I ran out of space last week before getting to the main point of the discourse on Fianna Fáil in disarray (this could turn into a work of friction, there’s lots left to talk about!), which is that the largest political party in the country seems ...

Jack Butler Yeats is my favourite artist. His work is always worth seeing.

A safari-ride into the chaotic, lawless world of LA’s public transport system  There’s a line in the 1994 film Speed where Sandra Bullock, white-knuckled behind the wheel of a hijacked Los Angeles city bus, tries to keep it from ...

If you'd told me ten years ago that Ireland's next presidential contest might pit a man whose feet were insured for $57 million against another who was recently the subject of a civil rape case, I'd have assumed you'd been at the poitín.

I was 12 years old when I played against Cora Staunton for the first – and mercifully – last time. It was a game between Breaffy and Ballintubber and to be eligible, you had to still be in national school. It was the spring of 1994.

In a previous existence, many moons ago, I had some great fun poking fun at a Fianna Fáil party of its time that was going around with little more cohesion than a bunch of headless chickens.

I rarely venture to Dublin now. Too much noise, too much traffic, too much hassle. On the rare occasions when I have to visit our capital city, to tell the truth, I can’t wait to get away from it.

Something curious is happening in the prosperous suburbs of Ireland. Sales of camping equipment have surged among individuals who have no interest in traditional camping.

When did you last say your prayers? It’s a cheeky question to ask, I know. Because, like the question – have you stopped beating your wife? – it makes all kinds of presumptions. Not least that people don’t pray. Or that prayer has any value.

Like the foreboding storm in Ray Bradbury’s 1962 novel Something Wicked This Way Comes, the atmosphere across the United States is electric with anxiety.