Joe Duffy to leave Liveline at the end of June after 27 years
Joe Duffy has announced he is to leave his role as presenter of RTÉ Radio phone-in show, Liveline, at the end of June.
Making the announcement at the end of Thursday's programme, he told listeners he had had a 'wonderful 27 years' with the programme but he had informed the broadcaster's head of radio late last year that when his contract expired he would not be seeking a renewal. He now looks forward to 'the next chapter', he said.
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Irish Times
3 hours ago
- Irish Times
A Breton in Ireland: ‘My wife calls me a culchie, which I completely embrace'
They always say 'Don't meet your heroes', but for Charlie Le Brun, a fateful day on which he met his musical idol in Westport , Co Mayo , sealed his future in Ireland. Growing up in Brittany, France , he loved music, particularly traditional Breton music, and also had a strong appreciation of Irish music. At 18, he came to Ireland with only one thing in mind, and that was to meet The Chieftains' flute player, Matt Molloy . He travelled to Westport and visited his namesake's pub with a rucksack on his back and his flute under his arm. To his amazement, Molloy came out from the back of the pub and Le Brun played a tune for him. READ MORE His rendition of Moving Cloud was met with Molloy's approval and he was invited to join in a session. Day after day for nearly eight months, he played in Molloy's pub. Before this, Le Brun's only knowledge of Irish music came from recordings and popular CDs. He felt as if his 'horizons were broadened'. 'An Irish music session is much more than just sitting down and playing tunes. It's about communication, the jokes, the banter, the culture and the community that goes around it. I was absolutely welcomed into that first experience in Westport, and I was honestly living the dream.' Le Brun fostered a love for all things Irish while living in Rennes, a city in Brittany. His parents, from Finistère, grew up with more of a farming background. His grandparents were Breton speakers and he spoke Breton, as well as French, at school. From a young age, Le Brun was aware of Breton culture and saw its similarities to Irish music, dance, culture, farming and language. 'I was very intrigued in wanting to learn more about the Irish cousins,' he says. Charlie Le Brun: 'An Irish music session is much more than just sitting down and playing tunes.' Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill His earliest memories centre on Irish and Celtic music being played at home, particularly the sounds of The Chieftains, Planxty and Paul Brady. While still a child, he picked up the timber flute after listening to recordings of Molloy. He would sit in front of the speaker and press play on the CD over and over again to the point where his father would have to move him away, afraid his hearing would be damaged. [ People in Ireland are 'so apologetic. Like, you don't need to apologise for these kinds of simple things' Opens in new window ] 'Sometimes kids get very absorbed, but I still have that kind of personality, I'm very tunnel-focused when I have something in mind.' After his eye-opening experience in Ireland at 18, he knew he would be back. 'I just felt like it was right for me. To put it in a nutshell, I felt I could be myself here and I felt very welcome.' In 2012, Le Brun moved to Belfast and took a job in a call centre. His heart was set on moving to Westport, but securing a job and accommodation proved difficult. Later, after meeting his now wife, Aoife Kelly, he moved to Dublin, where he has lived since 2015. While playing at a wedding in Inishowen, Co Donegal, Le Brun was introduced to Kelly, who was a guest, and 'things clicked from there'. At the time, Le Brun and Kelly did not realise that their relationship was, in a way, written in the stars, decades before. Le Brun's father had visited Dublin in 1976 and he paid a visit to Capel Street in Dublin where he listened to a session with some fiddle players. The fiddle players happened to be Kelly's father and grandfather. Le Brun has certainly fitted well into the Kellys, a strong traditional music family, with his wife playing the concertina. When he first arrived in Ireland to live he struggled to pronounce some Irish names, such as Gráinne or Siobhán. He also realised that his way of greeting people with a kiss on the cheek was not the done thing in Ireland. Some accents have been difficult for him to understand at times. 'I've been here a long time now, but there are still times where there would be an old man calling at the door and I would have no idea what they're saying.' [ 'I didn't expect to find an exciting life in Dublin' Opens in new window ] One thing that Le Brun admires about Irish people is how they don't shy away from speaking out. He gives the example of Palestine and Kneecap. 'Ireland is one of the only places that just says things how they are, however horrendous they might be. I think it's really fair play to you guys because there's not many people in places in the world where you can have that freedom.' A similarity he sees between Brittany and Ireland is how the younger generation are losing their attachment to their home places as they move to cities for work. Charlie Le Brun: 'Ireland is one of the only places that just says things how they are, however horrendous they might be.' Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill 'I really hope that we can try to repopulate the countryside, maybe through working from home, and give a chance for people to preserve their little heritage.' Le Brun continues to prioritise his love of music while living in Ireland. Two years ago, he recorded an album comprising mostly Brehon music with a Celtic twist with Ryan Molloy, a piano player. He also attends a lot of sessions where he talks about Breton culture. In July, he will be teaching at the Meitheal Traditional Music Summer Camp in Limerick and is offering his skills for timber flute lessons during the year in Dublin. Since moving to Ireland, Le Brun has tried to 'shine a light' on Breton culture. 'That's not from an egocentric point of view in saying we're any better than the rest, it's just simply that the Breton language is disappearing. 'When people say 'where are you from?' I always take a bit of time to explain and even when I play Breton music to the people here in Ireland, they are always intrigued. They're like, 'Oh, that sounds somewhat familiar. Where is that music from?' So, I always stand up to try to promote my culture.' He describes Irish people as being very friendly and generous. Living in Ireland has taught him to go with the flow more and be more relaxed. One of his favourite things about Ireland is the 'good craic'. [ From Delhi to Dublin: 'I ended up making really good friends, they are my safety net' Opens in new window ] He recalls a story of his time in Westport when a local would say 'Take it easy, Charlie' when parting ways. At the time, Le Brun took it literally, thinking the man saw him as looking stiff or regimented. Anytime, he would see him, he would try to change his walk or how he looked, but the man kept saying it. , Le Brun laughs as he explains that he now understands what the man meant. His biggest piece of advice to people who are moving to Ireland would be to engage with the local people as best you can, even if it means going outside your comfort zone. In more recent years, Le Brun and his wife have bought a farm cottage with some land in Kilfenora, Co Clare, where some of Kelly's family came from. There, he enjoys the beauty of the landscape and outdoor activities such as kayaking or fishing. He sees himself probably moving to the countryside full-time at some stage. 'My wife calls me a culchie, which I completely embrace,' he says. We would like to hear from people who have moved to Ireland. To get involved, email newtotheparish@ or tweet @newtotheparish
Irish Times
4 hours ago
- Irish Times
I set two atheists up on a date. They spent the evening discussing God
I set two atheists up on a date. It was a few years ago, when the Covid -era restrictions had convinced us that we would never again meet a new person. Unless it was online. And we'd had enough of that. The two atheists, both friends of mine, met for a drink along the canal. They spent the evening discussing God. There is no greater power they both agreed. P, my closer friend of the two, believes that life and love are dictated by chance. Your soul mate might board the 7.15am train from Connolly to Pearse Street every morning. You board the later one. Maybe one day, you get the early one and meet them and start chatting. Or maybe they are sick and stayed home that day. You never meet. It's all down to chance. READ MORE P's date, on the other hand, believes in serendipity. Although serendipity is really just the romantic version of chance. So, take the above scenario, where in the latter instance this pair do not meet on the train. But a minor accident aboard the Dart lands one of the soul mates in the doctor's office, where she meets the other, who was kept out of work with illness. In the waiting room, he overhears her telling the receptionist about the incident and intrigued, he starts a conversation with his soul mate. [ I told my boyfriend about my soulmate, without registering his reaction Opens in new window ] The rest, as they say, is history. In the instance of my two atheist friends, the fairy-tale would become resigned to a brief historical footnote. If the opening scenes sounded like the beginning of a noughties romcom, starring Bill Murray and Kate Hudson , it wasn't meant to be. God had different plans in store. Or maybe one of them simply forgot to text back. Who knows. Anyway, this friend, P, and I lived together for a brief period and spent much of that time discussing existence, and much more of our time discussing love (to the extent that P politely suggested at one point, we could perhaps talk a little less of love). These are the topics reserved for people with whom you spend copious amounts of time, where the mundane need not eclipse the existential. Friends you see so often that conversations are conversations, and not catch ups. Believing in chance was a comfort, P told me; it removes control from your hands. Her admission reminded me of the 'humbling and character-building experience of astronomy' of which Carl Sagan speaks in his celebrated book, Pale Blue Dot. The insignificance of our individual experience is reassuring to many, while for others (me!) it is anxiety-inducing. 'Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged' Sagan writes, when we witness the diminutiveness of our home planet. Without the structure of a formal belief system, we have the freedom to create our own understanding of life. There is no doctrine to tell us how and what to believe; that might guide us or challenge our instincts and guttural value system. This freedom, however, can be intimidating. Choice is a scary thing. [ Illness management: 'If my condition does not improve, does that make it my fault?' Opens in new window ] I often wish, when it came to migraine, that I had a formal belief system to look to. One that could categorically assure that 'God does not give you more than you can handle', 'it will all make sense in time' or even the more kitsch, 'everything happens for a reason'. If everything does not happen for a reason, then why does it happen? Randomness feels a cruel instructor of fate. It was almost 20 years ago now that I received in my local church the blessing of the sick. It was not without hope that I walked up the aisle with my hands across my chest. Embarrassed by the jittery shimmer of hope I held that this teenage girl was destined for a miracle. That same year, an experimental doctor promised he would have my migraine cured by Easter time. Innocently and naively, I shared this news on my Facebook status with comparison to Christ's resurrection. (it didn't come to pass) More recently, a therapist asked me to outline my belief system. I began rather coyly but stopped abruptly when he began to interrogate. I didn't like his questions. I didn't want to lose this comfort to logic. My therapist, who enjoyed playing devil's advocate and readily contested anything I said, simply nodded and changed the subject. Perhaps he understood that, for pain without reason, the rational brings little comfort.
Irish Daily Mirror
4 hours ago
- Irish Daily Mirror
Ray D'Arcy reflects on radio career as he opens up about 'calm' home life
RTE star Ray D'Arcy has reflected on 'finding his feet' when he went from being a children's presenter to a radio star. D'Arcy's first position as TV presenter began in 1988 on the show Jo Maxi before he replaced Ian Dempsey as the presenter of The Den, RTÉ's flagship children's television series in 1990. In 2015, he began hosting his Radio One show, after leaving Today FM after 14 years. Reflecting on his RTE Radio One show, he said: 'I suppose most programmes eventually, unless they're current affairs or news programmes, evolve around the person who's presenting them, their strengths and weaknesses and their interests. 'If not, it doesn't work because the person who's presenting it needs to feel strongly about things and be interested in things or else it'll show. "In the early days, it was very much about finding my feet. I'd come from children's television. I was an adult, but probably hadn't really given a lot of thought to a lot of the stuff I should have because I didn't have to. 'Then radio allowed me to, because I had to form my own opinions about things rather than borrow somebody else's. It happened organically and the format of the programme wasn't prescriptive when we started, it allowed us to do everything. 'We found that people were sharing their lives with us and they trusted us. Now, we don't do as much as I'd like to for various reasons. But that was very encouraging,' he told the RTE Guide. But he said the interviews he was most nervous about were the ones with people wanting to share their personal stories. "The ones that I get most nervous about are the ones that you feel you owe the people involved, that you feel you have to do a good job for them. "They're mostly not well-known people who have decided, for whatever reason, to tell you their story. 'Oftentimes, it's a heartbreaking story, and you feel then under pressure not to mess it up." The Kildare native also opened up about his home life with his wife Jenny and their two children, 18-year-old Katie and Tom, who turns 13 next month. Ray and Jenny tied the knot in 2013 and says their relationship and home life works so well because they are first and foremost friends. The radio star added that cutting out alcohol has also helped to create a calm home environment. "Jenny and I are best friends and companions and husband and wife, and we've two healthy children and they're lovely," Ray said. "We're very lucky and we appreciate that. "[Life at home] is very calm. I'd say a huge part of that is because neither Jenny nor I drink. "Not that we were big drinkers, but it has brought a calm into our life that you can only experience when you do it. "Drink for a lot of reasons, even if you don't drink that much, just brings spikes in moods." Ray's daughter Kate is doing her Leaving Cert at the moment and Ray is supporting her through what can be a stressful time. He told the RTÉ Guide: "I was talking to a guy recently and he described having somebody in Leaving Cert as playing that winter Olympic sport [curling], where you push the thing down and then everybody paves the way in front of it. "It's like that and we're happy to do that. We're there for whatever she wants. "I still have nightmares about my Leaving Cert all these years later. Now, I don't share that with Kate." Tom, meanwhile, will officially be a teenager when he celebrates his 13th birthday next month. Ray added: "Kate has been a teenager for five years, so she went off and did her own thing. And we're going to lose Tom soon now because he's hitting 13 next month. "You can just see it - I asked him for a hug the other day on the couch and he wasn't up for it. The same evening his mother asked for a hug but she got one." Ray acknowledges his children's experience of growing up is very different to his one. He told the publication: "I came from a family of nine, and now we have two children. "We lived in a council house, a very small house, so it was completely different. "As a father, you want to give your kids everything, but yet you want to pass on some of your own values, which is probably an impossible task, but you do try." Ray and Jenny have rules at home but wouldn't consider themselves to be strict parents. "You'd have to ask my children. They'd say that we are stricter than their friends' parents. Now look, we're not. "We've encountered strictness. We're not strict. We're very relaxed and we're here for them. "Obviously, there are rules, and all households have them. "But we've often said, we're not laissez-faire and we're not dictatorial. We're somewhere in the middle."
