I thought of Battlestar Galactica while at sundry mid-Cork St Patrick’s Day parades. To be clear, it wasn’t the first thing I thought of. The first was yet another pang of realisation about time passing

I’d like to think that if the world were flipped and fantasy fiction originated in the central Asian deserts of Taklamakan or the Silk Road caravanserai like Bukhara, that the bad guys would be all be called Gary and Phil and Paula

You’ll never forget your daddy dangling you from the back of the sofa

"I think of my own hobbies and it’s a question that it’s worth asking ourselves, especially (but not only) if you work in the self-employed-y, create-y, bullsh*t-y space."

We are always going on about the theme tune to Glenroe triggering PTSD about homework, but what about the TV shows no one else remembers?

Heckling is like someone putting in a claim for fake whiplash. They are taking money away from the group.

Comfortable, dark, anonymous, private, not pinting in the full glare of a shopping public. We do that effortlessly.

"Road safety ads are still fairly hard-hitting but don’t compare to Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Man of the World’ which soundtracked the downfall of a man from Sunday League goal-scorer to culpable homicide."

Wouldn’t it be great to take back more roads for sport and messing. Redefine them a little bit.

"It was my mother’s habit to tap the barometer every morning and announce which way the weather was going."