Níl Gaeilge agam but I’d like to try

Summer is coming, which means my annual attempt to learn Irish is almost here. Like an Irish summer, this usually lasts a few hours and ends in a downpour of self-loathing.

I can’t speak Irish. This is a source of frustration for my Gaeilgeoir wife. The Irish language plays the same role in our relationship as it does between Michelle O’Neill and Arlene Foster. I am a constant disappointment, or An Disappointment Mór to give my full name.

At dinner with the in-laws I play the role of Miguel, the hapless Spanish exchange student who spends ten minutes plucking up the courage to ask for water. I try to involve myself but it is difficult when the extent of my conversational skills amounts to “oscail an fhuinneog le do thoil”. Winters are particularly tense.

Why stag parties are the new conscription

A friend got engaged over Easter, ruining what had otherwise been a perfectly enjoyable break.

Munching on chocolate eggs, I nervously anticipated the inevitable moment when an email will arrive with the two words that strike terror into the hearts of all men: stag party.

Nothing illustrates the difference between men and women like their approach to congratulating friends on impending nuptials.

Hen parties gather at nail salons, where they have their fingertips decorated as they sip cava. They then move to a restaurant, where they swap treasured memories of the bride and take turns to speak about how much they love each other.

Stag parties gather in Dublin airport, where they struggle through pints at 6am. They then move to northern England, where they attempt to murder their close friend.