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The Irish Sun
29-07-2025
- The Irish Sun
The 117-year mystery of Ireland's missing crown jewels – Sherlock Holmes author help, graveyard digs & inside man theory
ON a July morning in 1907 a messenger boy was returning a piece of jewellery to a safe in Dublin Castle. But to his shock when he arrived, the door was already unlocked and the Irish Crown Jewels, the most precious items in the country, were missing. Advertisement 5 The items were stolen from their safe in the Bedford Tower in Dublin Castle Credit: Getty Images - Getty 5 A reward poster offering £1,000 for the return of the jewels, worth over €170,000 today The Irish Crown Jewels were the ceremonial regalia of the Order of St Patrick, a chivalric order established in the 18th century for Anglo-Irish nobility. On 6 July, 1907, just four days before The set, which consisted of a jewel-encrusted badge and a star, would be valued at several million euros today. Advertisement On the surface, this might sound like any other famous jewel robbery. But, Ireland's version of Ocean's Eleven holds more twists and frankly bizarre moments than even the best Hollywood blockbuster. It all starts with the man responsible for the safekeeping of the jewels - Arthur Vicars. Vicars was the Contemporaries described him as being eccentric and as having a drinking problem. However, he was well-connected within Anglo-Irish society. Advertisement Vicars was surprisingly lax in his role as custodian of the jewels. Historian and broadcaster, Myles Dungan, explains: "The jewels were discovered to be missing completely and utterly by accident. It wasn't that somebody said, 'We'd better go and get that badge and star for Aberdeen so that he can wear it', and then they discovered it. "They discovered it because one of the gold collars, had been cleaned by weirs of Grafton Street, and was being brought back to be put in the safe." 'HISTORY OF SCANDALS' Vicars would host parties in the office of arms, which were often attended by various aristocrats. Many believed Vicars was homosexual. Advertisement And rumours swirled that these lavish parties were actually sex parties or orgies. Myles said: "There was a history of these kind of scandals in Dublin Castle in the 1880s. The Parliamentary Newspaper of the United Ireland had exposed the Director of the Royal Irish Constabulary and the Secretary of the Post Office as homosexual. "Then you sort of fast forward by about 25 years, and Vicars was supposed to have hosted these parties." EASILY DRUNK Regardless of what went on at these parties, Vicars was undoubtedly reckless in his duties. Myles explained: "He got drunk very, very easily. I mean, a couple of glasses of port and he was anybody's. Advertisement "The story goes that he used to keep a key to the safe on himself at all times, and that one night party-goers had taken the key, and taken the jewels out, and promenaded around his office with the jewels in sort of a drunken stupor." He added: "There was also a claim that one of the people who was involved in these parties, a man called Lord Haddo, had just for a lark, stolen the jewels, and then replaced them the following day." RIDICULOUS BEHAVIOUR Vicars was so accustomed to these antics that he brushed off multiple reports of suspicious activity in the week leading up to the robbery. The Wednesday before the robbery, an office cleaner named Mrs Farrell had arrived at 7am and discovered that the front door of the office of arms was open. The following Saturday, she returned again to find the front door open, but this time, the strongroom was also unlocked, with the keys still left in the door. Advertisement Both incidents were reported to Vicars, who, according to Myles, "took no notice of it at all". "The jewels were discovered to be missing completely and utterly by accident. It wasn't that somebody said, 'We'd better go and get that badge and star for Aberdeen so that he can wear it', and then they discovered it." Myles Dungan Historian and broadcaster Funnily enough, the safe containing the jewels wasn't even in the strongroom when this occurred. Myles explained: "Regulations were introduced in the early 1900s, and the rule was that the jewels were to be deposited in the strongroom of the Office of Arms in the Bedford Tower in Dublin Castle. "The problem was that when the Board of Works, the ancestors of the OPW, and anybody who follows the Leinster House bike saga would not be surprised by this, when they came to put the safe into the strong room, they discovered that it was too big." Instead, the safe was left unguarded in the library of the Office of Arms. Advertisement PSYCHICS ENLISTED The robbery of the jewels represented a monumental scandal for both Vicars and Dublin Castle. An investigation was quickly launched in an attempt to identify the culprit. However, like every other part of this story, it was rather absurd. Vicars was immediately fingered as a top suspect in the case, due to his possession of the keys and his strained reputation. Desperate to prove his innocence and recover the jewels, Vicars enlisted the help of a number of supposed psychics. The psychics told him that the jewels were buried in a graveyard, so Vicars proceeded to dig up several graveyards fitting the description given. Advertisement AIDED BY AUTHOER To his disappointment, nothing was found. The author of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle, even offered his services, as he was a distant cousin of Vicars. Doyle, however, was not a detective; he was a doctor and proved to be utterly useless when it came to actual detective work. Vicars would later come to blame Francis Shackleton, brother of the famous Antarctic explorer Ernest Shackleton, for the robbery. Shackleton worked under Vicars at Dublin Castle and was known for having a lavish lifestyle despite being heavily in debt. Advertisement AN INSIDE JOB? He was also later convicted of financial fraud in 1913, in a separate case. Shackleton, however, had an alibi. He was out of the country the day of the robbery. Myles, however, explains that Shackleton may still have had a role to play in the robbery, as an inside man. He said: "The main suspect in that sense is Shackleton, and Shackleton was the inside man. The outside man was somebody who may or may not have been his lover, who was a man called Captain Gorges. "So the assumption is that Gorges actually, because Shackleton shared a house with Vickers, had access to all the keys. And that he created or he made copies of the keys for Gorges, and that Gorges then did the actual deed, he actually stole the jewels." Advertisement "There was also a claim that one of the people who was involved in these parties, a man called Lord Haddo, had just for a lark, stolen the jewels, and then replaced them the following day." Myles Dungan Despite such speculation, the investigation ultimately stalled due to a lack of credible evidence. Some believe the case was deliberately covered up by the crown after the investigation revealed a "ring of debauchery" at work within Dublin Castle. IT MIGHT BE ON YOUR FINGER As for the jewels, some speculate that they are still hidden or even secretly in the possession of the royal family. More likely, however, the jewels were broken down and sold off individually after the robbery. Myles explains: "The supposition is that the jewels that were stolen were smuggled out of the country to the Netherlands and were broken up. Advertisement "I mean, it's always going to be a mystery. It's always going to be susceptible to any conspiracy theory you want." Myles Dungan Historian and broadcaster "It's worth saying that you know any of your readers who have a diamond engagement ring could feasibly, depending on the age of the diamond, actually be wearing a small part of the Irish Crown Jewels; I strongly suspect lots of people are." Vicars held on in his position for some time after the robbery, refusing to take blame for the loss of the jewels. Feeling scapegoated, he even requested a royal commission trial so he could defend his character. Eventually, however, he was found to have been negligent and fired. He would never fully recover from the scandal and in 1921, after returning to his home in County Advertisement UNSOLVED MYSTERY It's been 117 years since the jewels went missing, and experts are nowhere near close to solving the mystery. It is likely we will never know what truly happened that day, but according to Myles, that's what makes the story so interesting. Myles said: "I mean, it's always going to be a mystery. It's always going to be susceptible to any conspiracy theory you want." He jokingly added: "You know what I think? I think the crown jewels were stolen by aliens. Yeah. I think they were brought to New Mexico, and I think the US government basically is hiding the crown jewels because they were stolen by aliens" To learn more about the robbery, Myles Dungan's The Stealing of the Irish Crown Jewels is available for purchase online. 5 An image of The Irish Crown Jewels published by the Royal Irish Constabulary and the Dublin Metropolitan Police after the theft was discovered. Advertisement 5 Myles Dungan has released a book on the robbery Credit: Myles Dungan 5 The Stealing of the Irish Crown Jewels details all the bizarre aspects of the crime Credit: Myles Dungan
Irish Post
26-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Post
Irish Heritage hosts its annual summer concert
THE IRISH Heritage Summer Concert took place in the beautiful surroundings of Leighton House in Holland Park, London. The evening attracted a large attendance and featured performances from flautist Sinead Walsh, pianists Georgina Cassidy and Alfred Fardell, tenor Owen Lucas and violist Eve Quigley. Tenor Owen Lucas (Pics: Malcolm McNally Photography) Irish Heritage is a registered charity whose objective is to advance public education and appreciation of the arts, particularly those of Irish and Anglo-Irish music, arts, literature and drama to the benefit of the community. The next Irish Heritage event in the calendar is a collaboration with the London Yeats Society celebrating the era of William Butler Yeats with an evening of poems and music on October 22. Click here for more information. Scroll down for more pictures from the event... Flautist Sinead Walsh is pictured centre with her mother Catherine and Hannah Seymour (Pics: Malcolm McNally Photography) Pianist Georgina Cassidy and flautist Sinead Walsh (Pics: Malcolm McNally Photography) Irish Heritage committee members Isobel and Margaret Parkinson are pictured with Frances Connolly (Pics: Malcolm McNally Photography) Irish Heritage Chairperson Jim Kirby is pictured with his wife Adelaide and Mary Wilson Mary's parents Ethna and Charles Kennedy founded Irish Heritage in 1974 Irish Heritage Artistic Administrator Tara Viscardi is pictured with Paul Malin and Ruben Padilla (Pics: Malcolm McNally Photography) Helen Holmes, Rosemary Phillips and Irish Heritage Trustee Mary (Pics: Malcolm McNally Photography) See More: Irish Heritage, Summer Concert
Irish Examiner
12-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Examiner
Midfielder, manager, meme: The many faces of Roy Keane
ONCE upon a time in Cork, a baby was born who would grow up to terrify not just opposition midfielders, but also his own teammates, his managers, and presumably the postman if he happened to take pause and congratulate himself on doing an honest day's work (It's his job!!). His name was Roy Keane. It's almost impossible to imagine he was once a baby, but a baby he presumably was. Once. That Roy Keane was the embodiment of a certain kind of '90s masculinity: The clenched jaw, the permanent scowl, the gait of a man who has just discovered his pint is off. He wore his rage like a birthmark. And woe betide anyone who crossed him. Patrick Vieira learned this the hard way in the Highbury tunnel, in a scene that resembled less a pre-match meet-and-greet and more the opening of a particularly gritty Scorsese movie. This Roy Keane was small in stature but had the presence of a colossus. In a glorious era for midfielders, he was — to my mind at least — the best. In his pomp, he was a joy to watch, but like nitroglycerine to handle. You worried for him the way you worried for a prodigal son. Roy Keane as a Sky Sports pundit. Picture: Naomi Baker/Getty A late-night phone call could mean many things: A man-of-the-match performance at the San Siro; a reverse-charges SoS from a police station in Salford; a request for 20 quid to be posted over to Manchester. Believing in Keane the footballer was easy. Trusting Keane, the young man, was much harder, mostly because we had no clue who he was. For years, Keane's aura was that of a man who might physically disintegrate if he so much as smiled. It simply wasn't done. Smiling was for the soft. If you wanted warmth, you could go sit by a radiator. Keane was here to win football matches — and possibly the moral high ground — by any means necessary. There is one clip from the evening he won the PFA Footballer of the Year award for the 1999/2000 season where, with literally no other options available to him, the shape of his mouth betrays him, and his face contorts into what would be ruled by any credible court of body language a human smile. That's my only recollection of him ever doing it outside of the act of a teammate scoring a goal. But time, that great equaliser, eventually gets even the fiercest of midfield generals. And so, here we are in 2025, looking at Roy Keane — still with the beard, still with the occasional glint of menace — but now one of the most beloved figures in sports media. A man who has, almost accidentally, become a sort of national treasure. And not just a national treasure at home here in Ireland, but, weirdly, in a transcendent nod to improved Anglo-Irish relations, the UK, too. How did this happen? What alchemy transformed Keane from the most combustible footballer of his generation to the man whose every withering remark on Sky Sports is immediately clipped, shared, and immortalised on TikTok by teenagers too young to remember him two-footing Alf-Inge Haaland into next month? To understand Keane, we must first understand ourselves. And since that's never going to happen, best sit back, relax, and happily join me in the surface-level deconstruction of the most fascinating Irish public figure since — you've guessed it — Michael Collins. Roy Keane, the Midfield Magician Roy Keane was never content to play football in the same way the rest of us played: As a hobby, a lark, or a means of justifying a curry afterwards. No, Keane treated every match as a moral referendum. Either you were up to the standard, or you were a disgrace to the shirt, the city, and possibly humanity itself. It was this intensity that powered Manchester United through the greatest years of their modern era. You think Keane was happy to win? No. Happiness was for people who didn't want to win the next game. Satisfaction was weakness. He was, in his own way, a sort of footballing monk — celibate not in the usual sense, but from joy itself. Roy Keane as Manchester United in 1999. Picture: INPHO/ALLSPORT There were signs that it was not ever thus. In the early years for Nottingham Forest, Ireland, and United, there were moments when the mask slipped, and the Mayfield kid was exposed. The over-the-top-of-the-shoulders celebration was a surrender to momentary joy, which lasted seconds. The rest was fury. Alex Ferguson, no stranger to darkness himself, eventually found Keane's relentless standards too much to endure. Their split was less amicable divorce and more Sid and Nancy. And Roy, naturally, saw nothing strange about this. He expected the same from everyone else that he demanded of himself: Total commitment and, ideally, no smiling. Both his exits — from Saipan, and later from United — were 'Where were you when' moments of tragic history. I recall leaving a college exam early to use a phone box in order to call a friend and confirm the news. I had no credit. That would've disgusted Keane. 'No credit? Give me a break.' Everyone remembers the night in Turin. For those of us who were really paying attention though, there were equally impressive nights in Bolton, Stoke, Newcastle, and Leeds. Roy Keane did not discriminate. He was an equal opportunity destroyer. Roy Keane, the Manager Having spent years glaring at people for a living, Keane took up managing them, first with Sunderland and then Ipswich. And while his record was respectable, the stories emerging were of a man bewildered by mere mortals who didn't share his evangelical zeal. One anecdote has it that when a Sunderland player dared to show up late to training, Keane simply turned his car around and drove home. Because if they couldn't be bothered, neither could he. This is known in management circles as 'sending a message,' but in Keane's case, it was likely much less performative in its motive, and just a very practical expression of disgust. Roy Keane as Republican of Ireland manager in 2017. Picture: Niall Carson/PA Wire Another tale recounts Roy sitting in the canteen, glowering into a cup of tea while young professionals crept past like mice in a haunted house. 'Good morning,' they'd squeak, and he'd nod imperceptibly, as if granting them a reprieve from execution. But even Roy must have sensed he was not built for the modern game's mood enhancers and sports psychologists. So, he drifted away from the dugout and into something altogether less obvious: punditry. Roy Keane, the Accidental Comedian The early signs were unpromising. Here was a man so famously laconic he once made Ryan Giggs look like Graham Norton. Surely, he'd be a disaster in front of the cameras. And yet somehow it worked. Because, in an age of bland punditry, Keane was refreshingly honest. He didn't do hyperbole. He didn't do platitudes. He'd watch a half-hearted back-pass, scowl, and pronounce it 'shocking'. Or he'd hear the suggestion that a player needed an arm around the shoulder and look as though he was about to call security. Soon enough, Sky Sports realised they'd struck gold. Keane didn't just provide analysis — he provided theatre. Stick him next to Micah Richards, the permanently giddy labrador of the studio, and you had the perfect double act: Micah cackling, Roy sighing with existential despair. It was like watching an old married couple — if one half of the couple believed the other should be dropped from the squad. One particularly telling moment came when Richards declared that he 'loved football'. Keane responded with an arched eyebrow and the words, 'You love football, yeah? I love winning.' It was the most Keane sentence ever uttered. And yet, paradoxically, the more unimpressed he appeared, the more we loved him for it. Roy Keane, The Redemption In any other sphere of life, this would be called a 'rebrand'. But Keane is too sincere, too committed to his principles to consciously rebrand. What's happened instead is a sort of collective reappraisal. We've all decided that he was right all along, even if we'd never survive 10 minutes in his company. Because the modern footballer — cocooned, pampered, massaged — stands in such contrast to Keane's old-school values that watching him skewer them has become such a cathartic respite from a reality spent surfing LinkedIn, seeing the worst of everybody. He is anti-performative. A Beckettian masterpiece. He doesn't scream 'Look at me/Don't look at me' like so many public-facing narcissistic men often do, instead he says, 'What the fuck are you looking at?' On prime-time TV. In doing so, the man once synonymous with football's darker impulses — rage, spite, retribution — has become the game's conscience. He is the last link to a time when men drank pints after training and tackled as if their mortgage depended on it. He has become, dare I say it, a role model. Just one you cannot turn your back to. Roy Keane, the Meme If you'd told a younger Roy Keane that one day he'd be immortalised in memes, he'd have looked at you with the same expression he reserved for a young Gary Neville. But memes are the currency of modern fame, and, accidentally or otherwise, Roy is minted. There he is, his face contorted in disgust, captioned: 'When someone says they 'gave it 110%.'' Or sitting with his arms folded, the unspoken louder than a vuvuzela: 'Just do your bloody job.' Teenagers who never saw him play nowadays know him only as The Angry Bearded Man. And in a way, that's a triumph. Because if there's one thing Roy would appreciate, it's consistency. Whether he's breaking up play or breaking the nose of a lippy pseudo-hard man in a Cheshire pub, he's never pretended to be anything he's not. Authenticity, that's his superpower. Roy Keane, The Softening You might be tempted to believe, watching Roy gently chuckle at Ian Wright's gags, that he's mellowed. But I suspect he's just found a new outlet. Once, his rage-fuelled tackles. Now, it fuels soundbites and viral clips. And occasionally — only occasionally — he lets the mask slip. You see him talk about Cork, about family, about his dogs. About the things he genuinely hates, like smiling, parties, fireworks, and leaf blowers. Murdo McLeod's 2002 portrait of Roy Keane is one of the artworks featured in the Crawford Art Gallery's 'Now You See It...' exhibition. Picture used with permission from the Crawford Art Gallery And for a fleeting moment, you glimpse a gentler Roy, the man behind the scowl. Then someone suggests a player 'had a good game despite losing 3-0', and the eyebrow shoots back up, the voice goes higher than a Jordan Pickford clearance, and you remember he is a man of standards. He is, and always will be, Roy Keane. Less a pundit than an elemental force, reminding us that standards matter, that excuses are for losers, and that nobody should ever, ever smile when they're 2-0 down. Roy Keane, the (reluctant) National Treasure There's a temptation to assume Roy secretly enjoys all this adulation. The podcasts. The live appearances. An upcoming movie. But it seems more likely that he endures it in the same way he endured team-building exercises: With stoic resignation. And that, really, is the secret of his charm. He hasn't changed as much as the world around him has. We've softened. So has he, but not much. And in our cosseted modernity, he's the last authentic holdout, grumbling from the sofa, refusing to tolerate mediocrity. It's what makes him special. It's why a generation who never watched him harangue the otherwise untouchable Eric Cantona now hang on his every word. And it's why — though he'd scoff at the idea — he has become something well beyond beloved. He is essential. And finally…Roy Keane, the Metaphor Roy Keane's evolution is proof of two things. That time does funny things to a man's reputation and that we love truth tellers in hindsight. From a safe distance. Preferably behind a screen, or on a stage, where our own insecurities are hidden, safe from prosecution. But if Roy has taught us anything (other than the fact that he's ultimately right about everything), it's that sometimes the truth hurts. And sometimes the truth comes with a Cork accent, a magnificent beard, and a look that says: 'I'm not angry. I'm just disappointed.' Which, if you know Roy Keane, is roughly the same thing. Read More Roy Keane: England players were having a chat like they were in Starbucks
RTÉ News
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- RTÉ News
Mary Lavin, J.D. Salinger and her path to The New Yorker's pages
We present an extract from Gratefully & Affectionately: Mary Lavin & The New Yorker, the new book by Gráinne Hurley. Between 1958 and 1976, the Irish American writer Mary Lavin had sixteen stories published in The New Yorker, after J. D. Salinger introduced her to the magazine. It was a prolific time for Lavin, helped in no small part by her close working relationship with her chief editor there, Rachel MacKenzie. Gráinne Hurley's debut, draws extensively from Lavin and MacKenzie's letters, offers a fascinating insight into the lives of two brilliant 20th-century literary women. When The New Yorker first made overtures to Mary Lavin in November of 1957, she was a 45-year-old widow tasked with the sole responsibility of raising her three young daughters (the youngest of whom was aged four), caring for her elderly mother and managing the family farm in Bective, County Meath. At this stage, Lavin was an internationally established writer, with six volumes of short stories, two novels and a children's book under her belt, but she had only resumed writing the previous year, following her husband's untimely death in May 1954. Lavin's creative hiatus was not due to writer's block but because, as she later explained to The New Yorker, she 'didn't think life itself worth living'. Her Atlantic editor, Edward 'Ted' Weeks, visited Lavin two weeks before her husband, William Walsh, died and witnessed first-hand the devastating effect his illness had upon her. He was doubtful 'that she would have either the time or the energy to write after her husband's death. Certainly, she did not have either now, but the difficulty ran deeper than that. She had lost faith in her ability to write.' As the family's breadwinner, Lavin relied heavily on writing for her livelihood. There was some income from the farm but the bills were beginning to rack up. In the spring of 1956 she had written to her literary mentor, the Anglo-Irish writer Lord Dunsany, about lecturing opportunities in England but he recommended that Lavin consider reading in the US instead as it was more profitable and would be a better fit for her. Dunsany gave Lavin the address for his lecture agents in New York and let her know that Curtis Brown in London could put her in touch with lecture agents in London. That summer Lavin consulted her friend Eudora Welty, the celebrated American writer from Jackson, Mississippi, about the possibility of giving readings in America. Welty advised Lavin to contact Elizabeth Bowen ('you know how she esteems you') about potential opportunities, given that she had embarked on a series of lucrative literary lectures and readings in universities and colleges across the United States. She also thought that Jean Stafford and the Anglo-Irish writer and critic James Stern would be able to give her good advice and she offered to write to the Poetry Center in New York. Lavin was a great admirer of Bowen's work and Bowen was very pleased to have finally made Lavin's acquaintance and grateful to Welty for opening up the lines of communication between them. Bowen informed Lavin that the National Concert and Artists Corporation in New York managed her readings in the US and she had 'no doubt, knowing how your work is admired "over there", that you would have an enthusiastic reception'. Bowen suggested that Lavin contact the firm directly or get Edward Weeks, Eudora Welty, Jean Stafford or James Stern to do so on her behalf. She sympathised with Lavin on the death of William, having lost her own husband, Alan, four years earlier. Bowen invited Lavin to meet her for lunch upstairs in Jammet's, the famous Dublin restaurant, on 13 September: 'I could then tell you far more about America, besides the pleasure of seeing you and being able to talk.' The two women evidently met on this occasion because on 10 October Welty wrote to see how their meeting went and expressed how much she wished she could have been present also. Lavin also reached out to the American novelist and New Yorker contributor Nancy Wilson Ross, who likewise advised her to get in touch with Stern. She raised the possibility of Lavin reading, à la Dylan Thomas, at the Poetry Center where John Malcolm Brinnin was the director. Welty duly contacted the National Concert and Artists Corporation for Lavin but the agency was non-committal about the prospect of taking on Lavin on as a client because it felt that she was not very well known in the US, having had only one book published there. In fact, the Boston publisher Little, Brown and Company had published two collections of Lavin's short stories: Tales from Bective Bridge in 1942, which won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize in 1943, and At Sallygap and Other Stories in 1947. It also reprinted her first novel, The House in Clewe Street, in 1945, which had been serialised in The Atlantic Monthly under the title 'Gabriel Galloway', and published her second novel, Mary O'Grady, in 1950. In 1957 Lavin began corresponding with the renowned American writer J. D. Salinger, best known for his 1951 literary classic The Catcher in the Rye, about potential American markets and publishing opportunities. Salinger and Lavin had never met but they had mutual friends in Eudora Welty, Jean Stafford and the theatre director and playwright John Beary, who likely initiated their communication. Although Salinger revealed to Lavin that he only faintly knew Welty, he passed word to her through friends they had in common that he and Lavin were now acquainted. Lavin was on much more familiar terms with Welty. The two women greatly admired each other's work over the years and they finally met on Welty's first trip to Ireland in 1950, while she was extending her Guggenheim-funded tour of Europe. Welty visited Lavin at her farm and the pair became lifelong friends, sending each other copies of their latest publications. Stafford was also a fan of Lavin's writing and in a letter expressed a desire to meet her on a planned visit to Dublin 'because I admire your work enormously'. She subsequently stayed with Lavin and William in Meath in 1949. Incidentally, Salinger had also been hoping to visit Ireland, but he explained to Lavin that it was no longer possible due to illness in his wife's family and also because he had returned to work that he had begun a few years earlier. Salinger sympathised with Lavin on the precariousness of a literary career and her financial situation and encouraged her to contact The New Yorker, with which he had strong ties, because it paid well. Welty and Stafford were among the many female authors, including Maeve Brennan, Mavis Gallant, Elizabeth Hardwick and Dorothy Parker, who were contributing fiction to The New Yorker at this time. Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, made his debut appearance in Salinger's first New Yorker short story, 'Slight Rebellion off Madison', published on 21 December 1946. However, in 1951 The New Yorker had declined to publish an extract from the novel because 'the precocity of the four Caulfield children was not believable, and that the writing was showoffy – that it seemed designed to display the author's cleverness rather than to present the story'. The rejection did not colour Salinger's opinion of the magazine and he continued to submit stories and encouraged Lavin to do likewise. Lavin subscribed to The New Yorker and Salinger was grateful for her praise of his recent story 'Zooey', which featured in its 4 May 1957 issue.
The Irish Sun
30-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Irish Sun
Inside Aidan O'Brien's life beyond horse racing with wife and children including trainer son Joseph
AIDAN O'Brien marked his latest career milestone over the weekend as Lambourn became the 20th horse to complete the Anglo-Irish double . Aidan, 55, was joined in the celebratory scenes at the Curragh's winners enclosure by wife Ann-Marie. 3 Celebrating Saturday's victory in the Dubai Duty Free Irish Derby with wife Anne-Marie Credit: Inpho 3 Saturday's success was the 17th time he's trained an Irish Derby winner Credit: PA 3 Son Joseph, 32, is a rising star as a trainer Credit: Getty Here, SunSport delves into his life beyond the race track with Ann-Marie and their four children. WHERE IS AIDAN O'BRIEN FROM? The Ballydoyle handler hails from County Wexford though his yard is actually located in Tipperary near Rosegreen. It is owned by John Magnier and Coolmore Stud. He was born on October 16 1969 as one of six kids. His dad Denis was involved in the racing industry but only as a small-time trainer with his day job being farming. Aidan went to secondary school at New Ross' Good Counsel College. Interestingly, he's been a proud pioneer since his teenage days and has always abstained from alcohol. Read More On Irish Sport WHO IS AIDAN O'BRIEN'S WIFE? He and Anne-Marie tied the knot in 1991. They have four children with racing fans needing no introduction to son Joseph who at 32, has already established himself as a quality trainer in his own right. But their three other offspring in son Donnacha and daughters Sarah Anastasia have also been jockeys before so the whole family is steeped in the sport. Aidan is no relation to Irish racing icon Vincent O'Brien who dominated on both sides of the Irish Sea before Aidan took over the Ballydoyle stables after he retired in 1994. PERSONAL INSIGHTS The flat legend largely keeps his private life just that. Most read in Horse Racing But in a rare feature interview last year with In the piece he's compared to Aidan O'Brien loses his cool in passionate TV interview after Lambourn wins Irish Derby But days of failure still come such as Asked how he deals with setbacks like that, O'Brien emphasized compartmentalising is a crucial aspect of the racing game since it is such a relentless calendar. He outlined: "Look, when the day is bad like that, I get on the plane and I sleep. That's the first thing, to cut myself off. "When I get home, I'll have two or three hours work to do in the yard and set up tomorrow morning. "That takes me to bed time. I'll go straight to sleep and when I get up, I never thinking about yesterday. It's gone. "By thinking about it, you're not going to get it back. You have to get focused on the days in front and learn from the things we need to be working on. "I can sleep no problem. If you don't sleep, the next day you'll be destroyed and the reason I would sleep is to let your mind heal, relax and go on. "If you start off the day after not sleeping it's going to be a disaster the next day and that's a little bit of a strange thing that I've done over the years."
