It seemed to me a pretty pedestrian set by a very ordinary band. (Albeit, with a singer so concerned for the welfare of his audience, you might have mistaken it for a Make a Wish benefit.) But in the bar afterward, other journalists were unanimous in their praise, hurling superlatives about the place like confetti. It had been a sensation. The gig of the year. A triumph on a par with Hannibal crossing the Alps.

Of course, it was no such thing. The kindest to be said for Guy Garvey & co. was that their belated success represented a kind of victory for graft over talent or inspiration. But even that was too kind. This was a performance that traded on some of the most vacuous clichés in the rock and roll playbook. There was Bono’s empty bombast (Grace Under Pressure), Robbie Williams’ naked populism (On a Day Like This) and the calculated, down-to-earth “niceness” of a teenage X Factor finalist (between song banter.)

The only reason Garvey got away with any these cloying showbiz flourishes was because he was a fat, average looking bloke from the north of England with a singular lack of panache. Most people simply couldn’t see past that.

For all his sins, it was the relentless “niceness” that irritated me the most. Everyone gushed about it. There was hardly a gig review or magazine profile which hadn’t lauded him for it. Guy Garvey was, by universal acclaimation, the most mind-bogglingly nice, down to earth bloke on eartj. He was certainly the nicest man in rock. Indeed he seemed scarcely capable of passing someone in a corridor without impressing upon them the fact of his inherent decency.

That didn’t sit well with me. Most of us strive to be courteous and polite, but we do so discreetly and without fuss. There seemed something dubious about a person who paraded their niceness so ostentatiously. If Louis Walsh’s latest boyband protégées helped an old lady across the road, or rescued a kitten from a tree, most of us would just snigger and turn the page. But when it’s a fat bloke from the north of England, once again, our critical faculties seem to go to sleep.

And even if he is a nice guy… who gives a fuck? Van Morrison is one of the most obnoxious arseholes that has ever lived. Michael Jackson was a predatory paedophile. Phil Spector murdered someone. That doesn’t make their music any less thrilling. By the very same token, Guy Garvey could rescue ten busloads of orphans from a towering inferno in his bare feet. That wouldn’t make his music any less shit.

Considering the hour, you’d have to say, the mood here is insanely cheerful. As a print journalist, I’m not used to being out of bed before 10am. And, even then, I tend to keep my joy under wraps until at least mid-afternoon.

But the Breakfast Show team has been handling these outside broadcasts for more than a decade now, and they have it down to a fine art. At dinner the night before, I witness them run through the final preparations for the show. The atmosphere around the table is relaxed. The organisational heavy lifting has been done in advance and everybody knows what’s expected of them tomorrow. As well as the show’s production team and a couple of station engineers, Today FM has sales and marketing staff in town to meet clients. A sold-out Gift Grub stage show in Leisureland and a mobile billboard campaign have been timed to generate maximum impact.

Fans who applied for tickets were also asked to fill out a short questionnaire. Armed with their answers, Dempsey will be able to interact with the audience, cajoling victims into sharing quirky or embarrassing stories with the nation. I jokingly compare these audience pre-screening techniques to those employed by dodgy American faith healers. Rosenstock reveals that the idea was inspired by Graham Norton’s old Channel 4 chat show. (He can’t resist a camp impersonation. “Is there a Martin here? Martin, you ate a tortoise five years ago . . . tell us why!”)

The crew has a confusing habit of referring to Rosenstock’s celebrity impressions almost as though they are real people. The running order is being finalised. First “Daniel” will talk to the audience. Then “Simon” will join us via satellite to judge Galway’s Got Talent. It’s not until Rosenstock is asked if “Michael D” is up for a particular skit that the whole thing starts to sound downright mind-bending. The comedian nods. “I think so,” he says. “Last I heard he was.”

Turns out, on this occasion, they’re referring to the real Michael D Higgins, who has agreed to drop by for the show. That’s not the only familiar name pitching in. Mary Coughlan will also be along. I assumed she was another of Mario’s comic alter-egos. “Not at all,” Dempsey assures me. “Mary is great craic. She’s always good for a song and a laugh.” I must admit, I had never thought of the Tánaiste in those terms. What is she going to sing, I ask? “ I Want to be Seduced ,” replies Dempsey. “So that should be fun.”

Jesus, I’ll say.

The next morning passes without a hitch. It’s not a hip crowd who have gathered. With their Breakfast Show T-shirts and expectant smiles, they remind me a little of the studio audience for When The Whistle Blows (the show-within-a-show in Ricky Gervais’ Extras series.) But their enthusiasm levels remain high over the two hours and Dempsey is adept at keeping the show moving. The Gift Grub sections are, of course, the best received. Rosenstock dazzles with the accuracy of his mimicry and the humour of the material.

In the event that either element falls a little short, the other is invariably strong enough to carry it over the line.

Nowhere do both aspects of his performance blend as effectively and hilariously as on “Michael D’s” poetic tribute to Galway United. (The poem is impossible to summarise, but at one point it moots the possibility of a protest by the team outside the United Nations.) The real Michael D. gamely joins in on sending himself up. I’m standing only a few feet behind the pair, but it is impossible to tell their voices apart.

Better still is Mary Coughlan. Admittedly, I’m a tad disappointed at first that it’s the Galway jazz singer, rather than the Donegal TD who is performing. But she gives a raunchy rendition of Seduced and, when it’s over, “Daniel O’Donnell” storms the stage to surprise her with his version of Dr Hook’s A Little Bit More . When he offers to “rub your tired shoulders, the way I used to do”, Coughlan ad libs the line “Harder Daniel, harder.” It almost brings the house down.

By the end of the song both Mary and “Daniel” are rolling on the ground. Cameras are flashing and the crowd are on their feet cheering. This is show-stopping entertainment and it isn’t even 9am.

That evening, I sit down with Rosenstock in his Leisureland dressing room. There’s one question that’s been niggling me all day. Is what he does actually satire? He groans. “Every time I talk to The Irish Times ,” he says, “No one else ever asks me this stuff, only The Irish Times .” What he does, he says, is comedy. Some of it is satirical. Most of it probably isn’t.

His comedy could be accused of being toothless to some extent. He’s been widely accused, for example, of giving Bertie Ahern an easy ride during his time as taoiseach. He rejects this. “If you look at something like Scrap Saturday . They had the biggest satirical target in the history of Irish politics in Charles Haughey.” He has never seen Ahern in those terms. “We were just reflecting how loved and how popular Bertie was when he was in office. If we were doing sketch after sketch about the tribunal, people would have tuned out after a day.”

This may to some extent explain his enduring success. His comedy may be cheeky, but it is rarely biting, and never malicious. Even his “Daniel O’Donnell” – which plays to a certain degree to a certain unspoken subtext – is far more affectionate than anything else. No wonder so many of his targets, from José Mourinho to Enda Kenny, count themselves among his fans.

He insists that he is not comfortable fraternising with politicians, but sees no harm in chatting to celebrities. “Keith Duffy came up to me after the Vicar Street show,” he recalls. “He was like (impersonates him) ‘That was amazing buddy, that was absolutely amazing. And, you know what, my bit was the best.’ He was like a child.”

The stage show that night leans heavily on material from Gift Grub ’s golden era: Bertie’s yellow suit; Keano at Man United; Keano at Sunderland; Jose Mourinho at Chelsea. Brian Cowen hardly gets a look in. The newer material is not all stellar. (His Michael O’Leary segment includes the punch line “Volcanic ash, my hole.”) And some of the biggest laughs from the audience are merely laughs of recognition. But he keeps the sell-out crowd enthralled for the duration of the show.

In the end it’s hard to disagree with “Michael O’Leary’s” endorsement of the show. “One man. A hundred voices. That’s low-cost comedy.”

Now I’m not knocking the guy’s profession. Everyone has to make a living. He just didn’t strike me as having an aptitude for that particular line of work. I mean, we hadn’t even been introduced yet. I could have been anyone. Last weekend at the Electric Picnic though, Sharon found true love. The guy was called Derek and she reckoned Derek was the business.

“Whatcha make of the guy guy?” Aidan asked me at the bar.

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Nice guy. He tried to sell me pills when Sharon was at the jacks but.”

“Me too,” Aidan nodded. “D’you take any off him?”

“Fucker was looking for a tenner a go.”

“Cheeky bastard,” repeats Aidan. “Still, nice fella,”

A week later the big romance has bitten the dust. Derek hasn’t returned any of Sharon’s calls. In fact, the number he gave her doesn’t seems to be out of order. Needless to say, her friends are rallying around.

“You know, he could be a secret agent, called away on a case?”

“Maybe another hash dealer has a beef with him and they’ve gone to the mattresses.”

“Fuck off lads.”

“Do you know where he works?” Sean ask.

“He said he works for the E.S.B.,” Sharon snorts. “But that was probably a lie too.”

(You know, the more I hear about this Derek guy, the more I secretly admire him…)

“Well I for one refuse to stand in judgement,” I tell them. “I mean, when you’re trying to get a girl to sleep with you, who has pretended to work for the E.S.B. at one stage or another?”

“Send one of his mates a text,” suggests Paula. “Tell them you’re pregnant. That’ll flush the fucker out.”

Sharon shakes her head.

“Wouldn’t work…”

“Why not?”

“Ah, you know, it was a small tent.”

(Aidan and I exchange glances. Derek’s borderline folk hero status is evaporating fast…)

“He didn’t seal the deal?”

“I’m so disillusioned…”

“I don’t believe in anything anymore…”

“Just tell us though,” says Brendan. “Would it have made any difference if he’d said he worked for An Post?”

“Bus Eireann? Grand pensionable jobs there…”

She tells us to feck off.

“I never expected any sympathy from ye bollockses.”

“Irish Rail… Would you have slept with him if he was a train driver? Ah come on, I bet you would have…?”

A version of this article appeared in the Evening Herald, September 6 2008

Now all you have to do is find yourself somewhere to sit down and you can stuff your face. Chances are, though, that if you haven’t been to a Mongolian restaurant before, you won’t necessarily figure all of this out on your own. You won’t want to look like an idiot, so you’ll have no alternative but to just stare at what everyone else is doing and pretty much copy that. Which is fine. Copying what everyone else is doing in a Mongolian restaurant is fine.

But life is not a Mongolian restaurant. That’s what I’m here to tell you. Okay, it is to a certain extent. There is, I will concede, a “correct” way of doing things. If you’re an adult this will mean a lot of fake smiling, making polite conversation, talking about getting on the property ladder and fake smiling while making polite conversation with someone who is talking about getting on the property ladder.

Which is fine if that’s what you want to do. But if you don’t, I have some alternative which I would strongly recommend. They are messing, pricking, acting the bollocks, acting the eejit, acting the cunt, jig-acting, play-acting, playing fuck, acting up, skipping, lepping and/or jumping.

My point is that, in life, you only get to play one hand of cards. So is there really any point in caring too much about what people think about you? I don’t think there is. There are worse things that could happen to you than being pointed at and stared at by a bunch of outraged Mongolians.

[Published as part of 'Mongrel Magazine Guide to Life', circa 2005. I don't remember when exactly this was written. Certainly, the trip to the Mongolian restaurant which inspired it happened the same day in 2005 that this story was on the cover of Village magazine. I remember it because that was the day my parents took me out to celebrate my birthday.]