there's the makings of a breakaway trade union for waiters who are obliged to explain over and again what the phrase 'all-day' actually means; and there's the new-fangled custom of eating chips in the morning. (Isn't that nauseating, or is it just me? ) Before 10o'clock last Thursday morning, chips were being eaten on The Ray D'Arcy Show (although, mercifully, no one was making squelching noises while doing it). D'Arcy had several people in the studio with him, but as is so often the case with his programme, it was hard to tell how many of them were actually supposed to be there. You pay for Ray D'Arcy and you gets a swarm of giggling, Micra-driving members of the production team. Who they all are and what their function is - apart from apparently standing around waiting to be flirted with by Ray - is a mystery.

The object of the exercise was to find out which potato makes the best chips. D'Arcy said he'd been up at 7.20am that morning peeling spuds, which seems a heroic amount of effort to put in for an item that lasted only about five minutes. It just goes to show how not working for a state-funded broadcasting service can stop you from getting notions.

During the potato assessment, nationalism - that old chip on all our shoulders - also put in an appearance. So in the red corner there was the Maris Piper, which is seemingly an English potato, and in the green corner there was the Rooster, which is seemingly One Of Our Own. D'Arcy was up for the Rooster, with an armalite in one hand and a photo of De Valera in the other. It was only later that someone texted in to say potatoes all come from Peru anyway.

In any event, the Maris Piper was unanimously declared the winner. It had the most pleasing taste and texture and was the most "crispy". (Crisp! The word is crisp! And get your elbows off the table! ) That same morning over on RT�? R1, The Tubridy Show was tackling WB Yeats. You might have thought that subject would offer less of the porridge and more of the meat and beans, intellectually speaking don't you know, but you'd have been wrong. It's just like calling them pommes de terres frites instead of chips - they may sound fancier but they're still fluffy at heart, and they're still nothing without a pinch of salt. In any case, most talk shows typically microwave any kind of fare, so as to present a summation of an entire issue after just eight minutes on high.

The item under discussion on Tubridy was model Carla Bruni's interpretation of the Yeats poem, 'Those Dancing Days Are Gone', from her new album No Promises. The song is throaty and quirky and allround very much 'Je T'Aime', and Tubridy was all for it. But his guest, Michael McGlynn of Anuna, was scandalised - decently and good-humouredly scandalised, but scandalised all the same.

Then they played Anuna's version of 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree', and it became clear why. No matter how you feel about Anuna, they're not exactly Serge Gainsbourg are they? All those unearthly choirs, all that singing like a nun? you'd swear WB Yeats had never sat on a toilet, or entertained an unclean thought about Maud Gonne, or tucked into a hearty breakfast.