Here's is an article from The Kerryman explaining where this man sits in the Irish psyche....

No millionaires made on
Bunny Carr's `Quicksilver'

THE news that Ireland is to get its own version of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire hosted by Gay Byrne is proof positive of how deeply the Celtic Tiger has buried his fangs in the national psyche. It is also a startling reminder of how far we have travelled in a very short length of time.

I was reminded of this the other day when watching the odious Chris Tarrant goading a hapless contestant who was torn between equal measures of greed and ignorance for the entertainment of the viewing audience. It is a form of blood sport all of its own. But it has always been thus.

Older readers will remember that it is not that long ago when a cash-strapped Ireland was held in thrall by a programme called Quicksilver which consistently topped the TAM ratings every week.

For those of you too young to remember this titanic effort, Quicksilver was a programme where contestants pitted their general knowledge in a quiz where the stakes started at one old penny, eventually rising to the princely sum of a fiver. Great indeed was the excitement.

The show was hosted by a man called Bunny Carr. Now Bunny was a man who looked like a cross between a genial uncle and an about to be canonised saint. He oozed charm and compassion, pity and despair, helpfulness and fairness and was the greatest thing since the invention of the sliced pan.

The centrepiece of the studio set was a big board comprising 30 lights which disappeared one by one if the unfortunate contestant didn't answer quickly enough.

The initial prize money on offer was one old penny which meant the first correct answer resulted in a triumphant bonanza of 12 and a half new pence. Things hotted up a little as the next hurdle was the threepenny bit.

If the contestant managed to answer this one, he or she then was catapulted into the happy situation of being eligible of having a shot for thirty old sixpences. The clever and the wise having surmounted these obstacles was now in a position to play for thirty old half-crowns - big bucks indeed.

The super-clever would then find themselves playing for thirty ten-bob notes, or if they had the wisdom of Solomon and the nerves of a Formula One Rally driver, even confronting the Holy Grail of competing for the grand prize of 30 one-pound notes.

Now this was indeed a Pilgrim's Progress as very few contestants managed to get to the big bucks with all their lights intact. This was due to a number of factors not the least of which was the divilish and evil mind of whatever cruel person or persons drew up the questions.

A wilting contestant white-knuckled and sweating at the prospect of winning thirty threepenny bits could find himself or herself confronted by such questions as; `What was the name of Alexander the Great's Horse', or `What did Admiral Nelson have for breakfast on the morning of Waterloo.'

That was bad enough, but there was even worse to come. Because to confuse matters further there was a musical element to trap the unwary.

Sweating contestants would, brows puckered in concentration, be forced to pick their way through a musical minefield laid by a man called Norman Metcalfe who played an early form of the electric organ. The unfamiliar sounds of this strange instrument further served to confuse the unwary.

Now no offence is intended to Mr Metcalfe who I'm sure was an honourable and decent man , but this instrument made everything he played sound exactly the same.

In fact, even those with lengthy letters after their names after studying for millenia in august academies of music would have enormous difficulty in separating `The Rose of Tralee' from `Air on a G string' by the late Mr Bach.

The musical range demanded of the contestants was as horrendous as the outcome was certain. Bereft of such dubious comforts as phoning a friend or asking the audience, the poor victims of this amphitheatre of cruelty would invariably falter and fall long before the final hurdle.

Indeed I would not be surprised if many of them didn't have a friend in the world after making a public spectacle of themselves much to the delight of the nation.

And through it all Bunny would smile, cajole, and even give helpful hints as lights flickered out and threepenny bits and sixpences vanished from the board. This was television at its best and at its most cruel.

The one thing that always struck me was the symbolism of having thirty lights representing thirty pieces of silver. Didn't that happen somewhere before.