There's something terribly evasive about our relationship with ageing. We acknowledge it with the same stoicism we reserve for discussions about taxes, the weather, and the inevitable annual defeat of our Mayo football team.

There is something uncomfortably painful about watching someone try desperately to be liked.

There's something unmistakably nauseating about watching the well-fed, centrally heated citizens of the western world wring their sanitised hands over what they insist on calling "the refugee crisis". Crisis. . .

A peculiar malaise creeps across Ireland's digital landscape, manifesting in hunched shoulders and downcast eyes in the blue glow illuminating faces from Louth to Louisburgh.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was. . . 'Me at the zoo'.

All readers will be familiar with the Titanic, that grand vessel of hubris and tragedy. Its wreckage lies in dignified silence, a memorial to human folly and the price of unchecked ambition.

From my perch in Castlebar, contemplating the ravaged trees and fences of our home's perimeter post an epic storm, I am considering that most bourgeois of life's transitions: retirement.

From my perch in Mayo, watching America's latest political metamorphosis feels like observing a peculiar theatrical production where the intermission lasted precisely four years.

There's something deliciously perverse about writing an article on minimalism while seated at my magnificently cluttered desk, surrounded by books and folders that threaten to avalanche at any moment, empty coffee cups creating their own abstract ...

My dear readers, I hope you have survived the recent calamitous weather conditions, veering between the complementary glows of amber, yellow, orange, and the elusive but thrilling red.

May perpetual light shine upon  The faces of all who rest here. May the lives they lived  Unfold further in spirit.

In the depths of that winter night, when even the stones seemed to hold their breath in anticipation, the ancient grotto stood as a humble sentinel on the outskirts of Bethlehem with its weathered walls, carved by centuries of wind and rain, bearing ...

The winter wind swept across the Judean hills with a fierce determination, biting through clothing and carrying the acrid scent of wood smoke from distant campfires.

In the wake of Storm Darragh's furious assault on our Emerald Isle, thousands of households found themselves thrust into an involuntary experiment in time travel, catapulted back to an era before the digital umbilical cord tethered us to our ...

After months of waiting and expectation, the long-awaited sequel to Gladiator arrived at my local cinema. I was characteristically early, too early, enduring the 20 minutes of adverts by gorging on my supply of popcorn and coke.

In an age where we worship at the altar of precocious youth, where Mark Zuckerberg's catastrophically myopic declaration in 2007 that "young people are just smarter" passes for wisdom, there's something deliciously subversive about the late bloomer.

In the fascinating array of Irish wildlife lurks a diminutive killer with the swagger of a medieval bishop and the murderous efficiency of a Sicilian hitman.

There's something rather splendid about watching the human machine wind down with all the grace of a Victorian music box that's been dropped down a flight of stairs.

The story of Irish Christianity provides a fascinating analogy to Ireland's current situation.

There's something guilt-inducing about watching a documentary on the making of a charity single designed to feed the starving masses of Africa while lounging on a well warmed sofa, picking at the remains of a pizza and sipping a cold beer.