This will be my last post on TNGH. You can get to my new blog here. There is nothing there yet, but a critique of Irish liberalism inspired by Bernadette Devlin McAliskey ought to be finished and pos...
I have been on Twitter since August 2010. I was considering tweeting what I am about to write beneath on this blog, but I need to go into a certain amount of detail so I will sacrifice immediacy and ...
I leafed through the newspaper again, more quickly this time, in search of the courtroom sketch which had indelibly soaked itself into my memory, a third-hand stain I was now trying to examine at the...
Incidents involving Chelsea’s John Terry and Liverpool’s Luis Suarez have caused a stir in English football recently, with the two allegedly (and respectively) referring to QPR’s An...
The lawnmower jolts and tips slightly to the right on the wet grass and I twist the wheel left then right, the engine still propelling the great orange beast forwards with its front wheels locked and...
“Last week they were blue. By the weekend they were pink and blue, and then on Monday they had turned pink and decided to die.”
The whole of Dublin is ringing wet, dripping in a three-quarter-light as it hangs, pegged and cloudy, from calligraphic jet-stream washing lines and the sealion-head bobbing of the river intermittent...
A single blonde hair stuck to a t-shirt I picked off the floor of my bedroom and packed, without folding.
Find below a final draft of my undergraduate dissertation (.pdf). Myth and the Recreation of Meaning in the Cinema of Theo Angelopoulos This, I would suggest, is a reasonably good introduction to Ang...
There is a space saved for a town in which, in the rapture of sudden romance or breaths momentarily caught in the grasp of passion denied those, socially or by institution, perhaps, a man leads anoth...
‘Bet you’re delighted to finally be leaving this proddy shithole, man,’ Anton smiles, without eye-contact, trying to set blades of grass on fire with his lighter as we sit on the fringe of the cricke...
The noise it makes sucking inside my chest the noise is inside, sucking pull out, to where
As I am writing this, the world’s football media are in the process of digesting tonight’s ‘Clasico‘, an occasion which was predictably low on aesthetic pleasures (Messi’...
Amy has backed Anton up against a railing in the smoking area, and they are kissing one another passionately. He sees me and Esteban and flicks his wrist in that characteristic way, skilfully maintai...
'Slow news day?'
All of a sudden, the city seems to have become monstrous. The buildings on either side of you heave outwards and appear to bend in their mid-sections to loom overhead, obscuring a creeping, atonal sk...
My friend and roommate, C***** W****, recently published a short essay (one of a series on irony and its applications) criticising what he perceived as the dominant cultural reception given to RTÉ...
This is a poem I wrote. I have never ‘published’ any poetry I have written, with good reason. A poem about hatred. T. Smyth may be pleased to note that it’s not in free verse.
The old captain laughed so hard as the various passengers boarded his robust ship. Such a robust ship! he thought. As far as he was concerned, it didn’t get any more robust than the SS Francesc...
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