Wow.

You go girl. Just not to the loo to throw up. She's comfortable with her figure and doesn't agree with the pressure being put on young girls today. Man, this will be all over the world press tomorrow.


IRISH ACTRESS SLAMS SIZE ZERO
Size zero unavailable for comment


Just as I was trying to mop up my horlicks, Kenny hits me with a right-hook.

"Will you welcome please, a very funny man, mister Dave Young!"



Dave, posing as the letter "Y" which, curiously enough, is what most of the audience asked themselves in pained tones


Out hops this baldy guy, slathered in fake tan. His first few gags die a violent death in the confused silence of the studio audience. So he goes for the money shot!

"WESTLIFE ARE POO, SO NOW I'M GONNA MAKE ME OWN BAND!"

And he makes a Westlife-type band, ha ha.
With audience members, ha ha.
They're singing a funny version of "Mandy", ha ha.
Dave makes them do silly things while they sing it, ha ha.
He pretends to kiss one of them, ha ha, where's my oxygen mask.

It'll be online next week. You will HAVE to watch it. This guy makes Dave McSavage look like Bill Hicks.

Next!

The Late Late show goes out nationwide. They have viewers in small pubs in Abbeyfeale and they have viewers in sports bars in Malahide.

That's why they ensure that their content appeals to the broadest possible spectrum of Irish viewers. Something that folk from all walks of life can relate to.

Introducing Batman-villain-faced celebrity solicitor Gerald Kean!

Gerald poses with a member of the flesh-eating hordes of the undead with whom he enjoys a "highly fruitful" relationship

Gerald bounds on in a comedy pinstripe. He's packed to the brim with enthusiasm and then some. This unfortunately serves to accentuate the wobble on his underchin neck-tyre. Pat engages him in wholesome banter about charity gigs with Bono and Bill Cullen and the entire nation basks in the reflected warmth of his enthusiasm.

The camera suddenly pans into the audience. Whoa! There's Sly Stallone in a comedy wig! The Late Late has really pulled out all the stops tonight!

Sadly it's not Sly Stallone. It's celebrity solicitor Gerald's celebrity girlfriend who used to go out with a celebrity tap-dancer. Give it welly, Lisa Murphy!

Lisa's hilarious southside accent ("Baw baw blauck sheep") only adds to the jocularity as she bigs-up Gerald. All the while looking like some maniac deep-fried her face and hammered a pair of suitcase handles into it.

Pat cuts to pictures of Gerald and Lisa dressed up like Victorian fops at a celebrity fancy-dress. Gerald's maniacally-grinning melty-wax face hovers dangerously close to Lisa's vast cleavage, looking for all the world like a corpulent foreman's arse peering out from a pair of hipsters.

Pat asks if Lisa's titties have ever blown off in Gerald's face. I roar my approval from the couch, only to realise I've nodded off and the ads are on.

Frrrp! I wake up just in time to see Pat welcome a man who's sold four hundred bibles and eight hundred singles! It's Charlie Landsborough!

Charlie looks like what would have happened if the Romans had got lost on the way to the Garden of Gethsemane (look it up) and Jeebus lived to a ripe old age.

He begins to strum out some nice old wishy-washiness but it doesn't sound like his mega-seller "What colour is the wind, daddy?", nor his follow-up "No idea son, not till they invent a methane-aware air-o-scopa-scope".

Then the lyrics kick in, and they're well groovy.

"You say tomata
I say stigmata
You say potata
I still say stigmata"
[etc]


Next up! Double-barrel-named fop Hugh-....wait now let's try that again. Double-barrel-named ENGLISH fop Hugh Fearnonsley Whittingtonstall III is concerned about chicken. How cruel it is to force unprocessed mcnuggets to subsist in dark conditions with no access to the playground. Much better to let them trot about in the open before dragging them in and whapping their noggins off.

Pat lets our Hugh wander about free-range for a while before whapping his head off by slapping the Irish Chicken Mafia into the seats beside him.

The spokesman looks like the result of Vincent Price wet-humping Boris Karloff. Hugh's testicles audibly recede into his body.

Vincent's right-hand man is a chicken producer with a tuft of inconsequential hair stacked on top of a forehead that's about 8ft high.

Vincent poo-poos Hugh. Hugh looks like he's about to launch an impassioned defence when Frankenchicken extends his mighty right arm and slaps him right in the windpipe, just like that.

Pat looks a bit lost as Hugh slumps unconscious from his chair onto the floor. We cut to an adbreak and I count the hours until Tubridy tonight.

Give it a couple of days and you can relive the moment: http://www.rte.ie/tv/latelate/