Somehow I still have a weekly column in the Indo. My folks would be proud and probably slightly ashamed, as they usually were.
I haven’t had the most glittering career, but I am comforted by the fact that while I may not have scaled the giddy heights of high office, at least I’m not Anthony Scarramuchi. The Mooch, a modern day Icarus (or possibly Dickarus), apparently flew too close to the giant orange orb currently occupying the Oval Office. He spent a mere ten days as White House comms director, during which time he actually managed to be even more zany than his predecessor, Sean ‘Spicey’ Spicer.
Looking like a Mafiosa version of Steve Guttenberg, Mooch’s lack of understanding of the role became apparent just a few days in when he gave what he claims was not an interview with the New Yorker, in which he ranted in the style of Scarface’s Tony Montana about killing leakers and how Steve Bannon attempts to fellate himself. It is presumed it was a metaphor, as Bannon doesn’t look like he could tie his own shoes.
The question now is, who will they get to replace him? The world waits with baited breath to see what deranged goon President Caligula hires next to oversee America’s steady descent into madness. I hear OJ Simpson might be available soon.
The news that WOW Air are suspending their Cork-Iceland flights came as sad news, although hardly surprising. Why would you want to go there when you can have all its benefits in our beloved capital city, Dublin. Marvel at nine euro pints, gasp at the Northern Lights of O’Connell Street as you stumble back to your hotel at 3am, and be enthralled by ancient geysers blowing hot air about Dublin’s superiority in the GAA. You can even bring back a memento of your trip with a tasteful bag for life full of traditional Icelandic party food, as recommended by Peter Andre and Kerry Katona. Sher where would you be going.
The will-they/won’t-they saga that is the possible Oasis reunion drags on, to the point where you have to say that surely it is time to let it go. Some moments are best left in the past, as evidenced by my friends who went to the Guns N Roses reunion gig in Slane. Twenty years ago they didn’t have a care in the world, crowdsurfing and moshing like there was no tomorrow. This time round they complained about site access and wait times, as infrastructure and well planned logistics became more important than chugging pints and forming human pyramids. The message was clear: Rocking out is great, but so is lying on a sofa eating nachos watching Love Island.
By the time I’m 57 I plan on having an empty nest. My youngest child will have turned 18 and I plan on drop kicking them into an unforgiving world and turning my house into an Air BnB or possibly a cannabis grow house, depending on which is more tax efficient. It was a thought that crossed my mind when I heard that Adam Clayton and his wife had a baby. Clayton is perfect dad material, as through his time with U2 he has learned how to deal with youngsters (Larry), how wrapping up warm and wearing a wooly hat is important in all weather (Edge) and how to deliver a long, tedious lecture about personal responsibility to disinterest teenagers (Bono).
I often see my role in my house as being like the bass player in a rock band – my wife is the vocalist (obviously), my feral sons are like Animal from the Muppets on drums, while my teenage daughter is on lead guitar, performing screeching solos any time anyone tries to get her to keep time. I’m just there in the background, dum-de-dumming away quietly, apart from the occasional prog-rock style solo when electronics are left on overnight. Despite my less than stellar role in the family, I think that this period of my life is my Joshua Tree, when I am my best self. I’m sure that despite my idle thoughts of the bliss of an empty nest, come the time I will be desperately trying to get the band back together and roll out the classics, like The Time Dad Thought He Had Broken His Arm In The Waterpark And It Turned Out To Just Be A Bruise, or Dad’s Attempt At Lasagna Makes Everyone Sick. Hopefully they will want to get back together, even once or twice a year, and they don’t sue me for royalties for turning them into fodder for a column.