Property Crash went far too far in being absolutely terrifying. But I do know it was very scary indeed, the scariest thing that's been on RTE in a long while, scarier even than the Late, Late Show's Ballinspittle special from 1985.

Basically, this was everything that every economic prophet of doom has been saying for years, except all said in one programme, and all turned up to form one shrill note. The general message was that the property-boom years are over, and that there's a good chance there's going to be a crash in house prices, and that a lot of people who bought on the cusp of the boom are going to end up in negative equity, and hello repo man, hello childhood bedroom.

This was all described in terms that even dunderheads like me could comprehend . . . that if 'A' happens to the construction sector and it's added to 'B', which is what's going to happen to the US economy, then we'll end up with 'C', which isn't cancer, but is still bad news.

That said, the programme did more or less imply that you would get cancer, when it decided to single out the story of one man . . .

one of hundreds of thousands of Britons who went into negative equity in the early '90s . . . who developed a brain tumour apparently from the stress of having his house repossessed.

This was probably the most ludicrously terrifying thing that the programme did, but there was also the music . . . the kind of stuff Austrian scientists expose albino rats to just to watch them try and eat their way out of glass tanks . . . and presenter Richard Curran's ever-portentous tones to consider.

The cancer bit apart, I'm not saying anything about the programme's approach was or wasn't justified . . . again, I wouldn't know . . . but it was very effective.

It was a brilliantly-made show in fact, that achieved exactly what it set out to do, which was to scare the bejaysus out of people. I'm sure there were many viewers in newly-built houses and apartments from Rochfortbridge to Rush weeping by the end.

From the occupied territories of Westmeath to the lebensraum of the West Bank. . . Blue Suede Jew, as you might have guessed from the title, was about an Elvis Presley impersonator from Israel. What marks Gilles Elmalih out from, oh, about 10% of other Elvis impersonators is that he takes his fandom to tragically extreme lengths; he actually believes that Elvis is speaking to him and asking him to carry on his gospel. This Elvis does by throwing messages written in Hebrew on scrunched-up pieces of paper on to Gilles's living-room floor, or by communicating through the medium of Gilles's 16year-old son. (If you ever wondered how a dead Elvis might sound via a spiritual medium, he sounds like the one in the wheelchair from Little Britain's Lou and Andy sketches. ) Gilles of course was a loon, by turns self-aware and childlike, but good-humoured and very easy to warm to. It made it all the harder to watch him stumble from one folly to another, egged on, perhaps disgracefully, by the programme itself.

The great thing about being directed by voices from the other side though is that no temporal knock-back is ever going to upset you too much. And so, despite witnessing Gilles suffer the huge indignity of not even making it out of the heats of the World Elvis Impersonation Championships, one could reasonably hope he'd carry on chin up, driven as ever.

Finally, finally, after years since its first airing in the States, hit comedy-drama Entourage arrives on these shores. A most original idea for a TV show . . . aimed at men (and at women who like to roll their eyes and go "Tut . . .

men!") but not based on a theme of crime or mystery . . . it's centred on Vince, a young New York actor trying to make it in LA, and his three buddies from back home, who all live together in a massive lads' pad stuffed with guitars and arcade games and with a golf driving range on the roof. The latter setting yielded the best bit of dialogue in episode one: "Hey!

Next time, aim it west. I don't need Ed Begley rolling up here in his electric car again." "That ain't Begley's house. Pierce Brosnan's is the one with the Spanish roof."

I say "the best bit of dialogue" but really this was the only bit of dialogue I could make out, so aggressively fast-paced was the speech, so muddy the diction.

Apart from some ridiculously beautiful women to look at, I found it all a bit in-your-face, but if you're a saggy-titted male who has posters of Muhammed Ali or Bruce Lee on your wall, a copy of Howard Marks's Mr Nice on your window sill and wears orange- or tan-coloured t-shirts (even in winter) that bear legends like 'The Hoff ' or 'Pity the Fool', then this is the kind of sad-bastard entertainment for you.

Reviewed
Future Shock: Property Crash Monday, RTE
One Blue Suede Jew Monday, BBC2
Entourage Monday, RTE Two