#frank-callanan

#frank-callanan

George Hamilton's commentary has been a significant part of Irish soccer history, especially during the 1990 World Cup, where his voice became synonymous with the team's journey.

Connell moves easily between philosophy, farming and writing, checking the oven and returning to a conversation that veers from cattle to climate change.

Dylan's choice of Patreon over Substack is puzzling, as many major artists have opted for the latter to connect with fans and share their thoughts.

Leaving influential Kerry forward free represented an egregious miscalculation on the part of Jim McGuinness. It's never that simple.

Amano De Londra Miura showcased her stunning sean nós talents live on TV, putting the Irish language back on the map and highlighting its cultural importance.

Brian Cody's views on the media at large, or at least that wretched part of it tasked with covering hurling, were dim. Roughly similar in wattage to Bobby Knight.

You know, this story is a bit different, right? We always do the Bird-Magic thing where we combine the narratives of Larry Bird and Magic Johnson. And really, what I wanted to do with this book was just tilt the camera a little bit differently, change that perspective and zoom in on that origin story in rural Indiana in the 1970s.

"I haven't heard him sing yet," Flannery confesses, in answer to the burning question, when we sit down after a rehearsal in Nuns Island theatre in Galway.

I remember seeing it in drama school. I remember being so profoundly moved by it. I remember being so frightened by the performances in terms of seeing both sides to the thing that I think for most of us is, the most alive thing in our life, which is these, like, romantic relationships and the kind of inception of those things and the death of those things.

The 24/7 grind of a politician is not for the faint-hearted as the likes of Simon Coveney and Catherine Martin will tell you. Former TDs who stood down or lost their Dáil seat at the last general election say why they haven't looked back.

"As time wore on I found myself increasingly turning to my guitar instead of other people in times of loneliness and sorrow and confusion," a spoken passage from "Pathol O.G.," is not a line you'd expect to hear from the author of "Cold Blooded Old Times." But familiarity with the full sweep of Callahan's catalog gives his uncharacteristically direct expression power.

The Irish government will give 2,000 artists unrestricted weekly stipends in a program officials described as a "recognition, at government level, of the important role of the arts in Irish society." After a successful three-year pilot, the Irish government made its basic income program for artists permanent. Similar pilots have been launched here in the United States, but they're supported primarily by the nonprofit sector.

With literacy rates declining across OECD countries, building healthy habits around books is truly essential. Allowing reading at dinner started as one of those on-the-spot parental solutions. Letting them have a copy of Bunny Vs Monkey or The Beano while they ate seemed like a more ethical solution for keeping them in their chairs for the duration of the meal than, say, duct tape.

From the outset, in the novel's prologue, Anna tells us she is determined to account for herself and her life. But we are to expect no ordinary narrative, concerned only with actual events, evidence-based or relying on historical data. No, Anna is interested in the climate of the psyche and the vibrations of the soul. Can it be that the very things we cannot quantify or rationalise are what make life meaningful?

When you reach a certain age, one of the things you notice at the turn of the year is the "stuff" you have accumulated. Old newspapers, documents and books jostle with the detritus of life, from pieces of dead coral from Barbados to an old label that never made it onto a bottle of Guinness. I have spent the last decade preaching to my adult children, telling them to stop buying things.

In 2005, I gave an interview to The Sunday Times, in the UK, and was accurately described as having "severed all ties" with the sport. The reporter, Paul Kimmage, asked why I'd chosen imposed exile, and I told him, "For the last five or six years, the most important thing in my life has been my family. It was nothing against tennis; tennis was my love and passion, but after 30-odd years of it, I needed a break."

Dilara, the protagonist of this début novel, is consumed by the absence of a stable home in her life. She and her family flee Turkey, where she is from, after a failed coup in 2016. When they end up in Italy, something inexplicable happens: Dilara's bathroom transforms into a cell in an infamous prison on the outskirts of Istanbul.

Buckley's tribute to her Hamnet co-star at the Critics' Choice awards was better than the preaching we often hear The identity of Jessie Buckley's husband is wrapped in more mystery than the whereabouts of the Ark of the Covenant, or why anyone watches Mrs Brown's Boys. It is known that his name is Freddie, that he is British (which is not his fault) and he works in mental health. His surname and age have never been revealed.

The glamorous brunette was on The Late Late Show GAA special on Friday night. The Sam Maguire was in the middle of the foyer. She said everyone was walking up to it, touching it, getting photos.

Finnegan's Wake: An Immersive Ghost Story, presented by 13th Floor Theater, plunges audience members into the beautiful, dysfunctional Finnegan-Plurabelle family. Scenic designer Treigh Buchet, lighting designer Meghan Schultz, and ephemera designer Michelle Josette Crashette transfigure the San Francisco Mint into an Irish family home on the banks of a mystical river. Audience members are free to explore the spaces before the show begins with libation in hand. When the dinner bell rings, the show commences.

In a recent feature by Niamh Horan in this paper, Sarah McInerney said that as an ­interviewer, "holding back gets you so much more than going in studs first". Coming from the latest Morning Ireland (RTÉ1, weekdays, 7am) co-host, this was a tad troubling for fans who had for long regarded her adversarial approach as an outstanding feature.

Skip to main content Illustration by The New Yorker; Source photograph Michael Lionstar Listen and subscribe: Apple | Spotify | Google | Wherever You Listen Sign up to receive our weekly Books & Fiction newsletter. Joseph O'Neill reads his story Light Secrets, from the January 26, 2026, issue of the magazine. O'Neill is the author of a story collection and five novels, including Netherland, which won the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction in 2009, The Dog, and Godwin, which was published in 2024.

Sophia Stewart poses a choice that many biographers struggle with: "what to do with the boring bits."

The ghost of a previous lover is always a challenge, particularly if you (mistakenly) believe that she's actually dead. This is the unenviable situation for Lily, the protagonist of O'Farrell's second novel, who is swept off her feet by dashing architect Marcus and in short order moves in with him. Lily takes his assurances that her predecessor Sinead is no longer with us to mark a more permanent absence;

A writer is a kind of magician. Their job is to create living, three-dimensional people out of the ordinary stuff of ink and paper. This is no easy task, because readers can't literally hear, touch, or observe a character. Everything that defines a human being in real life-the physical space they occupy, or how they smell, feel, and sound-is stripped away, replaced by description. But authors have one major, mystical advantage: They can show you what's happening inside of someone's brain.

Years ago, I wrote a series of articles for my college newspaper about competing in contests for which I was comically unprepared: arm wrestling, archery, Scrabble. The compulsion to fail dramatically continued into my freelance writing career, when I finagled my way into the front corral at the Los Angeles Marathon. (I stuck with the élites for all of two hundred meters.) My inclination was Plimptonian.

You are leaving work, your suit still damp from the morning's downpour, the skin on your palms peeling. You are clutching two supermarket bags, tins of cream soup and tuna knocking against one another. The rain is hard and your anorak is cheap. You are on your way to Stockbridge, to your parents' house, which only your father inhabits now that your mother is gone.