Inside Joe Duffy's family life with wife June and triplets
On June 27, Joe Duffy will hang up the mic after 27 years as host of Liveline, and 37 years with RTÉ.
The veteran broadcaster has been listening to how 'it's a disgraaaace Joe' for decades, from problems ranging from the mundane to the incredibly serious. His final show will air on June 27.
But while most of us know him as the man to talk to on 0818 715 815, there's more to Joe than some would know. Joe Duffy announced his retirement on Thursday, with his final broadcast to take place on June 27. Pic: RTÉ
Raised in Ballyfermot, Joe became one of the first people from his area to attend Trinity College.
He became heavily involved in the political life at Trinity, eventually ascending to the Presidency of the Union of Students in Ireland (USI). He was heavily involved in protests by the union highlighting access to education, and incredibly, spent two weeks in Mountjoy as a result. Yep, Joe did time in the Joy. After cutting his teeth as a producer and reporter on the Gay Byrne Show, Joe presented Liveline for over two and a half decades (the beard kinda suits him, doesn't it?) Pic: RTÉ
Joe joined the national broadcaster as a radio producer, becoming more prominent as a reporter on The Gay Byrne Show in the 1990s — winning a Jacob's Award in 1992. From there, he presented other programmes such as Soundbyte before he took over as host of Liveline in 1998.
In 2013, he was inducted into the PPI Hall of Fame and won various IMRO Awards, and has also hosted various television programmes — including Liveline Callback and The Meaning of Life, which he took over from Gay Byrne. Joe and his wife June, welcomed triplets Ronan, Sean and Ellen into the world in 1995. Pic: Collins
While attending Trinity College, Joe met June Meehan — with the couple marrying and going on to have triplets in 1995. Yep.
Joe said that he didn't realise they were having such an amount of children until a few weeks before their births, telling RSVP: 'I had three children at the same time back in 1995, I had three children, about 15 different theories about parenting. Joe Duffy with his wife June. Pic: VIP Ireland
'I was a qualified family therapist and social worker, that is what I did in university. [But] you make it up as you go along, you can't play god, and you make it up as you go along. You also realise that even though they were completely disinterested at the time, they remember the places you brought them and the stories you told them over the years.' It will be the end of an era this June when Joe presents his final episode of Liveline. Pic: RTE
On Thursday, May 8, Joe announced that he was leaving Liveline, with his final show to air on June 27.
'After 37 wonderful years here in RTÉ, and 27 years presenting Liveline, it has been an incredible honour and privilege to be part of a programme that relied entirely on trust: the trust of our listeners,' Joe said.
'People felt they could pick up the phone, ring Liveline, and share their lives, problems, stories sad, bad, sometimes mad and funny, their struggles, and their victories. I never took that for granted, not for a single minute. Joe Duffy during the Liveline Christmas special in 2001. Pic: RTÉ
'RTÉ has been a great place to work. Public service has always been at its heart. And now, after many happy years, I've decided the time has come to move on. I would like to thank you the listener for tuning in each and every day, it has been an honour to sit in this seat and hear your stories.'
Kevin Bakhurst, RTÉ Director General, paid tribute to Joe following his announcement, saying 'Whether breaking stories like the first powerful moments of the 9-11 attacks in the US, or helping the nation navigate the often heart-breaking challenges of a global pandemic, Joe Duffy's Liveline doesn't just have its fingers on the pulse, it is the pulse of the nation.
'Joe navigated controversies, unearthed scandals, exposed scams, fought misinformation and shone a light on topics long ignored, from historical abuse to the menopause and healthcare reform. Joe was always the guide, never the story. His journalistic insights were perfectly in balance with his human instincts, and Liveline under Joe became both a sanctuary for those seeking justice, and a public square of which Joe was in full control.'
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Irish Independent
8 hours ago
- Irish Independent
Housewife of the Year review: Award-winning documentary unearths the sad stories behind an Irish TV relic
Today at 13:00 The period between feature documentaries showing at festivals and cinemas, then turning up in our living rooms has shortened significantly in recent years. Ciaran Cassidy's excellent Housewife of the Year (RTÉ1, Monday, June 2) did the festival circuit last year, winning a prize at Galway Film Fleadh, and enjoying a limited run in cinemas. And yet television, where it will reach a much larger audience, feels like its natural home. After all, television was the home of the bizarre spectacle that was the Housewife of the Year competition. It started in 1967, was televised live by RTÉ from 1982 and lasted – astonishingly – until 1995. From the outset, it was a cringe-inducing anachronism. The contestants were judged on qualities including sense of humour, budgeting skills, civic-mindedness and their ability to prepare 'a simple meal' for the hubby coming home from a hard day's work. They were also encouraged, Rose of Tralee-style, to do a party piece. 'It's very good to be good-looking, but that's no excuse for bad cooking,' ran one self-penned poem. Presiding over the whole thing was host Gay Byrne. Clips from the original broadcasts, skilfully assembled by editor Cara Holmes, remind us that Byrne – who always received an inordinate amount of credit for supposedly dragging Ireland into the light of modernity when it was others, mainly women, who were doing the real heavy lifting – could be gratingly patronising. 'Are you a women's libber?' he asks one woman, as the audience whoop with laughter and clap like performing seals. The whole thing was an embarrassment ripe for mockery, and mock it plenty of people did. Cassidy uses the Housewife of the Year competition, absurd as it was, as a jumping off point for a look at how generations of women were subjugated by the State and the church A lesser documentary might have gone down the point-and-snigger route: 'Look at this! Can you believe how backward Ireland was in those days?' Instead, Cassidy uses the Housewife of the Year competition, absurd as it was, as a jumping off point for a look at how generations of women were subjugated by the State and the church – which were basically one and the same entity – sometimes with the collusion of their husbands and parents. In its own unwitting way, the competition was a small brick in the wall of sexism and misogyny that kept Irish women where the patriarchy thought they belonged: in the kitchen and the maternity ward. ADVERTISEMENT Learn more There's no narration, no learned talking heads. Just the faces and voices of some of the women who entered it and, in some cases, won. We see them first as they were in those old clips, then as they are now – standing on a bare stage, telling their personal stories of sadness and cruelty from a time when contraception and divorce were outlawed, and women had to give up work as soon as they married (teachers were an exception). One was married at 20. At 31, she had 13 children, including four sets of twins. 'I didn't know which end of me was up,' she says. Her husband drank their money. The more kids she had, the more he retreated to the pub. She used to take a pot to a food centre to have it filled with stew. On the bus home, everyone could smell the stew – the smell of embarrassment. She entered the competition for the prize – £300 in cash and a gas cooker – and won. Another, having taken some photos of herself and her two friends on an innocent rowing boat trip with some boys when she was 16, left the film in the pharmacy for developing. The pharmacist brought the pictures to the local priest, who showed them to her parents and said: 'You need to do something about this one.' They took his advice and deposited her with the Magdalene Sisters, then left without saying goodbye. Vivid and moving as their recollections are, there's a remarkable lack of bitterness here There were stories here of a woman abandoned by her husband, of one who made contact with the mother who'd given her up for adoption, only to be told by her half-sisters, 'You weren't wanted then and you're not wanted now,' and of one who gave up a nursing career in London to marry into a life of domestic drudgery. 'I was doing things that didn't need doing at all, just to occupy my mind,' she says. Vivid and moving as their recollections are, there's a remarkable lack of bitterness here. The Housewife of the Year show may have been a symbol of a repressive society, but some of them look back on it with a certain degree of affection.
Irish Times
20 hours ago
- Irish Times
Rick O'Shea: ‘My wife and I come from very working-class backgrounds, so we think savings are important'
Rick O'Shea is a veteran DJ and radio presenter who has worked with RTÉ since 2001, currently with RTÉ Gold. He is taking part in Dalkey Book Festival, which runs June 12th-15th. Are you a saver or a spender? If you had asked me that question a few years ago, I would have told you I wasn't a saver, but that was only because there was never money left over to save. In recent times that has changed a little. Both my wife and I come from very working-class backgrounds, so a cushion of savings is something we think is important to have. What was the first job you received money for, and how much were you paid? The only job I have ever had is being a radio presenter. My first full-time job was when I was 19, playing late-night love songs on a local radio station. I think I was paid the princely sum of £60 a week. In 1992 it didn't quite pay the rent on the Bray-based bungalow I was living in. Do you shop around for better value? If it's something big, of course. We had our bathroom completely changed recently and there seemed to be endless months of getting quotes from different companies. If it's something like cereal, or groceries, probably not. READ MORE What has been your most extravagant purchase, and how much did it cost? I rarely buy expensive stuff such as technology or flash clothes, so the only thing I'd ever call extravagant is travel. After a year of hard saving, we went to Japan and South Korea in 2015, and it cost somewhere in the region of €10,000. [ 'I recently bought a sofa worth about €10,000 new for €380 on Done Deal' Opens in new window ] What purchase have you made that you consider the best value for money? On the same trip, I bought what I call my Japanese jumper. It's a long cardigan thing that I bought drunkenly late one night in Hiroshima. I've worn it around the house for the last decade, and there are strict instructions that in the event of my untimely death, I am to be buried in it. Is there anything you regret spending money on? Every nonsense purchase I made in my 20s. I built up a stupid credit-card debt that took years to pay off but it taught me never to do the same thing again. I have a credit card now as they're handy when it comes to checking into hotels on holidays, but I never use it otherwise. Do you haggle over prices? Not really. I think you either have the gene for that or you don't. My father is the exact opposite; it's in his blood. The man loves nothing better than a good haggle over €1 or €2 at a car-boot sale for an album he is interested in. Do you invest in shares and/or cryptocurrency? No to both, probably because I view them as gambles that I'm ill-equipped to take. I'm exactly the sort of person who would invest in stocks the day the market crashes or into a pump-and-dump crypto scheme. I'm sure some people do very well at these things, but I'm not wired that way. Do you have a retirement or pension plan? When I started working in RTÉ in 2001, one of the few smart things I have ever done was say yes when I was asked if I wanted to enrol in the pension plan. I'm also the sort of person who never takes it for granted that I'll make it to 65, so who knows, it may all have been a terrible waste of money. [ Rick O'Shea: 'I was never passionate about the idea of being on the radio' Opens in new window ] What was the last thing you bought and was it good value for money? Tickets to the stage version of My Neighbour Totoro, the new Conor McPherson play The Brightening Air , and the upcoming production of Stephen Sondheim's final musical, Here We Are – all in London and all for my birthday. With very rare exceptions, spending money going to shows in London or on Broadway in New York has always been good value over the years, regardless of how much it costs. Have you ever successfully saved up for a relatively big purchase? All the time. Holidays, solar panels and even our car all came from our savings. We don't have loans out for anything at the moment. If we can't afford it, we save for it and wait. Have you ever lost money? No, I don't think I ever have. Are you a gambler and, if so, have you ever had a big win? I have a deep-seated cynicism about big gambling companies. A huge part of their business model is taking advantage of people with addiction issues who can least afford it. I couldn't stomach money I had to work hard for just disappearing down the drain, no matter the small chance of an upside. Remember, the house always wins. What is your best habit when it comes to money? And your worst? I like to think my best habit these days is having the spare money to give to causes online when I see them. I work with a couple of charities, and I'm painfully conscious of how hard fundraising is these days, particularly in a mainly post-cash world, so if I see a cause I care about online, the odds are I'll donate. My worst habit is probably subscribing to things I don't read. I recently had a subscription to New Scientist magazine that was read one week out of every six when it arrived in the letterbox. How much money do you have on you now? I have gotten into the terrible habit of not really carrying cash on me. There's €60 in my wallet right now, and it's been there for over three months. In conversation with Tony Clayton-Lea
Irish Examiner
a day ago
- Irish Examiner
Culture That Made Me: Music legend Brush Shiels picks his touchstones
Brendan 'Brush' Shiels, 79, grew up in Phibsboro, Dublin. In 1967, he formed Skid Row, Ireland's seminal rock group, which briefly included Phil Lynott on vocals, and Gary Moore on guitar. The band released two acclaimed records, Skid and 34 Hours, before disbanding. He fronted a show, Off Yer Brush, on RTÉ television for two seasons, 1986-87, and he has released several solo albums. He will perform at Connolly's of Leap, Co Cork, 6pm, Saturday, June 14. See: Save the Last Dance for Me We lived in one room on the Phibsboro Road. Beside us was a pub, across the road was another pub. We had no radio. Seven nights a week, people came out of the pub and would sing for another two hours. Some fella used to sing, 'If I can help somebody as I pass along … Then my living shall not be in vain' again and again. Right at the railings, about a yard away. That's how I learned Save the Last Dance for Me and all these songs – from people singing them outside. After that, we got a radio. I started listening to Saturday Club with Brian Matthew on BBC. I remember hearing the very first Beatles live programme, Too Much Monkey Business. It must have been '63. The Beatles had harmonies and a sound I'd never heard before. I loved them for that. Bob Dylan I couldn't believe Bob Dylan when I first heard him. To this day when I hear Like a Rolling Stone, it has the same effect on me. I've learned hundreds of Bob Dylan songs. I love Desolation Row, A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall and Mr. Tambourine Man. I still have the same fascination for his use of lyrics and symbolism. Until he arrived, it was Elvis, Cliff Richard, songs like Take These Chains from My Heart, and The Beatles were all kiss me quick numbers and meeting girls. When Dylan came along, it was a different way with words. I never looked back from that. He was my biggest inspiration. We Gotta Get Out of This Place Funny enough, I started off on the guitar because of The Shadows and that sort of stuff. Then around 1965, I started to hear other things. There was a baseline in The Animals' We Gotta Get Out of This Place, something about it influenced me. It spiked my interest – what you could do with the bass. Chuck Berry There was a bookshop up the road. It had a box of music magazines, all the same, called DownBeat. I got them for next to nothing. They were about jazz in America, like Duke Ellington, Count Basie. My mind went back then to this film I saw when I was about 12 called Jazz on a Summer's Day. It was about the Newport Jazz Festival. This film had a big effect on me. It had all the greatest jazz musicians in America at that time in it. In the middle of it all, this guy Chuck Berry came on, and he does Sweet Little Sixteen. When I saw Chuck Berry I realised that's the only way to do it. Brush Shiels. Night Train The jazz thing was always in the back of my head. I was interested in why the jazz scene was so big in America. A lot of it was hard to follow. I could follow them singing the melody, but once the solo came in and went off on a tangent, I didn't really understand it. Then I read in one of these magazines – I became an expert after reading 72 DownBeat magazines [laughs] – that Ray Brown, the bass player with the Oscar Peterson Trio, was the man to listen to, and the album to listen to was Night Train. That Night Train record changed my life. That's where I went next. Unison Blues DownBeat magazines also said, 'There's a great bass player called Vinnie Burke. Have a listen to him.' He had a track called Unison Blues which is the origin of the Skid Row way of doing things. A lot of the ideas about playing, I got from Vinnie Burke, his bass lines stood out. The sax, the bass and the piano playing the same line in unison gave it a particular sound, which, ultimately, I could hear in Cream and Jimi Hendrix. Lucky enough I came across Gary Moore when he was only 15 and he knew exactly what I was talking about. Phil Lynott Phil Lynott performing with Thin Lizzy at Cork City Hall in 1982. Picture: Irish Examiner Archive The first time I got in touch with Phillo, I got the bus out to his house. I knocked on his door. I went in to say hello to him. He told me he was listening to The Velvet Underground. I said, 'Forget about that.' Then he said, 'Paul Simon's I Am a Rock'. I said, 'No, if you want to come along, we'll try this Jimi Hendrix thing, which is going to be the next big thing.' A couple of days later, he sang Hey, Joe, and that was the start of it. Phillo had film-star appeal. Back in the 1960s, he lacked a bit of confidence, but the potential was unbelievable because he had everything else you needed. But life being the way it is, now he's gone. Somebody said to me once, 'How well did you know him?' I said, 'Well, he came on my honeymoon with me.' That's how close we were. Led Zeppelin Skid Row loved Led Zeppelin. We were playing in the Whisky A Go-Go in Los Angeles in 1970. Who turns up only John Bonham, Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, Rod Stewart, Ronnie Wood. We're playing away and John Bonham wants to get up to sing, and Robert Plant says, 'I'll play drums.' So, the two boys got up. These lads from a band called Slammer – I knew them – took photographs and bootlegged the gig. You can still get it on YouTube. You can't buy it. The sound was just noise, but it's up there. John Bonham Led Zeppelin in 1973: From left to right, Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, John Bonham (1947 - 1980), John Paul Jones. (Photo by) John Bonham had a particular way of drumming that we hadn't heard before. It was thunderous. It sounded like an elephant stampede, like a wildebeest with an outboard motor on its back. Carmine Appice from Vanilla Fudge had a similar style. It was the start of all these great drummers like Ginger Baker, the way of doing it with the two bass drums, even though it had been done years before in jazz. It got lost along the way, but very fast playing made a comeback. Charlie Parker Charlie Parker – one of the great saxophonists, one of my biggest influences solo-wise – was in this café once, and Hank Williams' I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry, was playing. Somebody asked Charlie Parker, 'Why do you keep putting that on?' He says, 'It's the words, man.' Like he's soloing all night. He's no problem soloing. So, when somebody is singing something like that, and he has felt that bad himself, and put it into words, he wants to listen. A lot of sad songs are about when somebody puts into words what we're all feeling. There's beauty in it.
