Kyla Cobbler: ‘I'm at a stage of my life where a double-stack air fryer is the party'
Paddy Power Comedy Festival
, which runs from Thursday, July 24th until Sunday, July 27th, at Iveagh Gardens, Dublin.
Are you a saver or a spender?
I
spend money
, but I spend it on good stuff – things like travel or fancy appliances. I'm at a stage of my life where a double-stack air fryer is the party.
What was the first job you received money for, and how much were you paid?
READ MORE
My first job was in a popcorn van at the 'merries', which was what Piper's Funfair in Crosshaven used to be known as because of all the merry-go-rounds.
I was paid a tenner for the whole day. That doesn't sound like a good deal but you get to go on all the rides and have unlimited popcorn, so it was definitely a win.
[
Niamh Kavanagh: 'Thanks to my mum, I learned how to pay my bills before I spent money on myself'
Opens in new window
]
Do you shop around for better value?
Not really, to be honest. I should, but I'm wrecked the majority of the time. I will shop around for better fruit and vegetables, and if I can, I always get organic.
What has been your most extravagant purchase and how much did it cost?
I went on a safari last year and it cost about €2,000. I got to see a baby elephant, so I have no regrets. I would have spent double for the experience.
What purchase have you made that you consider the best value for money?
The double-stack Ninja Air Fryer. I can't explain the handiness.
Is there anything you regret spending money on?
I bought a pair of trendy green runners to wear for my appearance on the Tommy Tiernan Show a few months ago. I have, literally, never worn them again. Notions.
Do you haggle over prices?
No, I would be mortified.
Do you invest in shares and/or cryptocurrency?
I don't invest in crypto, I'd rather just play a scratch card. I wouldn't mind investing in shares if it were something I believed in, like sustainable energy, but I wouldn't have a clue where to begin.
Do you have a retirement or pension plan?
No, I don't. You only live once.
What was the last thing you bought, and was it good value for money?
I spent €2.50 going into Dingle's Fairy Fort, which also has an animal pet farm. I got to pet some lambs, and it was worth every cent. Fairies and lambs – what more do you want?
[
'Behavioural economists would have a field day with me'
Opens in new window
]
Have you ever successfully saved up for a relatively big purchase?
Yes, I can save well if I have a goal. I love travelling and last year I saved up for a road trip to South Africa. Took about eight months to save up for the flights and all of the experiences, but it was beyond worth it.
Have you ever lost money?
Nah, sure it's all on my phone now and, touch wood, I haven't lost my phone yet.
Are you a gambler and, if so, have you ever had a big win?
I love scratch cards, but that's as far as it goes. I have won a few quid on the horses, but nothing worth chatting about.
What is your best habit when it comes to money? And your worst?
My best habit is that I wear the same shoes and clothes all the time, which means I don't shop too often. My worst habit is either ordering takeaway food or eating out. Literally, thousands, I'd say.
How much money do you have on you now?
I don't carry cash. Coins are manky and smelly. Everything is on the phone now.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Irish Independent
3 hours ago
- Irish Independent
All Ireland Final fever grips Donegal as county shows its pride in green and gold
This Donegal team has injected the county with a bolt of excitement and hope that hasn't been felt since that glorious All-Ireland run of 2012. And with just two short weeks to prepare, every corner of the county has exploded with All Ireland fever. Roadsides are drenched in green and gold, flags hang from every gable, bunting criss-crosses town streets, and even the sheep are sprayed for Sam. Murals have been updated, songs have been written, poems recited, and more than a few prayers whispered. In Glenties, the home of Donegal legend Jim McGuinness, cardboard cut outs of the team and backroom staff are hung from every lamp post, while in Letterkenny, the Polestar Roundabout has been illuminated in green and gold. In Buncrana, the latest mural by Tuath Nua caused a stir after locals made their feelings clear; 'Donegal for Sam, Kerry for Butter', while hillsides have been marked with 'Sam for the Hills' in Glengesh. A trio of Donegal men went one step further than anyone else and took themselves off to Kerry and planted Donegal flags in Killarney and the Kerry GAA Centre of Excellence; it was for a good cause and the Kerry supporters seemed to take it in good humour. Even the gardaí got in on the craic with Donegal's Chief Superintendent Goretti Sheridan, presenting Sergeant Maurice Doyle, a Kerry man stationed in Donegal, with a Kerry teacup. And while all roads lead to Croke Park on Sunday, the lads from Red Hughs; Darragh McMenamin, Cathair Browne, Ronan McLaughlin, Cathal McMenamin, Cathal and James Doherty and Tom McMenamin are aiming to get there in style. The young men have turned a Citroen into the 'Jim Mobile' customised in the county colours and featuring Donegal panel members Stephen McMenamin, Jonny Carlin, and Tommy Devine. Unfortunately, there has been an almighty scramble for tickets with just over 13,000 tickets allocated resulting in many fans being left disappointed but thanks to hand working volunteers and sponsors, towns and villages across the county have opted to show the game on the big screen. Family days out are planned in Ballybofey, Donegal Town and Killybegs while every pub, restaurant and home in the county will be watching the game. The craic is set to be mighty. And win or lose, this Donegal team has given the county a summer to remember.
Irish Times
6 hours ago
- Irish Times
How Substack is upending media: ‘It is seriously challenging the old-guard message that people won't pay for writing'
Elon Musk wanted to buy Substack not long after he bought Twitter in 2022. But the newsletter and podcast platform wasn't for sale. This month Substack raised a further $100 million (€85.44 million) in investment. The deal put a reported $1.1 billion valuation on the business. For now, Substack remains privately owned. Even though it's been around for eight years, it's only in the last couple of years that Substack has become more visible and popular. Part of the reason is that several big-name writers have started using the platform. Margaret Atwood , George Saunders, Miranda July , Salman Rushdie , Chuck Palahniuk and many others have Substacks. [ A Swim in a Pond in the Rain: A masterclass in how to write by George Saunders Opens in new window ] Maybe it's the ethos of Substack that draws writers of such renown. As the app states, 'with full editorial content and no gatekeepers, you can do the work you most believe in'. At this starry juncture of the careers of Atwood et al, it's difficult to imagine any book editor savaging new manuscripts they submit, but maybe it's the freedom to play around with random content and ideas that is the attraction. Other well-known people on the platform are the Nobel-winning economist Paul Krugman, former Vanity Fair editor Tina Brown and singer-songwriter Patti Smith . READ MORE So how did Substack evolve? Back in the analogue day, we hand-wrote letters to each other when we had something to say. That lasted for centuries. The most exposure those letters received were overwhelmingly to an audience of one. That's unless the recipients and/or senders were famous, and had the foresight to keep their correspondence; a correspondence that some day in the future ended up being published as Collected Letters. Then came the Internet and mobile phones for all, and the new reality of your thoughts, images and live experiences reaching huge digital audiences. On the writing side of this in the early days were blogs, usually on the platform Word Press. Plenty of ordinary people blogged about their lives, children, travels, social experiments, interests and an inexhaustible range of other subjects. In the democracy of the online world, some blogs were good, some were terrible. They were free to read, or at least any I came across were, although, as ever, donations were welcome. Some that became widely read went on to have another life, one example being Julie Powell 's 2002 blog Julie & Julia, 365 days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment. Powell blogged for a year about cooking her way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It later became a bestselling book, then a hit movie starring Meryl Streep as Child. After the long and enduring life of the blog came newsletters. These differed from blogs in that they were less frequrntusually once a fortnight or once a month. You could sign up to be added to the mailing list. I subscribed for a time to author Dolly Alderton's newsletter, which was, as I recall, short, newsy and funny. Maybe it's the ethos of Substack that draws writers of such renown. Photograph: Gabby Jones/Bloomberg Substack is essentially the 3.0 sophisticated incarnation of the blog-stroke-newsletter, its aim to secure a subscription fee for access to at least some of the writer's content. Substack was founded in San Francisco by Hamish McKenzie, Chris Best and Jairaj Sethi. It was funded by various venture capitalist investors. The mission statement on the app reads: 'Building a new economic engine for culture. Do your best work, supported by your subscribers. Substack lets independent writers and podcasters publish directly to their audience and get paid through subscriptions.' There aren't any ads on Substack, and it is free to use the platform. The idea was that writers – in an era when freelance assignments have become ever rarer and ever more poorly paid – could have some autonomy over monetising their own content. Readers pay writers directly, rather than the traditional arrangement of editors commissioning copy, and organisations then waiting to pay contributors after weeks or even months. Writers posting on Substack have an individualised website for their archive content, in addition to whatever way they wish to personalise the page. New articles on Substack get emailed to subscribers. The author owns their content and their mailing list. Traditional media outlets frequently retained copyright over content written by writers. Writers can make their content free, or subscriber-only. Substack's business model takes a 10 per cent cut on paid subscriptions. The company doesn't release profit figures, so if it's difficult to know how much it makes. However, Substack said earlier this year that it now has five million paid subscribers. That came just four months after the company claimed four million paid subscribers, so this number appears to be advancing rapidly. To talk about media or publishing at this moment, you have to talk about Substack or look out of touch There is usually some free, or 'unlocked', content on a Substack, so potential subscribers can get a flavour of what's being offered. When writers are starting out, they can choose to make all their content free, while also offering a 'pledge' option. This means that if and when content becomes subscriber only, the pledge automatically transforms into a subscription. Freelance journalist Laura Kennedy , a contributor to The Irish Times who is now based in Australia, has had a Substack called Peak Notions since 2022. It has 14,000 subscribers, though she prefers not to reveal how many of those pay for her content. 'For a writer or freelancer, steady income and consistent work – the reliability of it, the editorial control and ownership of your own content and platform – is legitimately life-changing,' she says. 'A small, regular income that can't be pulled from under you at no notice is more than most writers can expect. 'Substack has sort of upended media in the best sense – it is seriously challenging the old-guard message that people won't pay for writing, that it is the platform and not the writer they value, that they only want to read particular kinds of work, or that local news is not something people will fund directly. Kennedy points out that some writers have secured book deals through their Substacks. [ Demystifying the path to publication, for free Opens in new window ] In May of this year, the New Yorker published an essay by Peter C Barker titled Is the Next Great American Novel Being Published on Substack? As Kennedy says: 'To talk about media or publishing at this moment, you have to talk about Substack or look out of touch. That's a profound change and a good one. There is no reason writers and journalists can't be in both worlds – they enrich one another. They're the same world.'
Irish Times
6 hours ago
- Irish Times
FeliSpeaks: Life as a ‘black, Irish, queer culchie'
Over the past decade, Felicia Olusanya , who performs as FeliSpeaks, has written themselves into the contemporary Irish cultural canon. Growing up in Longford town, having moved to Ireland from Nigeria (via France) at the age of eight, there have been multiple landmarks along their creative journey to becoming a compelling and well-recognised performer on Dublin's spoken word scene. Yet early on, they imbued their poetry with its own specific cadence, intonations, a musicality that can move like waves, often becoming an enveloping experience for audiences. A moment that felt especially important was in 2017, at a fundraiser for the Repeal the 8th campaign in the Olympia Theatre. Olusanya's capacity to both quieten and command the room was potent. What emerged was a poem written at their desk in the credit union where they worked: READ MORE And who will march for us? For girls who are fattened, bred and fed for men whose appetites fill like basket water, Devoured by never enough. For girls who can point out pain in the alphabet but cannot spell out their own name. For girls, whose identities are buried under the smoke of a kitchen stove, High on the opportunity to serve, at least. They were nominated for Best Performer at Dublin Fringe Festival in 2018 for Boy Child, co-written with Dagogo Hart , and then won the award in 2022 , for their performance in thisispopbaby 's production, WAKE . Their poem, For Our Mothers, was included on the English Leaving Certificate curriculum in 2023. Olusanya has spent the past two years living in Brussels, returning to Dublin in early July. They arrive in Temple Bar on a sunny weekday morning, finishing up a deli pastry. In the Project Arts Centre , we sit at the back of the empty auditorium upstairs, the airy silence interrupted only by a lone technician clearing lights from the stage floor. At this year's Dublin Fringe Festival, this stage will be Olusanya's. Octopus Children, presented by thisispopbaby, is written by Olusanya, who also performs in the piece. Olusanya describes it as a 'choreopoem', using the term coined by the American playwright and poet Ntozake Shange, where multiple disciplines including poetry, music, and dance combine. 'Octopus Children,' Olusanya explains, 'is this idea that we're all connected by water. We all come from the water, the birth canal, we drink water to survive, we're 70 per cent water. I think water is integral to how we live, and one of the things we waste the most. That's the underbelly of the piece. The overbelly, if I can say that, is just trying to figure out where you fit as a person.' These are the tentacles. 'There are many layers people can see themselves in. But being black, and then being black-Irish, and then being black, Irish and queer in a religious setting, in a Nigerian setting, in Ireland, is very specific.' And beyond that, Olusanya deadpans, 'being a culchie'. The idea for Octopus Children arrived in 2021. Olusanya felt the poems landing as songs. 'I could hear a sonic world with them.' They began hanging out with some producers in a garage in Blackrock in Dublin – 'very sweet boys' – working on a concept for an EP. The first piece completed in 2022, Tough Meat, was a video poem directed by Bobby Zithelo . 'Putting that out into the world, I was hoping to leverage that in some capacity – somebody will see it! Somebody will think it's brilliant!' WAKE: Felicia Olusanya captivated audiences in thisispopbaby's hit show, journeying from Dublin Fringe Festival to London's West End and Manchester's Aviva Studio. Photograph: Ruth Medjber In the meantime, Olusanya captivated audiences in WAKE. That show was a hit, journeying from Dublin Fringe Festival to a standalone sold-out run at the National Stadium in Dublin, and then to London's West End, and Manchester's Aviva Studios. The show holds many things simultaneously: chaotically fun cabaret; aerial artistry; breathtaking pole-dancing; club anthems; dance; poetry; Irish traditional music – all combining to become a moving funeral rite and a great night out. In WAKE, Olusanya is a central character – part ringmaster, part preacher, part spirit, part healer, an anchor tethering the audience to the spiritual essence of the show. In rehearsals, Olusanya says that before developing the character, the thisispopbaby team 'really developed my talent and stretched it a bit'. Olusanya relishes a challenge. 'If you've ever grown up in a choir and a Nigerian auntie has been your choir master, girl, you take challenges real well! Nothing can faze you.' [ Thisispopbaby's magic sauce: 'Take Irish traditional culture, add some mirror balls, throw some glitter on it' Opens in new window ] Olusanya recalls telling Jennifer Jennings, WAKE's co-director and co-creator, that the character felt like an offering for the audience. Amid the neon and glitter, WAKE is also about expressing and diffusing grief. 'Grief is so traumatic, and if you're going to address it, you need to bring balm. I feel like that was what I was tasked with,' Olusanya says. At one performance in the West End, they recall 'coming off the stage and I wasn't even thinking about the words, I was being the words ... I vacuum cleaned the grief in the room. There's something so difficult about that, feeling the intensity of people's grief. Take it off their hands, and then offering balm. Oftentimes I'll get offstage and my body is wracked. Hyperventilating. I can't breathe.' An audience in the midst of releasing their emotion – joy or pain – doesn't often consider where that energy goes when those on stage are opening up those channels. 'Energy cannot be destroyed or created,' Olusanya says. 'It can only be passed from one to the next. So if you're releasing and you feel great, I'm determined to swallow it all up. I'll bring it before my chi and my god and release it that way.' They pause to consider that process and experience. 'I felt powerful enough to be able to do that. I've been thinking about power a lot. Once you're aware of your magnitude or power, for me, awareness of my power meant service. You can't be powerful and useless – come on! The more aware of my power I am, the more I submit to the service of other people via my art. That's what I'm here for.' 'For all the weight and darker elements of the work ... Feli also brings a real lightness, humour, and an irony,' says Octopus Children director Oonagh Murphy of Felicia Olusanya. Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill After the second run of WAKE in Dublin, Olusanya says thisispopbaby asked, 'What do you want to create? What do you have in mind?' Olusanya answered: Octopus Children. 'I made them a little PowerPoint with all the ideas and thoughts, the sounds, the music I had already created. They were like, 'What in the hell? Here's a director. Go sort that out.' They were interested, they were curious. I really appreciated that they wanted to see my perspective on life.' That director is Oonagh Murphy. Murphy says Olusanya is 'a counter voice to what we're familiar with in the Irish cultural imagination. But also the craft of their work is incredible. When you think about how prolific their output is, there is a real discipline ... And there's a deep playfulness there too. For all the weight and darker elements of the work – which need to be given space – Feli also brings a real lightness, humour, and an irony.' [ Sabotage review: Joyously chaotic festival opener has all the fun of the circus Opens in new window ] Working on Octopus Children, Murphy says, 'has felt quite spiritual, magical'. Early on in our conversation, Olusanya refers to 'being the rebel in your family unit'. What does that rebellion look like? Their upbringing, community and family in Longford runs deep. As a youngster, Olusanya was 'a good girl, because I liked the things that I was supposed to like'. They loved school, 'which, if you know anything about immigrant families, this is the one thing '. They loved church, 'because I was very aware of my spiritual nature from when I was very young, and I didn't have any other outlet for it'. They loved going to choir, and being part of a youth group. 'The rebellion started when I hit 15 or 16. I started wrestling with my gender identity without knowing what it was. I didn't even know what those terms were until I hit maybe 21, 22 ... I wore the wrong clothing. I 'girled' differently to how I should have. So my mum was quite worried about that. I also wanted to explore kissing boys and girls, but it was like: that's not something you do. And I was very aware of that.' Around the age of 17, Olusanya recalls taking their younger brothers to the barber shop. 'I came home with a haircut too. My mother said, 'What is the matter?' She was so concerned because I cut my hair.' The rebellion 'ramped up' in college in Maynooth, where they were studying English and sociology, 'because I decided to leave Christianity'. Then, there was coming out as queer. 'I came out by accident. I didn't know I was coming out, I was just talking about being queer on Instagram.' I want black Irish girls, or non-binary people, or gays, to be like, 'Ahh! That's a bit of me!' — Felicia Olusanya on Octopus Children Olusanya had attended Dublin Pride, alone, 'so excited, just taking it in, like wow ... I came back from my first Pride parade, and I made a whole Instagram post – as you do when you're 23 and stupid. I was so excited, saying all my thoughts, and I forgot church people followed me. My mum followed me, obviously. She commented, 'Mum's got your back always.' It was really beautiful in that moment. However, some tricky conversations in the community in Longford followed. 'You know in the movies where they want to pray the gay away? They're really serious about that, you know… I was like: I like my gay. I'm not giving up my gay… That in itself was a rebellion.' On the hurt this induced, Olusanya says they 'would rather that pain, than the pain of hiding'. Tears pooling in Olusanya's eyes, they express empathy and understanding for the context. 'That in itself is complicated and confusing, and requires all the emotional intelligence in the world to navigate. But yeah,' they say, brushing the tears away, 'that's also in Octopus Children.' Olusanya flips the atmosphere into a moment of unexpected lightness, 'Do you know what? The Laya Healthcare ad helped!' Laughter fills the empty theatre. 'Do you know how cool it is when you're on billboards? They get over the gay stuff quick!' In late 2021, Olusanya appeared in a campaign for the health insurance company, bringing their image and words on to television screens and billboards across Ireland. I suggest that this feels like a quintessentially Irish experience, but perhaps one more associated with another time. Olusanya nods, connecting the social attitudes of older generation white Irish people to first generation Nigerian-Irish. 'I don't like saying this, but that's how far away we are in terms of where we should be. I'm not saying white Irish Ireland has it all figured out, but in terms of the queer thing? It just feels like the story is a 1980s Irish experience. It feels like a time-travelling experience. [ Taylor Tomlinson at 3Arena review: more personal, more vulnerable but few surprises Opens in new window ] 'When immigrant black people come here and they make black Irish children, they're not expecting the assimilation that we experience. My parents and their peers came purely out of survival – 'at least you're going to have a fighting chance'. When people come from a survival mentality and you're trying to operate from a thriving mentality, they're terrified. Because even though they do want you to thrive, they don't know what that looks like. And so there is this push and pull between: 'I want you to be better and that's why I brought you here,' versus, 'What better looks like is really confusing and alienating for me as the mother or father or family that brought you here.'' This can cause, Olusanya believes, a 'disconnect' between some black youth in Ireland, and their parents and older relatives. 'It's either thrive and evolve, or we just end up replicating our parents. So that 1980s connection is so interesting. There's half of us who are like, 'F**k it, I'm going to take this opportunity to thrive beyond the economic.' Because, no word of a lie, black Irish people my age? Disgustingly equipped and educated. They have masters degrees for no reason, bruv! What, to work in a Centra? Relax!' The Centra line is obviously a joke. 'They're taking over Google! What's going on?! Educated to s**t. Lawyers, medical doctors. We're not playing it small, because we're not allowed to. We're not allowed to play it small, because survival involves going all the way up here,' Olusanya raises their hand. 'But that's economic survival.' The social and spiritual aspect, they say, is another thing. Felicia Olusanya describes Octopus Children as a 'choreopoem', in which multiple artistic disciplines combine. Photograph: Dara Mac Dónaill I wonder whether the reaction Olusanya experienced to them being queer was also about a fear of another layer of oppression to contend with in a racist society. The conversations Olusanya had with family and others, they say, were 'not about hate, it's about fear. They were terrified, because they've built these communities and structures that incubate them safely. When you pop out of it for work, to socialise, you can still come back home. Even if I get racist experiences at work, there's a whole community that have my back I can come back to, so that is a temporary experience. That's how I think the older generation view it. Whereas if you're then gay, it's not the thing that's going to break you out 'there' in the white Irish world, but it will,' - or may - 'in the home that we've all built that's supposed to support you no matter what.' 'I want us to be able to have our communities, grow our communities, and not be caged by our communities, because that's also what's happening when people come from a space of survival, psychologically. I can't wait for a couple of generations where our people feel completely safe, that there isn't a demarcation. Sociologically and psychologically we all do this: you're drawn to people who are more like you, that's normal, so you'll always have those type of communities anyway. I'm not saying we need to dismantle our safety in our community in order to integrate. That's not what I'm asking for. But what I am saying, is to free ourselves from the limitations that the survival of our communities has brought. And one of those limitations,' Olusanya says, is a feeling 'that you can't be queer. Especially not out loud.' They have just returned from two years in Brussels, a place Olusanya went to out of a sense of adventure and 'safety, because it felt like the country held me well - I visited several parts of of Belgium before settling in Brussels - and I didn't want to go to London especially, very Dublin 2.0 vibes.' Living there, they were exposed to 'a type of freedom and blackness that I had never seen before or experienced', as well as new forms of dance and jazz. Now, Olusanya is ready for the next phase. They hope what Octopus Children does is make people 'one, feel visible in multiple ways, per tentacle. But two, that it frees us from the limitation of our own community – seeing a 'me'. I've come to accept – and no ego s**t – you just end up being a pioneer. You don't want to be a public figure, you don't want to be the person people look up to. But if you're going to do something different, you're going to end up being that ... With this show, I want to show my community – black Irish people – and the white Irish community, that this weird layered person-being can be visible, and it's completely okay. Visible and celebrated. I want black Irish girls, or non-binary people, or gays, to be like, 'Ahh! That's a bit of me!' and not feel like there's no representation. I hate the word representation, but it's so f***ing important. But I don't want to be the only one. I want to be able to make Octopus Children so octopus children can find it, so there can be a community of us, so we're very visible, very loud.'
