‘God's feet' bring a pungent odour to Tom Dunne's Newstalk studio
As a broadcaster,
Tom Dunne
comes across as the personification of natural good humour. In his various incarnations on
Newstalk
he projects an air of amused affability, whether presenting his nocturnal music programme,
The Tom Dunne Show
(Monday-Thursday), or discussing pop matters on
The Hard Shoulder
(weekdays).
Tuesday, however, seems to mark a change in his demeanour. As he stands in on
Seán Moncrieff's
afternoon show, Dunne becomes uncharacteristically sniffy.
Why is soon clear. 'We'll be talking very strong cheeses,' he says, prefacing his conversation with the cheesemonger Kevin Sheridan, who's there to discuss the apparent loss of appetite among young French people for the country's famously ripe dairy products.
Dunne frames this trend as an 'existential cheesy crisis', though it also provides him with an opportunity to sample his guest's pungent wares: 'You've come armed, I see,' the host notes. Sheridan uses the unappealing term 'God's feet' to describe the aromas emanating from his more robust cheeses, and the host agrees: 'There's definitely the feet thing there.'
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But if Dunne's olfactory senses are twitching, it's not in disapproval. 'Absolutely beautiful,' he declares. And while Sheridan puts the totemic French foodstuff's fall in popularity down to changing eating habits across the world – 'If you keep putting processed or bland food in front of people, that's what they're going to be used to' – he claims that, in contrast, Irish tastes are growing more adventurous, albeit from a low base. (By way of proving the latter statement, host and guest recall their childhood cheeses of choice, Calvita and EasiSingles.)
Far from turning his nose up at odorous cheese, Dunne is as enthusiastic as ever: it's the only whey he knows. (Sorry.) He maintains this appealing mien throughout his guest stint on the programme, helming proceedings at a leisurely, good-natured pace that makes Moncrieff sound like a Stasi interrogator in comparison.
During Wednesday's item on the introduction of height filters by the dating app Tinder, which seemingly may limit choice for shorter men or taller women, the host chuckles away as he talks to the matchmaker Sharon Kenny. 'I'll give you a list of short men while you're here,' he says. '
Bono
,
Tom Cruise
,
Mick Jagger
, myself.'
Even when discussing the dependably downbeat subject of children's online safety with Alex Cooney of
CyberSafeKids
, he eschews the apocalyptic tenor that so often accompanies such discussions in favour of a more pragmatically concerned tone.
Dunne's easygoing approach shouldn't be confused with flippancy: anyone who heard him candidly reflect on his heart surgery some years ago can attest to his thoughtful side. But it's nonetheless telling that the presenter, who first made his name as the singer with the rock band Something Happens, sounds most engaged when talking about music.
Speaking to Stan Erraught, who teaches at the University of Leeds, about his
book
on the intersection between Irish music and republicanism, Dunne sounds at his happiest, and not just because he knows his guest as a former member of the 1980s Dublin indie group The Stars of Heaven: 'If I wasn't meeting you on a stage, I was playing five-a-side football against you.'
[
Rebel Notes: A timely take on republicanism and music, from The Wolfe Tones to Kneecap, via Alan Partridge
Opens in new window
]
The ensuing interview is casual in mood, but detailed in knowledge and insightful in observation, as Erraught assesses
Kneecap
,
The Wolfe Tones
and
The Cranberries
. Dunne, meanwhile, quizzes his fellow musician with rare alacrity: whatever about his nose, his ear remains attuned to music.
The connection between words and music is explored on
Routes
(RTÉ Radio 1, Monday), as the novelist
Kevin Barry
looks back on the songs that have soundtracked his life and work. The
Limerick
-born author is the latest contributor to this occasional but quietly absorbing series (transmitted on bank-holiday Mondays), in which its presenter, Saibh Downes, invites guests to discuss the music that shaped them.
Previous participants have included music-industry figures such as the writer and promoter Leagues O'Toole, but Barry – who, in Downes's description, 'lives on his own planet of sound' – is the highest-profile personality to appear on the programme, with an entertaining manner to match.
He cautions that people who appear on such shows make their younger selves seem cooler than they were, before mischievously adding, 'But I was always into very cool stuff.' Sure enough, Barry's overview of his musical youth ticks the boxes of musical cred, from seeing The Smiths at the age of 14 and getting into acid house in late-1980s London to being a habitue of the cult Cork nightclub Sir Henry's in the early 1990s.
It's not just an I-was-there checklist of hip references, however. As befits his literary pedigree, Barry also evokes a grimy nostalgia as recalls his life at the time. 'I used to love the parties after the clubs,' he says. 'Moves would be made in all sorts of romantic ways.'
He also reveals the way music has permeated his novels, be it the rhythms of dub reggae shaping the prose of City of Bohane or the multiple allusions to lyrics by the Pixies, the alternative rock band, lurking in Night Boat to Tangier. If anyone can spot all the latter references, he adds conspiratorially, 'They're getting a special prize.' For others, however, Barry's invigorating flip through his musical back pages will be reward enough.
There are more memories of the Irish music world on
Sunday with Miriam
(RTÉ Radio 1), when Miriam O'Callaghan talks to Eamon Carr and Jim Lockhart about the early days of the Celtic rock group Horslips. (I should mention that my uncle Barry Devlin was the band's bassist.) It's a brief item, featuring O'Callaghan at her most effervescently flattering – 'You both look so healthy' – while yielding some witty snapshots of the group in their 1970s heyday.
O'Callaghan's guests recall their ad-hoc origins ('We formed the band on a corridor,' says Carr) and share memories of the late guitarist Johnny Fean, as well as musing on the postcolonial ramifications of performing rock versions of Irish airs while wearing 'Lurex and platform heels': 'Our natty gear was a bit of us saying there's nothing to apologise for here,' says Lockhart. Clearly they weren't afraid of putting people's noses out of joint.
Moment of the week
Having spent a lifetime interviewing politicians,
Pat Kenny
(Newstalk, weekdays) knows meaningless spin when he hears it, as Minister of State for Environment Alan Dillon discovers when announcing a €27 million initiative for 'transition to the circular economy'.
Asked by the host to explain what this actually entails, the Minister says that 'the idea is very simple' before reciting a complicated, jargon-heavy list of vague-sounding projects, culminating in talk of a public-private partnership focused on 'innovation system change' and 'industrial collaboration around ecodesign'.
It's at this point that Kenny interrupts his hapless guest. 'I don't understand a word of that, Minister. I don't understand a word,' the host says sharply, but mercifully. He's only saying what the rest of us are thinking.
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Irish Times
4 hours ago
- Irish Times
‘I'm not even a bit stressed,' Honor goes, ‘I haven't done a focking tap for these exams'
Sorcha thinks we should maybe check on Honor and there's an air of definite excitement in her voice when she says it? Yeah, no, it's the night before the stort of the Leaving Cert and my wife is absolutely determined that this should be one of those mother-daughter moments. She goes, 'The Leaving Cert puts – oh my God – so much pressure on young people. But it's not the be-all and end-all. I read an orticle online about all the famous people who failed the Leaving Cert.' I'm there, ' I failed the Leaving Cert – in fairness to me.' She's like, 'I'm talking about people who went on to actually achieve things?' READ MORE And I'm there, 'Yeah, no, thanks for that, Sorcha.' 'I just remember that – oh my God – my Mom had this amazing, amazing talk with me the night before I storted mine ? She just said, you know, the importance of exams is, like, totally overblown and that the Leaving Cert shouldn't define you for the rest of your life.' 'That's easy for you to say. Didn't you get, like, maximum points?' 'Well, not quite maximum points? I got, like, a B in Honours English, remember?' How could I forget? Her old man spent years appealing it. I think the case was still trundling through the courts when she was pregnant with Honor. 'Come on,' she goes, 'let's go and talk to her,' and I follow her up the stairs to Honor's room. Sorcha knocks and she's like, 'Honor, dorling?' then she pushes the door and looks around it like she's sticking her head in a lion's mouth. Honor isn't studying. That's the first thing I notice. She's sorting through her wardrobe and taking photographs of herself in various outfits with one hand on her hip and her cheeks sucked in. Sorcha goes, 'We're sorry to bother you, Honor. We were just wondering how the study was going?' I don't know where she's getting this we from? Honor's like, 'It's going great – as you can probably see.' 'Well,' Sorcha goes, 'we just wanted to say that, even though it may seem like it now, the Leaving Certificate is not the be-all and end-all.' I'm there, 'I'm living proof of that, Honor.' But Sorcha's like, 'Why don't you leave the talking to me, Ross? What we're trying to say, Honor – and I'm echoing my own mother's words here – is that it doesn't define you as, like, a person ?' Honor's there, 'Why do I buy so many clothes in taupe? It looks so focking meh on me.' Sorcha goes, 'The important thing – as my mom famously said – is that you turn out a happy, well-adjusted girl with a fully functioning moral compass.' Honor's like, 'Does this top make my face look washed out? You can tell me.' [ Honor goes, 'I'm editing the school yearbook photographs of anyone who pissed me off' Opens in new window ] 'What I'm saying,' Sorcha goes, 'is that our results-focused secondary education system sometimes forgets that schools have a role to play in preparing young people for life and not just exams.' 'I hate all my focking clothes.' 'I was just thinking back to my own Leaving Cert – wasn't I, Ross? At the time, I thought it was the most important thing in the world. But if you were to ask me what did I get in, say, Maths or History now, I'd have to actually rack my brains.' 'Didn't you get As in everything?' Honor goes. I'm like, 'Except English – and her old man spent eight years in the courts trying get her B upgraded.' Honor gives her one of her crocodile smiles and goes, 'So much for results not being important. Anyway, for your information, I'm not even a bit stressed?' I'm like, 'Oh, that's good – isn't it, Sorcha?' And Sorcha's there, 'Er, yeah – I suppose it is.' 'As a matter of fact,' Honor goes, 'I haven't done a focking tap for these exams.' And I'm like, 'I'm going to say fair focks to you, Honor. I think I speak for both of us when I say you've put our minds at ease. Come on, Sorcha, let's leave her to it.' But Sorcha's mind isn't at ease? Outside on the landing, she goes, 'What do you think she meant when she said she hasn't done a tap?' I'm there, 'Excuse me?' 'Like, did she mean it in the same way that I used to say it? Look, I'm not saying I was a secret studier – which is what all the girls used to say about me – but I was, like, naturally bright and I had an amazing, amazing memory.' 'Again, fair focks.' [ Honor is staring at Brett like he's an ATM and she's sitting in a JCB, trying to work the levers Opens in new window ] 'Or was she saying that she hasn't done a tap in the same way that – no offence, Ross – you didn't do a tap, as in, like, literally?' 'What does it matter? The important thing is that she's a happy girl with a fully functioning whatever-you-said.' 'Yes, Ross – but within reason.' 'Within reason?' 'I mean, it's also important that she gets into a good college. And into a degree course that's, like, high points.' 'But I thought you said–' 'Never mind what I said. What the fock is she doing in there?' 'I think she was questioning some of her 2024 wardrobe choices.' She goes, 'Did she even have a book open?' and before I can answer no, she bursts into Honor's room again, with no knock this time, and she's like, 'Why aren't you studying?' Honor goes, 'Excuse me?' Sorcha's there, 'You have an exam tomorrow! Where are your books? Where are your cog notes?' [ 'That picture The Last Supper is weird. They're all sitting on the same side of the table' Opens in new window ] Honor's like, 'I thought you said the Leaving Cert doesn't matter.' Sorcha goes, 'I didn't mean it literally doesn't matter. Oh my God, what happens in the next fortnight is going to shape the rest of your life, Honor! What are you going to do if you don't get into college? Stort an OnlyFans account? Live on the streets? Become a ketamine addict?' Honor looks her in the eye and goes, 'I have to leave the exam an hour early tomorrow. I have, like, a nails appointment?' Sorcha ends up totally flipping out and I have to put my orm around her shoulder and escort her out of there like my old dear being helped out of the prosecco tent at Bloom. She's like, 'You might be fine with having a daughter who fails her Leaving Cert, Ross, but I am not.'
Irish Times
8 hours ago
- Irish Times
Eileen Walsh: Women actors ‘are like avocados. You're nearly ready, nearly ready - then you're ripe, then you've gone off'
What is the longest period of time you have sat in a venue watching a piece of theatre? Three hours? Four? Maybe six for some rare double or triple bill? Well, from 4pm on Saturday, June 14th to 4pm the following day, actor Eileen Walsh will be spending 24 hours on stage at the Cork Opera House , in a one-off performance of The Second Woman. This is an Irish premiere of the show, running during Cork Midsummer Festival , and a co-production with the Cork Opera House. It was originally created in 2017 by Australians Anna Breckon and Nat Randall, and has been performed in various cities around the world, including Sydney, New York and London. The show is described as 'a durational theatre experience', which sounds about right if you are a member of the audience, but how will the person holding everything together on stage for 24 hours manage to endure in this truly epic role? 'I've done 72 hours in labour,' Walsh says matter-of-factly, as she looks through the lunch menu at Dublin's College Green Hotel. 'You stay awake when you have to.' READ MORE The place is busy and noisy, and there is a particularly loud group sitting in the banquette behind me. As we start talking, I fret a little that my recorder won't pick up Walsh's voice amid the general din of cutlery and lunchtime clamour. But later, when I play back the recording, every word of hers is in there, perfectly clear. Of course it is; it's the voice of an actor, trained to enunciate and carry; to cut through all the noise. Walsh is in an orange singlet and black trouser suit, her dark hair in a ponytail. I know what age she is (48, I've done my research) but if I didn't, I couldn't tell by looking at her enviable chameleon face. The question of age is relevant because this theme is woven through The Second Woman, and her character of Virginia. 'Her age is never mentioned,' Walsh says. 'But it's very much about age and ageing, and about how men see us women.' Walsh has been acting for all of her adult life; in theatre, film and TV. Some of her recent appearances were opposite her old friend Cillian Murphy in the adaptation of Claire Keegan's novella, Small Things Like These ; and in Chris O'Dowd's streaming series Small Town, Big Story . The question is, how is she going to prepare for her latest, and longest, performance? 'I don't know if you can prepare for it, because it is all such an unknown,' she says. 'Part of the preparing for it is a bit like letting go, and trusting in the process. Even if you had done it before, it is an unknown because it would be 100 new situations and 100 new people.' Eileen Walsh: Being a mother is so difficult because you are being constantly pulled. Photograph Nick Bradshaw Walsh will not be alone on stage. Her character Virginia plays the same scene 100 times, each lasting seven minutes, each with a different male character, all called Marty, 100 Martys in total. In Cork, as in other cities where the show has been performed, the Martys are mostly amateurs, with some professionals in the mix. Will there be anyone famous? 'I think there are surprises,' Walsh says cautiously. 'I think it will be a mix of people I have worked with before, and who are interested in the theme of the project. But I don't know, and I won't know until I see them on stage on the night – if there are any. The last thing I want is to spend 24 hours wondering if Liam Neeson is coming.' Or indeed, Cillian Murphy. Or Chris O'Dowd. The core of the lines spoken by each character in each scene stays the same, but the scene itself has the possibility of opening in various different ways. The male character, by improvising, can choose what kind of relationship he wants to have with Virginia. None will have rehearsed with Walsh, so until each scene starts, she will have no idea which back story the person playing opposite her will choose. 'The opening of the scene is a window of opportunity for them to say something along the lines of 'As your brother,' if they don't want any romantic interaction. Or, 'As your dad,' or, 'As your friend.' So they can set their own parameters if they want to. Essentially it is all about relationships.' Stage directions allow for various kinds of action, and little pieces of physical exercise and respite for the actor. 'There's an opportunity to have a dance, there's an opportunity to have a drink, there's an opportunity to sit or to eat. You get an opportunity to sit down briefly, but other than that you are on the go. It's very physical. Then there is an opportunity at the end of each scene for the participant to choose to end the interaction in a positive or negative way. As much as my character is having a monumental breakdown, the men remain main characters in their lives all the time.' Walsh does the scene seven times, with some minutes at the end of each hour to reset the stage again. 'The props might have been moved, the drink might have been spilt. You stay on stage the whole time while that is happening, and then every few hours there's a comfort break, to have a pee, or fix make-up.' In The Second Woman Eileen Walsh plays the same scene 100 times, each lasting seven minutes, each with a different male character, all called Marty, 100 Martys in total. Photograph: Nick Bradshaw When the show was performed in London at the Young Vic in 2023, Walsh queued for three hours to watch a three-hour slot. 'We had to wait for people coming out to be able to buy tickets,' she explains. Walsh had no idea that two years later, she herself would be playing this extraordinary role. How do you rehearse for such a role? 'The rehearsal process is two weeks, and by day two you are working with four actors in turn. They will give me a flavour of what to do if someone freezes on the night, or if they are going on too long.' These actors won't be appearing in the performance; they will be trying to work through some of the different possible variations of the same seven-minute scene. But no element of preparation will come close to replicating what the actual night of performance will bring. Both Breckon and Randall will be coming over to Cork from Australia for the rehearsals, and to see her 24-hour performance. The Second Woman will be Cork-born Walsh's first major stage role in Ireland since returning from Britain last October. She lived there for some 30 years, first with husband Stuart McCaffer, and then as a family with their children, Tippi and Ethel. It's impossible to see acting as a life choice in Ireland now. How do you get a mortgage? Have kids? I don't know how young actors do it — Eileen Walsh 'Tippi is 19 and was born in Edinburgh.' (She's named for Tippi Hedren, now 95, who famously appeared in Hitchcock's The Birds; mother of Melanie Griffith, grandmother of Dakota Johnson.) 'I had watched The Birds, and thought Tippi was such a lovely name,' Walsh says. 'Ethel was born in London and she is 16. The girls were partly responsible for us moving back. Tippi was really interested in coming back and maybe doing drama school here. And we found a lovely school for Ethel. It kind of made sense.' When I ask if her children will be going to see the show, Walsh says her rehearsal time in Cork coincides with Ethel's Junior Cert. She thus won't be available at home for reassuring in-person hugs with her exam student. 'Being a mother is so difficult because you are being constantly pulled.' Tippi and Ethel have a better understanding and tolerance of parents being temporarily absent for work than most of their peers, having been raised in a household with two creative parents (McCaffer is a sculptor). After being away from Ireland for 30 years, both the paucity of available housing and the cost of it was a deep shock to Walsh when they returned. 'Looking for a rental for two adults and two kids, the costs were eye watering. Not only could we not get in the door for a lot of places, but the costs involved in trying to rent a two-bedroom flat while we were looking for a house were crazy. 'The costs are crippling. Dublin is laughing in the face of London when it comes to housing prices.' They did eventually find somewhere. 'We bought a wreck of a house we are desperately trying to do up.' Walsh wonders aloud how actors in Ireland today, especially in Dublin, are managing to develop a professional career while also finding affordable housing. 'I moved out of home at 17 and it was possible to pay your rent – and also have a great time. It is just not possible any more, and I don't know how younger versions of me are coping now. 'Financially it's having the result of turning acting into a middle-class profession, because what young kids from a working class background can afford to hire rehearsal space and to live within Dublin? It's impossible to see acting as a life choice in Ireland now. How do you get a mortgage? Have kids? I don't know how young actors do it. Besides, of course, moving away from Ireland.' Eileen Walsh: 'I moved out of home at 17 and it was possible to pay your rent and also have a great time ... I don't know how younger versions of me are coping now.' Photograph: Nick Bradshaw Back in 1996, when Walsh was still a student, she was cast in the role of Runt opposite Cillian Murphy as Pig in Enda Walsh's seminal then new play, Disco Pigs. (The two Walshes are not related.) The whole thing was a sensational success for all three of them, and burnished their names brightly. When the film version was cast a few years later, Murphy remained in the role of Pig, while Elaine Cassidy was given the role of Runt. Walsh said at the time she didn't even know the auditions were being held. It's a topic that has come up over and over again in interviews during the intervening years, the What If's around that casting. It's clear that Walsh was deeply hurt. She was 'heartbroken' at the decision to not cast her in this role that she had first brought to life. One can only imagine the strain it put on her friendship with Murphy at the time, for a start. It must also have been difficult for Elaine Cassidy to keep hearing publicly how something that was nothing to do with her had so affected the morale of another fellow actor. 'I feel like I've spoken a lot about that,' Walsh says now. 'It was a lesson for me very early on. And it wasn't the first or the last time I got bad news. And just because the role was yours doesn't mean it stays yours. They are heartbreaking things to learn. Or if someone says they want you for a job and then they change their mind, that's a f***ing killer as well. It's not something that gets better with age. It just burns more, because the opportunities are better, so the burn is greater.' [ From the archive: Cillian Murphy and Eileen Walsh on 'Disco Pigs': 'It was the ignorance of youth' Opens in new window ] At this point in our conversation, there are a number of other expletives scattered by Walsh, as if this old and sad wound has triggered some kind of latent, but still important, emotion. We talk for a while about how ageing in the acting profession – wherever one is located in the world – frequently works against women in a way it does not against men. 'I think women are constantly being told that for men, acting is a marathon and for women it's a sprint, because you have a short time to make an impact. You're like an avocado,' she says. I ask her to repeat that last word, unsure if I've heard it correctly. 'Avocado,' she says firmly. 'You're nearly ready, nearly ready – then you're ripe, then you've gone off. That's what you're made to feel like. Do it now, while you're lovely and young and your boobs are still upright, or whatever, While you're taut. And I think that is a total f***ing lie. It might be a marathon for men, but to remain in this business as a woman, it's like a decathlon. You have to f***ing go and go and go and it takes tenaciousness and being stubborn and strident to know your values. 'Men are allowed to feel old and to be seen like a fine wine, whereas I think for women it just takes so much boldness to stay in this profession as you age. And also to play parts where you don't have to always be the f***ing mother or the disappointed wife.' Eileen Walsh as Eileen Furlong in Small Things Like These. Photograph: Enda Bowe In the last year, Walsh has appeared in three significant screen productions: Small Things Like These; Say Nothing , the Disney + adaptation of Patrick Radden Keefe's book about the Troubles in Northern Ireland in which she plays Bridie Dolan, the aunt of Dolours and Marian Price who was blinded in a bomb-making accident; and Small Town, Big Story in the role of Catherine, a wheelchair user who is having a steamy affair with a colleague. In Small Things Like These, she co-stars with Oscar-winning Cillian Murphy, three decades on from Disco Pigs. 'A long circle completed,' she says. [ Small Things Like These: Cillian Murphy's performance is fiercely internalised in a film emblematic of a changing Ireland Opens in new window ] Claire Keegan's novella is set in 1985 in Co Wexford, and focuses on what happens when Bill Furlong, a fuel merchant, husband to Eileen Furlong and father of five daughters, discovers what is going on at the local convent, which is also a laundry that serves the town. Murphy – whom she calls Cill – contacted her when she was playing Elizabeth Proctor in Arthur Miller's The Crucible at the National Theatre in London. He asked her to read the script for Small Things, which Enda Walsh had written. 'I know that Cill as producer was very intent on working with people he knows and loves and worked with previously and had kind of relationships with. The whole movie was spotted with friends and long-time collaborators.' After she had read the script, she went to meet director Tim Mielants. She and Murphy 'had to do something similar to a chemistry meet. That meeting was filmed when we worked on some scenes together.' Small Things Like These: Eileen Walsh as Eileen Furlong and Cillian Murphy as Bill Furlong. Photograph: Enda Bowe/Lionsgate The two play the married couple in the movie, Bill and Eileen Furlong. 'It's a very tired relationship. They are a long time into the marriage, and they are very used to each other, so it's a no chemistry-chemistry meet, if that makes sense.' Walsh got the part. I remind her of what she has said earlier in the interview about being fed up of playing roles of mothers and disappointed wives, which one could see as a fair description of her role of Eileen Furlong. This role, Walsh makes clear, was very different from any kind of generic cliche of playing a mother or wife. 'Playing Eileen, she wasn't a put-upon wife, but was a mirror of what an awful lot of women were like at that time in Ireland. [ Irish Times readers pick Claire Keegan's Small Things Like These as the best Irish book of the 21st century Opens in new window ] 'Claire Keegan's writing is such a gift to any actor. Claire's story behind everybody is very dark. Nobody gets an easy ride with a Claire Keegan character, and that's a real draw to any actor. She doesn't soft soap anything. For me to play that character, to play Eileen, meant I saw so much of my own mother and the women that I grew up underneath, [women] I grew up looking up to. It was a hard time. They were trying to make money stretch very hard, at a time when dinners would have to be simple and very much planned to the last slice of bread. They were not women spouting rainbows.' As it happens, Walsh's next big upcoming role after the Cork Midsummer Festival will be that of Jocasta, Oedipus's mother, in Marina Carr's new play, The Boy. It will open at the Abbey in the autumn as part of the Dublin Theatre Festival. She'll play a mother in this interpretation of a Greek myth, certainly, but again, no ordinary one. Rehearsals start in July. [ From the archive: Eileen Walsh: How I reconcile motherhood with playing Medea Opens in new window ] Meanwhile, back to her modern-day Greek marathon in Cork this month. Due to the length of the show, there are a variety of ticket types the public can avail of. You can buy a ticket for the entire 24 hours, and either stay at the venue for the whole time or leave and return. On return, you may have to queue again and wait for a seat to become free. Other tickets are being sold for scheduled time slots for a number of hours. If you choose to come for the 2am slot, for instance, you'll pay a bit less for your ticket. There will also be some tickets available at the door, although it's likely you'll have to queue. There will be pop-up food and drink venues in the foyer to provide sustenance. The Cork Opera House has a capacity of 1,000 seats. If those seats keep turning over a during the 24 hours, thousands of people will have an opportunity to see this remarkable highlight of Cork Midsummer Festival: truly a night like no other this year in Ireland.
Irish Times
8 hours ago
- Irish Times
Changing surnames after marriage: ‘If it's good enough for Amal Clooney, it's good enough for me'
Timothy Harnedy, a data engineer, didn't have to think twice about changing his surname to that of his wife Deirdre's after getting married in 2014. The decision was 'quick and easy', he says, as it was important to him that they had a shared family name and important to his wife that she kept her name. Harnedy, from Cork, is just one of many readers who wrote to The Irish Times to share their opinions on women changing their names after marriage following a recent column by Áine Kenny , who bemoaned what she considers the 'normalisation of symbolic control' in heterosexual relationships. Harnedy explained how, in the internet age, he realised his name was not a unique identifier. So the 'simple solution' to adopt his wife's surname made them both happy. Some people close to him continue to struggle with their decision, Harnedy says, and they still receive post on occasion addressed to Mr and Mrs with his birth surname. READ MORE It is thought that women have been changing their surnames to their husband's upon marriage since as far back as the 15th century. A 2023 study conducted by the US-based Pew Research Centre found that 79 per cent of women took their husband's last name, 14 per cent kept their own last name and 5 per cent went for a double-barrelled option. Small studies show that among LGBTQ married couples, the majority of individuals opt to keep their own last name, followed by double-barrelled names. Catherine Crichton, who lives in Dublin, chose to change her surname after getting married. 'I thought feminism was about a woman's right and freedom to make her own decisions in life? That must include what name she wishes to be known by after marriage,' Crichton says. Catherine Crichton in Glasnevin, Dublin. Crichton chose to change her surname after getting married. Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill In her opinion, taking a new surname is an 'equally valid decision as keeping her previous one', pointing out that in many cases the 'original' name will have come 'from the woman's father'. 'Every woman's decision and the reasons behind it should be respected, and not criticised by other women,' Crichton says. 'If it's good enough for world renowned human rights lawyer Amal Clooney, it's good enough for me.' Amal Clooney changed her surname from Alamuddin when she married the actor George Clooney in 2014. When Liam Garvey and his wife Áine Halpin got married 25 years ago, she said 'I suppose I'll change to Garvey', he recalls, to which he replied: 'Why on Earth would you do that?' 'Mrs Garvey was my mother; Áine Garvey was my sister; Áine Halpin was the woman I fell in love with and wanted to spend the rest of my life with,' he says. Garvey is occasionally assumed to be 'Mr Halpin' while his wife is sometimes thought to be 'Mrs Garvey'. 'Having a single family name is practical, but it does not have to be the husband's,' he says. Garvey and many other readers suggested adopting double-barrelled surnames as an option, pointing to Spain where children are often given both their mother and father's last names. Traditionally, the father's surname was first followed by the mother's, but since 1999 Spanish law has allowed parents to choose the order of their children's names. Academic Dr Deirdre Foley says that as a historian of women and gender in Ireland, changing surnames is a 'constant frustration' as women are 'harder to trace in archives and can erase their personal identity'. Referring to one well-known activist couple from Irish history, Dr Foley says: 'I have long admired how Hanna and Francis Sheehy-Skeffington chose to double-barrel their name, but they were certainly lucky that the names flowed well together.' Dr Foley acknowledges how some women may change their last name following family trauma or estrangement, but says the tradition is a 'hetero-patriarchal norm' and 'a huge inconvenience for women who do make the switch'. Dr Foley considers this issue as one that women 'can opt out of', unlike other 'greater inequalities such as rape culture, unequal pay, maternity leave and the staggering cost of childcare'. Hanna Sheehy-Skeffington with her husband Francis Growing up in Tipperary, Nuala Woulfe says she was 'never too fond' of her first name but felt her surname was 'more interesting' and 'part of her identity'. For that reason, after getting married, she chose to keep her maiden name. 'I would have seen losing my surname as a blow,' Woulfe says. 'Keeping my maiden name has been a way to reconnect with my younger self, I haven't disappeared into my relationship nor do I belong to my husband. I think keeping your name makes a relationship more interesting.' Woulfe adds that should any of her three daughters choose to take their husbands' surnames, that would be fine by her. 'Women should do what they want, it's nobody's business but their own,' she says. Dave Barry, who lives in London, says he and his wife Zara Qadir have had 'zero issues' since his wife chose to keep her maiden name after they married 13 years ago. However, some family and friends continue to refer to his wife using his surname on Christmas cards and wedding invitations, despite being corrected, he says. Barry believes this behaviour 'stems from an underlying, insidious belief that a woman retaining her identity after marriage is somehow incorrect, or that in using her maiden name, she has somehow absent-mindedly forgotten her new name'. In the past he has been asked: 'How will people know you are married?' Barry feels the obvious response is: 'How is that anyone's business but ours?' [ The rise of the wedding content creator: 'I didn't want to spend so much money on a two-hour video that I'm never going to watch' Opens in new window ] Today, some women may choose to take their husband's surname for many different reasons. Perhaps they value having one 'family unit' name; they may be estranged from their birth family; they may prefer their husband's surname; or they may have fears about travelling with their children with different last names. One reader, who wishes to remain anonymous, recalls being stopped at passport control while travelling with her child and asked how she was related to her son. 'It was unnerving, you're thinking how do I prove it's my child,' she says. Once she showed his birth certificate, the problem was resolved. She always carries the birth certificate with her while travelling now, although she has not been stopped since. When getting married, she didn't change her name, explaining it would have felt 'weird' to do so. 'The tradition perpetuates the notion that a married man is the head of the household,' she says. In this day and age, she feels it is lazy to assume parents and children will have the same surname with so many examples of married women who keep their birth name; unmarried parents; same-sex parents and divorced or remarried parents. 'I understand passport officers need to be careful but there's no excuse for anyone else to presume,' she says.
