The bitch is back on Failte Towers
But Bellowing Baz just seems to have taken off for another planet
"Because I'm effective, because I'm efficient, they think I'm a bitch," moaned Jennifer Maguire, lashing out at her fellow Failte Towers celebrities' objections to her hard-assed bossiness.
"I'm not an entertainer," she continued. "I'm from a business background. This is what I DO!"
Ah, so you're not an entertainer. That's why you're on a reality TV show then, is it? Your second, we might hasten to add.
Anyway, the rest of them better get used to the situation because, in the words of an old Elton song, "the bitch is back".
Jennifer found herself in the bottom three again after the public vote last night but was saved by the casting vote of restaurant boss Derry Clarke.
As we suggested here earlier in the week, the judges know the value of conflict -- the importance, basically, of having a bitch in the pack.
Still, if there's a flaw in the logic of Failte Towers, it's the voting rules. The public speak. The public text. The public spend their money, and then it ultimately falls to the judges to make the final decision. Will the public be content for that to keep on happening for two weeks?
Probably. Flawed or not, it's still mightily entertaining stuff and really getting into its stride.
The second casualty was Claire Tully, Ireland's first Page 3 model, who was uncommonly upset -- moved to tears, in fact -- by her eviction. To the casual observer, it might seem like an overreaction. It wasn't.
Claire is allowed a few tears of disappointment because, as she remarked herself, she had to work extra hard to get into Failte Towers. Practically every charity in town had snootily turned their noses up at her offer to raise money for them.
There's a charming naivete about her that will be missed from the show. I mean, you've got to like a girl who happily gets her kit off, yet at the same time worries about what her mother will think when she sees her, on national television, ogling the stripper who was getting his kit off for the hen party that had rolled into Failte Towers earlier in the day.
Not everyone was impressed with the entertainment. An elderly woman accosted Jennifer, still the acting manager. "We came here for a quiet lunch. This is disgusting! They should be in another room."
Welcome to Hotel Apartheid. Jennifer mollified her and gently guided her out of the room. Like a persistent Dalek, she glided back in again. "It's absolutely revolting. It might be a young person's thing, but you should take it somewhere else."
Luckily for everyone, the Dalek woman seemed to have departed in search of someone else to exterminate by the time a party of Dutch naturists checked in and immediately decided to go au naturel.
Incidentally, what's the correct term for a group of naturists anyway? A gaggle of naturists? A dangle of naturists? Whatever. Back in the bar, the task of watering the hens fell to John Creedon, who'd never pulled a pint or mixed a Fat Frog in his life and was struggling to keep up. Don Baker valiantly jumped in to lend him a digout.
John was sanguine about the whole matter and as graceful as ever. "I'd say as hen parties go, I got a decent one," he said, picking discarded toilet rolls up off the stairs afterwards. "What's a few toilet rolls between friends?"
A trifle, really, considering that John had already cleaned someone's vomit off the toilet floor in the previous episode.
Brian Dowling, however, didn't show quite the same fortitude about toilet duties when it came to trying to unblock a urinal with his hand. "It's still waaaaaarm!" he wailed, dry-retching over the offending liquid.
Newly-promoted manager for the day Joseph McCaul came to his assistance. The two of them decided the best course of action was to cover the urinal with a black plastic bag and stick an 'Out of Order' sign on it. Brian and Joe seem to be forming something of a chummy double-act, which is quite unnerving.
Not as unnerving, mind you, as the continuing antics of co-host Bellowing Baz Ashmawy, who seems to be addressing a completely different audience in a completely different programme on a completely different planet, somewhere inside the universe of his own head.
"Why is he roaring?" said my wife. "He's going to get a sore throat -- hey, maybe he'll get laryngitis! Hee-hee!"
The roaring was the least of it. When it came time to reminding viewers of the voting numbers, Baz thrust his crotch so forcefully at the camera it nearly broke the lens. "These are the numbers you're gonna (thrust!) need (thrust!)."
What in God's name is wrong with the man? Does he want to have the Dalek woman complaining to RTE as well as to the Irish Hotels Federation?