Favourite passages:
All silver linings are attached to a bit of cloud.
As we were carrying our gay fur baby back to where we had parked the car, I heard a flesh-trembling deep bark and suddenly, from behind a half-stable door, there jumped up a standard poodle so big you could have thought it was a farmhand having a bad reaction to the moon.
Bad boyfriend had become intolerable boyfriend and no amount of dog care was going to help. With his return to New York, I was left holding the baby but happily Bailey will always provide a link between us. Once the angry scars of the break-up had begun to fade we became friends again and now our phone calls always begin with me looking at Bailey sprawled on the floor like an enormous, tattered hearthrug and exclaiming, "It's your bad daddy on the phone!
As her dainty feet clattered into the Hall I was filled with relief and fury: thrilled she was alive, while simultaneously wanting to kill her. It’s an emotion every dog owner in the world has experienced.
I dread to think how self-obsessed and removed from reality I might have become over the years if it wasn’t for my furry friends. After all, it is hard to remain smug and aloof when you are wrestling with two overexcited dogs and struggling to pull a plastic bag out of your coat pocket to pick up a piece of shit. If Bailey and Madge had to explain the world to an alien visitor, I imagine they’d say their poo is like a form of currency or at least extremely valuable, because I insist on collecting every piece they produce.
After nearly ten years I’m still entranced by those funny sleep yelps and paw twitches as they chase phantom squirrels in their dreams
Some of my fathers stories will sweeter. A man had cycled his whole life. You never saw him without his bicycle clips. One day he arrived home breathless, by now an old man. He sat down and said to his equally ancient wife, “you know, I think that bike of mine is beginning to lose its speed”.
The atmosphere of secrets and shame made growing up in Ireland, seem suffocating. Another person’s rural childhood might have involved galloping horses through crashing waves and raising an abandoned fox cub as a pet, but mine seemed to consist of ticking clocks, boiling kettles and drawn curtains.
In fact, if I had been writing a book about my passions and loves twenty years ago, I doubt very much that I would have included a chapter on the country where I was born and brought up. Since then, though, we’ve both changed a great deal. I have grown older and if not exactly wiser, I have at least started to rethink life and see things from a different perspective.
A real turning point in my relationship with Ireland was when my father died. Like a cruel punishment for life crimes he never committed, he ended his days, made helpless by Parkinson’s disease, in a bleak nursing home. When he died, the sense of loss was overwhelming but at the same time we all understood that he hadn't just left us he had escaped. To no longer have to watch him suffer meant that in death our father could be reborn. Once someone goes, you no longer think of them as the pale gaunt old man waiting to die, suddenly, he is alive once more in the collective memory and in his prime. The man that could build and carry and dig. The bashful groom, the loving father. The guy we had wanted to live for ever now could, unburdened by a body that had failed him so badly. The other strange thing I discovered is that in death the person you have lost is revealed to you in a way they never could be in life. I had always seen this man simply as my father, but now everyone who came to the house with a bottle of whiskey or a fruitcake also shared their stories. It turned out he wasn't just a dad: he was a friend, a colleague, a joker, a thrill-seeker.
As the funeral approached, in addition to seeing new facets of my father, I was also beginning to fully understand the small community I had grown up in. Living there had stifled me and I spent most of my childhood and adolescence longing to be released. Shaking hands while familiar faces muttered "Sorry for your loss' was the classic small-town scene that would have induced a great deal of eye-rolling in the teenage me, but now it provided much-needed comfort. The community had lost one of their own and was coming together to make sure no one stumbled in the gap. The bonds that I had felt holding me back were now there to support me. I liked it.
Little like my relationship with the whole island, I can now look back and see that this manure-soaked, bare-boards education did have its benefits. The pupils might have been mainly from farming backgrounds but scattered amongst them were troubled city kids being given a second chance, plus the children of exotic foreigners who had been drawn to Ireland by the lure of unpasteurised milk and donkeys weighed down by baskets of turf harvested from the bog. In retrospect, I realise what a privilege it was to be exposed to such a varied and strangely cosmopolitan group at an early age, as it set me up to be able to talk to anyone and only be intimidated by a very few, as I made my way into the big, bad world. The exam results back then suggested that we weren’t getting the best of educations, but by not spoon-feeding us or putting us into some sort of educational hot-house, we learned to think for ourselves - when I got to university, the convent girls and Christian brother boys really struggled when they were asked what they thought.
The light at the end of the tunnel was getting a lot brighter.
If you don’t like being hated or discriminated against, then maybe don’t do it to other people.
I had not been on many planes at this point in my life and I had certainly never been invited to turn left by the air stewardess. Myself, Joy, Brian and his lovely wife, Anne-Marie, settled into our large, armchair-style seats. Joy’s assistant, Ben, was travelling in economy. I promised to visit him during the flight. Given that I had always travelled in the back of the plane, it was amazing how quickly the world of free champagne and legroom became like home. We had only been in the air for about half an hour when I decided to see how Ben was getting on. I pulled back the curtain that divided the two cabins and I remember I actually gasped. Compared to the serene world of sleep suits and linen napkins I had left, this looked like a documentary about refugees in a third-world country. I waved and smiled at a grim-faced Ben and headed back to where I so obviously belonged.
A friend of mine once described Liza Minelli as a ‘vortex of need’ and, in that moment, I witnessed it. David Gest was taking on an impossible task.
Liza is unique and that somehow means that she will always be alone, no matter how much love surrounds her.
Liza was a vortex of need but also a bottomless well.
It’s such a saccharine thing to say.
So far, so awful.
So much of Dolly Parton is a frothy façade - the high hair, the pink nails, the giant bosoms, but behind it all is a brain the size of a planet and a heart that beats for the world.
I got to know my various neighbours as I peered at them undetected from my darkened lair: the couple that fought, the woman who never stopped brushing her hair and, of course, the compulsive wanker.
We were sitting on the matching sofas chatting about our night. It was in no way raucous. My friend suddenly stood up as if he had just remembered he had left the gas on and then, with no warning, opened his mouth to release a gushing torrent of stomach contents.
He always asked if I wanted the last of the leftovers.
Like a wounded animal I howled into the night sky. Young hearts don’t break; they explode with operatic intensity.
I met a lot of people (hookups) and although I saw several of them more than once, there was no one who really filled the role of boyfriend. Many of them have become good friends and we simply choose to ignore the carnal side of how we met.
The wildly enthusiastic reaction of the guests and the studio audience was so overwhelming we couldn’t help but count our unhatched chickens.
The powers that be must have some other plans
My favourite shows are the ones that take me by surprise. Putting people side-by-side on the couch is like conducting an experiment in chemistry, where you’ve no idea how the various elements will react.
If you are that desperate for attention why not develop a personality and a sense of humour.
Self help: Now I am all in favour of selfimprovement. Learn how to make an authentic curry. Dazzle me with your command of the French language. Lose weight, build muscle, don't be afraid to change and evolve. What you shouldn't do is spend hours of your life and a great deal of cash getting ready for some life that you won't start living until you are completely ready. What are you waiting for? If life is a party it has started already and it turns out it's a "come as you are' affair. The time you spent preparing yourself for the challenges of living are big chunks of life you will never get back. Skills may be contained in books, but wisdom is acquired from experience and mistakes. I intend to write a whole book about this. I hope you like it.
The internet: Well, of course I don't really hate the internet; I just hate what it does to me. Clearly it is an extraordinary research tool and source of news, so why then do I find myself spending hours sitting in front of a computer screen watching videos of a man who can slice up a cabbage to look like a map of the world, or a six-year-old dancer who blew the judges away on India's Got Talent? Sometimes it can fool you into thinking it matters. When I end up in floods of tears watching Bruno Mars singing to a blind girl, it feels like time well spent but in reality my time would have been more wisely used folding laundry, trimming nose hair or, in fact, doing almost anything else apart from watching the pocket-sized pop star tug at my heart strings. Equally, the various social media sites can be a great way of keeping in touch with out-ofthe-way friends but in practice I spend my time scrolling through hundreds of holiday snaps of people I don't really know holding pints of lager and wrapping sunburnt arms around more people I don't know. I actually become impatient when the photographs don't load fast enough because, yet again, some weird part of my brain has convinced me that this is time well spent and that seeing every identical drunken image is somehow important. Part of the problem is surely that we can now surf the web wherever we are. There is no escape. On safari in Tanzania I could look out of the window at gazelles drinking from a watering hole, but in my room the presence of wi-fi meant I was actually looking at pictures of Lady Gaga leaving a bar in New York. We used to be safe on planes, a refuge from emails and Facebook status updates, but now airlines are proudly announcing the availability of internet on board. Does the web really need to be worldwide? It used to feel like something that magically connected us to every corner of the globe but increasingly the web feels like a trap.