irish times

THE MAN WHO WALKED INTO WALLS

It’s six o’clock on a Thursday evening and Hartigan’s – an old fashioned, family-run boozer on the doorstep of Stephen’s Green – is filling up with after-work drinkers. I’ve heard a few stories about this place. But this is my first time across its threshold.

With its rough-and-ready decor, bizarre zig-zag layout and curious blend of customers, Hartigan’s actually reminds me of nowhere so much (and I realise that this may be a pretty obscure reference for 99% of readers) as Julian’s of Midfield. Read the rest of this article here.

YOU’RE MESSING WITH THE WRONG COUNTRY, SLOVAKIA. MARK MY WORDS.

Just to recap. The Slovaks dupe some innocent punter into smuggling explosives into Ireland, potentially endangering, I dunno, some lives. Then they forget to mention anything about it for a few days. Now they’re insinuating that the whole imbroglio is somehow our fault. If that’s the way you want to play it, Slovakia, fine. No skin off our noses. But know this: you’ve made a powerful enemy this day.

This isn’t Iceland you’re messing. Do you even know what happens to countries who mess with Ireland? Didn’t Slovenia or someone pull you aside, try to talk some sense into you? They didn’t. Well, that’s unfortunate. Because you’re now going to suffer the consequences of Ireland’s wrath. What are we going to do about it? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do about it. Read the rest of this entry »

CHEZ MO!

After stopping off for a quick eye-opener en route, my associate and I are lucky not to lose our reservations at this delightful north inner city eatery.

Despite its’ obvious exclusivity – I am bundled in, he is shooed away – the atmosphere is refreshingly informal.

The décor is modest and unpretentious and, as I search about for a spot to hang my coat and scarf, the proprietress peppers her conversation with quips about my frequent drunkenness and occasional sexual incapacity… Read the rest of this article here.

NEW ADVENTURES IN BABYSITTING (CONTD.)

I’m think Lola might be turning into one of those hipster babies you read about. Seriously. The vintage baby-grows were the first hint. Also I’ve been trying to get into Animal Collective for about eight years now to no avail. She hears them on my iPod for ten seconds and she’s nodding along and playing air sampler or whatever. Now she’s enrolled in a crèche right next door to, well, I’m not going to say which bar. But if she starts hanging out with Maser, that’s the last straw. Read the rest of this entry »

NOT A GOOD DAY AT THE OFFICE

Bumped into a fellow freelancer on the street today. She mentioned reading my Marco Pierre White interview. Talked about a couple of tough assignments she’d taken on herself. Assumed White was the toughest interviewee I’d ever come up against. Not by a long shot darling, not by a long shot. The most torturous interview situation I’ve ever faced was this one. It was an ordeal for all concerned. Read the rest of this entry »

WILLIE JOE GOES OFF MESSAGE…

Sacrilege! Regular commenter Massey sent this my way yesterday. I originally intended to post it with a witty photoshopped reply of my own. But I’m afraid “Up the Rossies” is just such a profoundly tragic slogan, there was really nowhere funny I could take it. Read the rest of this entry »

THE ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY

January is undoubtedly the most depressing month of the year. To celebrate, I’m republishing the most depressing article I’ve ever written. If you make it to the end without killing yourself, there’s a prize.

MISCELLANEOUS AMUSING ITEMS I’VE COME ACROSS #21

High glee alright. There’s part of me would like to know what the hell a glee club is. But I suspect its more fun not knowing.

WARREN BEATTY HAD SEX WITH 12,775 WOMEN*

*Well, that’s according to this utterly bizarre article I’ve just read in the Guardian. Biographer Peter Biskind came up with the figure by calculating the number of days that passed from the day Beatty (pictured above between shags) lost his virginity at 19 to the date in 1991 when he met Annette Bening and presumably became monogamous. Biskind “then applied the admittedly questionable logic that during that entire period Beatty slept with an average of one woman a day.” Read the rest of this entry »

WE CALL HIM POTHOLE…

He’s the son of a well known Dublin businessman and he fancies himself something of a man about town. Pothole’s nickname derives from that fact that his personality is so grating, his manner so repugnant, people will go to almost any length to avoid bumping into him. Read the rest of this piece here.