I didn’t stick around long enough last night to see Katelyn Cummins crowned as this year’s  Rose of Tralee. At least one newspaper is hailing the fact that as an apprentice electrician, she breaks away from the usual I’m-not-dumb-I-have-a-Master’s and am the way to getting my Ph D.

All that was an effort to emphasise that the Rose competition wasn’t just a bunch of lovely girls whose face and other bits were their fortune.   What makes me swear and want to throw the cat at the telly  is the emotional manipulation the contest involves.

The  candidate has a granny who died last year to whom they were devoted, the candidate is working with children with special needs, the candidate has a brother she loves dearly and who was left disabled in a random mugging last Christmas Eve, the candidate works day and night rescuing abandoned pets.   That doesn’t begin. to cover all the scenarios where, if we say “I really don’t think she should win the title” , we’ll be attacked as heartless ghouls. Her granny died, she saved that wee puppy, she did a stint working in a leper colony,  and now you don’t want her courage rewarded by giving her the Rose title?  You monster.

Telling us about granny or showing us Mum and Dad grinning madly in the audience may help round out a picture of this person’s life but it’s beside the point. The Rose is a beauty contest nuanced with the candidate’s ability to talk or dance or sing or have some similar skill. Being a Brain of Ireland or Mother Teresa made lovelu  is threading emotion into judgement. And judges are supposed to be detached in their judgements. 

Alternatively  cancel the whole bloody show, give Dáithí O  Sé a taser and put him in a cage with Conor McGregor  and televise what happens.