Frank of Ireland

Frank is a welcome and hilarious reminder that we could always be worse.

If it had dialogue more like, say, Derry Girls or Father Ted, or indeed Catastrophe, it could be sublime. It’s not terrible but, like so much about our lives at the moment, there’s something missing.

Beyond the endless jokes about poo and sex, it was this seam of sibling tenderness that kept it ticking along. That was just as well as the giggles were of the whoopee-cushion-at-a-funeral variety.

Frank of Ireland is under three hours of total bingeing — brief but still a long time to be deliberating on whether a show is a bad man-child comedy or a spotty parody of bad man-child comedies.

Overall, the sense is of an opportunity wasted – especially as the series wears on and there is no sign of any change or enlightenment, apart from tiny, insubstantial flashes from poor, downtrodden Doofus. Still, it will do the Gleesons – rightly established and acknowledged talents in film and television – no harm. You just wish it could have done us some good.

There are funny moments in Frank Of Ireland, but Frank is so cartoonishly awful that we wonder how he ever got friends or a girlfriend to begin with. Either way, we’re not intrerested in finding out.