Broughan's eclectic but superb musical selections, running from 1980s Irish indie to vintage rock and acoustic folk, were a wonderful soundtrack to early Saturday mornings: to my shame and regret, I constantly deferred covering the show in this column until it was too late. He will be sadly missed.