“IT’S an elitist institution!”
“Pardon?”
“It’s totally elitist.”
“What, mother?”
“I’m telling you, that Toy Show is elitist.”
“The Late Late Toy Show?”
“Yes.”
“Right, OK.”
Mother was standing in front of the television, tapping her foot on the floor angrily.
I innocently mentioned that I was rather excited about introducing English boyfriend to the Irish institution that is The Late Late Toy Show.
I tried to explain exactly what it was but he just didn’t grasp the concept.
I said something along the lines of: “There is a man in a jumper (the host) and he spends about two hours talking to children and playing with toys, and the audience all dress up as elves and it is live.”
“That sounds really, really awful and sort of illegal,” he said.
“No, no, it’s wonderful and very festive,” I said, in a vain attempt to backtrack. “You’ll love it.”
“I won’t.”
There was nothing else for it, I decided, only to spend our Friday night watching the Toy Show.
I had mentioned this to mother, causing her to break into a rant.
“Would they leave Tadhg on it, I wonder?” she asked pointedly.
“Well, he is nine months’ old, mother, and is usually in bed at 7pm – I’m not entirely sure he would be right for the job just yet,” I reason with her.
Then she drops a bombshell: “Well neither were you – ever”.
I take it from this that she means I was never Toy Show material, but I decide to ask: “Er, what do you mean by that?”
“Well, I wrote to the Toy Show ever year, every single year, trying to get you and your sister and brother on it, but they never wrote back, not once!”
“WHAT?”
“Yes, I was very hurt. They only ever had children from the Billie Barry Harry group, or whatever they are called.
They never had normal children and I swear I wrote in every year, all through the 1980s.”
This news shocked me. How did mother manage to harbour this terrible secret for so long?
How could The Late Late Toy Show not have wanted me?
How could they have turned me down all these years?
Obviously, this news infuriated me. How dare they. How dare they not allow the Wilmot children on their show.
Yes, we had no discernible talents, but hey, we were eager, we could speak, we could read – we’d have been a hit.
And actually, now that I think of it, I did Irish dancing as a child, and I played the piano. Granted, I did both very badly, but screw you, The Late Late Toy Show.
When I think of the years I spent watching those all-singing, all-dancing kids on that show, wishing I could be there on stage with Uncle Gaybo.
I know exactly where I could have slotted in, too.
I’d have excelled at the book review section, for example, given that I was an avid reader, and I would also have made a wonderful toy demonstrator.
Even at the tender age of six, I recall being very frustrated by the efforts of some of the children. Bloody amateurs, the lot of them. I would have done a far better job, given my natural aptitude for playing with toys. I would have shone on the small screen – I’m sure of it.
And now … now I find out that RTÉ stifled my television career from the get go.
I could be an Oscar-winning actress if only those Toy Show bastards didn’t have it in for me.
And it’s not just that they turned me down once – they did it repeatedly.
They repeatedly crushed my dreams.
Yes, yes, I’m aware I didn’t know mother was writing to them each year, but I know now, and that makes my fury justifiable.
By the time you read this, The Late Late Fake Children Toy Show will be over and, I presume, they will have managed to crush thousands of other children’s aspirations this year, too.
Also, I think you should know, I spent the entire time throwing tomatoes at the television.