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Irish Times
3 days ago
- Business
- Irish Times
Ruby Eastwood: Why would anyone choose to live in a city as ridiculous as Dublin?
You hear stories about how people survive in this impossibly expensive city. Couples who stay in loveless relationships because they can't afford to separate. Strangers from Facebook groups sleeping in the same room. A bed rented by one person in the day and a different person at night. Tenants paying their landlords with sex . Artists squatting illegally in their studios. People sleeping in storage units. These stories are full of human ingenuity and degradation. They're really quite strange when you think about them properly. The strangest part is how common they've become. [ Ireland's rising rents: 'Our budget would have been €1,300 a month, there isn't even anything listed for that' Opens in new window ] About a year ago, my best friend in Dublin moved to Berlin , where he says it's still possible to be broke and live well. When he left his damp, windowless room near Connolly Station – which cost just under a thousand euros a month – there were people queuing for the privilege of being next. Now he lives in a sunlit attic for a fraction of the price, and drinks Fritz Colas and Berliner Pilsners on the rooftop. Every so often, during our calls, he tries to convince me to join him. His logic is hard to fault: Dublin is untenable. Unless you have private wealth or can stomach a corporate job, you resign yourself to chronic financial dread – the kind that squats over your life like Fuseli's goblin in the painting. At least in other expensive cities, such as New York or London, you can escape your overpriced room into a pulsing metropolis, with endless distractions and some of them free. In Dublin, all you can really do is go to the pub, and even that costs too much. The city is very small, and it seems to constrict as the years pass. You can't leave the house without seeing a face you know. In fact, there are no faces you don't know. They approach from all sides. And the rain. The constant rain. I recognise the truth in this, and it's hard to argue with. Why would anyone choose to live in such a ridiculous city? I don't know if I really understand my own reasons for staying. I suspect they're quite shameful: they have more to do with a romantic or aesthetic impulse than with anything practical. READ MORE I just like Dublin. I like the harsh beaches and the Martello towers. The silvery, rinsed-out light. I like walking through the sprawling industrial wastelands on the city's fringes. I like the canals in spring, all fragrant with weeds and strewn with sunk bicycles. Strangers here seem to want to tell you things – like the old lady who, for no discernible reason, wanted to talk about the time she heard Bob Marley singing Redemption Song at Dalymount Park. You witness things. Once, on Talbot Street, I saw a man with an arm in a cast get into a physical fight with a man on crutches. I like Dublin on the rare occasions when it snows. I like the hot, malty smell from the Guinness factory. I like the Liberties, where you can hear the quiet rush of subterranean rivers, and church bells, and horses' hooves. I like that ugly statue of Oscar Wilde with the pervert's smile. I even like the loud, sentimental music on Grafton Street, and the whiskey-soaked ballads streaming from the pubs in Temple Bar. The idea of leaving Dublin becomes more, not less, appealing as I become more entrenched here ... we can weather all sorts of adversity, but banal contentment is the real deadener Mainly, though, I like Dublin because I chose it. The first time I visited, I was 21. I had some half-baked but very attractive notion of what Ireland represented: something to do with resistance, with migration and nostalgia and alcoholism. I had a copy of Finnegans Wake and I think I got about three pages in on the bus ride into town before falling asleep. When I woke up, I scrambled off and left the book behind. I had oysters for lunch that day and pictured my whole life in the city. It felt just the right size to make mine. I've lived in bigger cities: Barcelona, where I grew up, and London, where I lived before coming here; and smaller, random places: Brighton, Siena. I've spoken to quite a few Dubliners who are desperate to move to other European cities and can't understand my decision to stay. There's a kind of faith involved in choosing a city. You respond to its atmosphere, its pace and texture, the way it opens up to you – or doesn't. Dublin, for all its flaws, felt like it might yield something if I stayed long enough. The beginning in a new place is always the hardest part: slow, bitty, full of doubts. I didn't know anyone. I'd been accepted into a master's programme but couldn't fund it and had to defer my place by a year. When my sublet ended, I had to return to London for a while because I couldn't find another room. I worked in bars and signed up with a temp agency that sent me on scattershot catering shifts around the city. The jobs were mostly tedious, but they offered a kind of education. I learned how the different bits of the city fit together, like a giant jigsaw. The glassy conference rooms down by the Quays. The Leopardstown racecourse, where West End men come on weekends to get extravagantly drunk. The grand Georgian hotels and restaurants, where they throw out so much good food it makes you want to cry. The methadone clinic at the end of the bus line where you hear the wildest conversations and sometimes get drawn in. [ Dublin: The 13th best city in the world ... supposedly Opens in new window ] It occurs to me that the difficulty of establishing yourself in a city confers a special kind of meaning on your relationship to it. Like in a toxic romance, if you can weather the lows, the highs are incredible. Who knows – maybe the expensiveness and impossibility of a place like Dublin, far from being deterrents, actually deepen its appeal, the way we fetishise designer handbags but never their identical fakes. I've always had this wrong-headed idea that the value of something is revealed by the sting of its attendant sacrifice. Gradually, my life in Dublin took on more solidity. I was lucky enough to receive a university grant. I met people. I signed a lease. I moved in with a friend and we painted all the walls fresh white. She bought velvet floral curtains in pastel colours and hung them in the livingroom. I found a few prints in charity shops. I got a Persian carpet from a lady in Blackrock Market. A friend gave me a desk she no longer needed. Sometimes the city sends you little signs of progress. The quiet, stoical man in the corner shop at the end of my road has started calling me 'honey', and occasionally smiles. I have a friend's spare keys on my keyring. I know the name of my neighbour's dog. I know which cobbler to go to for the best deal. Ruby Eastwood Still, there are days when I fantasise about leaving. It would be nice to buy lunch in a cafe without feeling frivolous. It would be wonderful not to feel like I'm stuck in a recurring nightmare every time rent comes around. Oddly, the idea of leaving Dublin becomes more, not less, appealing as I become more entrenched here. Maybe that's no coincidence. To return to the toxic romance analogy: we can weather all sorts of adversity, but banal contentment is the real deadener. Recently, I spoke to a friend in London who's moving to Iowa City for a master of fine arts degree. He told me he's spent hours on Google Maps, exploring the place through Street View. The images all seem to have been captured on sunny days – it looks green and beautiful, full of classic American wood-frame houses. He's begun to associate the town with Iowa Dream by Arthur Russell, all melodic guitar lines and soft lyrics. The self he pictured living there was different from the one he knows in London: less anxious, more social, content to spend long afternoons drifting around and hanging out with friends. [ Trevor White: I love Dublin. But there's no point in pretending it's a great small city Opens in new window ] I also indulge in this kind of cartographic dreaming. I explore prospective cities on Street View: Beirut, Paris, Berlin. It's a surreal activity. You pick a spot on the map and drag yourself along, imagining a parallel life. Sometimes, from one click to the next, the sun disappears and rain slicks the tarmac. Figures with blurred faces vanish or are replaced by others in different clothes further down the road. You realise the map is stitched together from footage taken on different days, in different moods. Another thing my friend hinted at stayed with me: that emigration can be indistinguishable from escapism. When I imagine myself in another city, I don't picture myself as I am now, but a physically and intellectually tweaked version. In Paris, I'm gaunt with a perfect bob; I smoke straights and read Lacan for pleasure. In Beirut, I am somehow fluent in Arabic; I drink less; I am sharper and more spiritual. I study ancient manuscripts. In Berlin, I am reunited with my best friend and we live together like Robert Mapplethorpe and Patti Smith before it all fell apart, looking cool and making great art. The fantasy isn't really about the new city. It's about becoming a new person. [ Emer McLysaght: Five lessons Dublin can learn from Zurich Opens in new window ] There's a way of reading this that feels a little bleak. You could say it reflects a kind of ambient self-disgust, or an inability to accept life as it is. A symptom of being stuck in the wheel of samsara: trapped in a cycle of craving and disappointment, forever projecting some improved self just over the horizon, never quite admitting that the old self follows you everywhere. There's truth in that, but it's not the whole story. There's another, more generous way to see it. Maybe it isn't escapism, but a kind of unconscious recognition that we are always in the process of becoming. Cities aren't just stages on which our lives play out. They are the biggest collaborators. They shape how we speak, how we move, how we think. They alter our trajectories. When you choose to stay in a place, you're submitting to its influence. To live in a city is to enter into a kind of contract. You agree to spend your time, your energy, and your labour in its service. In return, it promises transformation, but on its own terms. Like the enchanted gift in a fairy tale, the city will change you in ways you can't predict, and not all of them will be kind. The point is you don't get to choose. It's a gamble. Is it one worth taking? Ruby Eastwood is a writer living in Dublin
The Sun
20-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Sun
I bought a bundle from Vinted & ended up with a ‘Cartier bracelet' for 23p – but people don't believe it
A WOMAN bought a bundle from Vinted and ended up with a 'Cartier bracelet' for just 23p. The savvy shopper managed to get her hands on the vintage piece of jewellery and has even conducted some of her own tests to determine if it's real or not. 2 Sharing a video on her TikTok page, ' twistedtreasuresect ', the woman revealed that her bracelet might be worth at least £1,000. Speaking to her 2,014 followers, the Vinted shopper explained that she bought two bundles, which came to £46, and each individual item worked out at around 23p. In that bundle, she claimed to have received a Cartier Love bracelet, which, if purchased from the shop, starts at around £4,500 depending on the design. She explained that she had reached out to several Facebook groups to ask whether they thought it was real or fake, and opinions were divided. The TikToker also revealed that she had conducted a few tests herself to determine the authenticity of the material. She said: 'I held it in white vinegar and the only metals that don't react with vinegar are gold, platinum and high-quality sterling silver. 'And there was no reaction. 'So it's going to be one of those three metals regardless of whether it's real or fake. It's also not magnetic. 'And metals that aren't magnetic are aluminium, copper, gold, silver, lead and brass. 'So the options of the two are going to be gold or silver. So the chances are it's going to be one of those two. Here's hoping anyway. 'It's also 18g in weight.' The woman went on to show different clips of the bracelet, before explaining that some of the gemstones are missing, which means if it were real, she 'wouldn't get anywhere near the value that it would be.' However, she urged people to bear in mind that it is 18g. An 18-gram bracelet is relatively lightweight and comfortable for everyday wear, but whether it is "good" depends on the material. Gold bracelet For example, if it is a gold bracelet, the weight contributes to its value, so an 18g gold bracelet could be considered good quality and more substantial than lighter options. If it is silver or stainless steel, these materials would feel lightweight yet durable for casual use. The TikToker went on to say: 'If it is gold, it is still worth just under or just over £1,000 depending on what quotes I get from jewellers. 'I will be taking this for an inspection, but I've ordered a gold metal testing kit just to test it first because if it's not gold, then I don't know if it's worth me taking it.' 2 The video received 87.6k views within five days of being shared. One person wrote: 'So years ago my dad brought a bracelet like this home from Dubai. It was gold. "I didn't know Cartier at the time but clearly, it was a copy so it can be gold and not Cartier at the same time.' Whilst a second added: 'That's a fake but a good one.' New Vinted rules to be aware of IF you fancy clearing out your wardrobe and getting rid of your old stuff on Vinted, you'll need to consider the new rules that recently came into play. If people are selling personal items for less than they paid new (which is generally the case for second-hand sales), there is no impact on tax. However, since January 1, digital platforms, including eBay, Airbnb, Etsy, Amazon and Vinted, must share seller information with HMRC as part of a crackdown. You're unlikely to be affected if you only sell a handful of second-hand items online each year - generally, only business sellers trading for profit might need to pay tax. A tax-free allowance of £1,000 has been in place since 2017 for business sellers trading for profit - the only time that an individual personal item might be taxable is if it sells for more than £6,000 and there is a profit from the sale. However, firms now have to pass on your data to HMRC if you sell 30 or more items a year or earn over £1,700. It is part of a wider tax crackdown to help ensure that those who boost their income via side hustles pay up what they owe. While your data won't be shared with HMRC if you earn between £1,000 and £1,700, you'll still need to pay tax as normal.
BBC News
14-05-2025
- BBC News
The Documentary Podcast BBC Trending: Are we dating the same person?
At the start of 2025, a chat appeared on the encrypted messaging app Telegram. It was named Are We Dating The Same Girl? At first only a few hundred people joined. Soon that was thousands, and its content went from details of young women's dating history, to revenge porn - sexually explicit videos and images. BBC Trending traces the Telegram group's origins back to Are We Dating the Same Guy? groups on Facebook. But how did they first come about? Why are they seen as an important safety tool for some and something that has ruined lives for others? And how did the idea spread to Telegram, with serious consequences?
The Guardian
13-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
Broden Kelly: Yabusele review – Aunty Donna's straight man gets personal
You don't have to be male and Caucasian to find Broden Kelly funny, but anecdotal evidence suggests it doesn't hurt. As I arrive, an emcee booms grandly across the courtyard: 'If you are here for Broden Kelly, just follow the trail of white boys.' During some crowd work early in the show, an audience member tells Kelly he's 'an investor'. ('Crypto?' Kelly winces.) And on our way out of the theatre, I am kettled in front of a man explaining to his friend that he listens to 'like, ten different podcasts', and I cram in my AirPods the moment I hear the word 'subreddit'. Yes, white boys do love them some Broden, but they're not the only ones. He emerges onstage to a roar that has to be audible in the tiny theatres below us before launching into a slideshow of Facebook groups populated by thousands of people purported to resemble Kelly. As in, they're also bald, bearded and ginger. Sign up for the fun stuff with our rundown of must-reads, pop culture and tips for the weekend, every Saturday morning Kelly is one-third of the wildly beloved sketch comedy outfit Aunty Donna, and has spent most of his career and his adult life writing and performing comedy as part of a team. Yabusele is his first solo show, and as people often do, he's chosen to make it personal, structuring the hour around four anecdotes from his youth in the Melbourne suburbs, where his parents ran a patisserie franchise and he was written off early as a Naughty Boy. (He never explains or even mentions the show's title, named after the Philadelphia 76ers' power forward Guerschon Yabusele – though a Sixers game is projected on the stage's rear screen as we find our seats.) Tall and strapping with an authoritative baritone, Kelly is often given the most thankless roles in Aunty Donna world, playing the straight-man foils, announcers, teachers and cops (as well as kyphotic gunslinger Cowdoy) opposite his co-creators, who are frequently shrieking about cum. It's interesting that even in a solo show, he assigns himself a sort of scene partner: his angelic younger brother Mitch, a little suburban schlemazel whose preteen mishaps are central to two of the four stories Kelly tells here. He underscores Mitch's inherent goodness so earnestly that I started steeling myself for the show to take a dark turn, forgetting he'd already mentioned talking to a very much alive-and-well Mitch recently. In the second half the heat comes off poor Mitchie and is redirected onto Kelly himself, as he introduces the audience to his teenage self – an aspiring actor with more affectations than actual chops – and treats us to an increasingly brutal series of old photos and clips to illustrate his repeatedly thwarted ambitions. Sign up to Saved for Later Catch up on the fun stuff with Guardian Australia's culture and lifestyle rundown of pop culture, trends and tips after newsletter promotion It's clear that this show was written and shaped with real determination, passion, and self-awareness, and Kelly takes a moment near the end for some sincere gratitude – not only to his family, but to the fans who sold out the room weeks in advance. Donna diehards don't just watch the sketches and TV episodes; they listen to the podcasts, lurk the forums, and sleuth out references to deep lore on a level that rivals K-pop stans. For plenty of Donna heads in the room, Kelly's revelation that he was in Coles' 'Down Down' TV ads was no revelation at all. But while Yabusele is a funny and smartly constructed hour, it's hard not to wish Kelly had dug a little deeper than the Y2K touchpoints and adolescent cringe that don't quite elevate these mostly insubstantial stories. One thing the Aunty Donna boys do well (and Kelly particularly) is to reach into the dark heart of Australian masculinity, draw out the insecurity, incuriousness and cruelty therein, and then make it do funny voices – like the Nick Offerman of Pee Wee Hermans. This show sets up a big question – who is the real Broden Kelly? – and even as a non-diehard, I left feeling I hadn't learned much that was new, aside from the fact that there is a remarkable orthodoxy in millennial opinions about suburban food court franchises. (Roars of approval for Michel's Patisserie; pantomime boos for Gloria Jean's.) Perhaps writing and performing something so personal – with so few cum jokes and only one (very good) 9/11 joke as deflection – felt more vulnerable than Kelly anticipated. Perhaps he pulled his punches without quite realising it. But he is endlessly watchable and clearly thoughtful, and has the ability to take those adoring audiences wherever he wants. Broden Kelly is performing Yabusele at Perth comedy festival 16 and 17 May
