I did my Leaving Cert when I was sixteen years old, and I did reasonably well. Not as well as I should have, mind, what with having the motivation of a large, moss-infected boulder, but …

It seems that the latest craze is writing letters to your 16-year-old self, full to the chunkies with insight, compassion, and the kind of sarcasm that’s ever-so-subtly poignant and has the ould tears globbing like …

While the rest of the country enjoys a bank holiday spent on the couch, absent-mindedly picking the sweat-residue from around the buttons on the Sky remote, down in Cork we’re celebrating our annual jazz festival.

Dear Lily,
Go away. Just … go away.
Yours, Sweary

All over the gaff, from all angles, there’s a lot of chit chat (veering into shit chat) on the topic of illegal downloading, or piracy for those of us who like to paint it as …

I promised myself that I wouldn’t write about The Rose Of Tralee this year.

But then, I also promised myself that I’d uncover the meaning behind that strange graffiti in the jacks of An Cruiscin Lan, …

Because hookers are legal. Because there are stone walls and the grass is green. Because you’re positively encouraged to be shcuttered, fluthered, or just plain dhrunk (extra h’s mandatory).

What a shitty time poor Farah Fawcett had yesterday! To be interrupted in your induction into Heaven’s heavenly regiments by bawls of…
“Holy Jesus, is that Michael fucking Jackson?”
“O.M.GEEEE I think it is! Out of the …