An independent state of mind

I’ve always loathed journalists who belittle people in articles that don’t come with a byline attached.

I’m all for taking the piss out of people whether they deserve it or not, but I’d like to think that now I’ve been in this game for a few years and am on nodding terms with the ropes, I’d always attach my name to any editorial of mine which criticises the shortcomings of others. If nothing else, it saves the people in question the trouble of finding out it was me “wot done it”, thereby affording them more time to mull over the most appropriate method of payback.

You’re all thinking I’m about to criticise somebody, aren’t you? You’re right. I’ve learned from Gerard Houllier’s mistakes and am not going to let the stress and anger fester inside until my blood pressure goes off the scale and my heart explodes.

So, in the interests of my cardiovascular well-being, here goes . . .

The Sunday Independent

gossip column

I don’t care what they say about the Sunday Independent, trawling through its pages every week over brunch in Clapham South enables me to keep abreast of all facets of Irish life. Well, most of them – its gossip column, The Double Edge, is rubbish. The salacious tittle-tattle and juicy tell-all of yore has been replaced with no end of fawning puff-pieces about some bloke from The Devlins and assorted models nobody’s ever heard of. A word to the wise: the day you reported that Karla Elliott was going out with Conrad Gallagher was the day you should have realised that probably not even Karla Elliott is interested in reading about her outings anymore.

Gayle Killilea

Gayle, my columns in hotpress about life in London glory in the moniker London Calling. Your features in the Sunday Independent in which male pillars of Irish society talk to you, glory in the moniker Talking To The Blonde. I could truthfully swear in a court of law that I live in London. Could you truthfully swear in a court of law that you are blonde?

Gene Kerrigan

Gene, after Declan Lynch’s peerless comic musings on the state of the nation, yours are the first articles I turn to each week in the Sunday Independent. They are well thought out, cutting, dripping with sarcasm and easily worth the price of admission alone. I would, however, ask you to stop carping on about the manner in which the various players in Ireland’s assorted tribunals are dragging their feet and costing the taxpayer a fortune. With the possible exception of the barristers involved, it’s hard to imagine anyone making more money out of these legal gravy trains than you do writing about them. While there’s no question that you earn your corn trying to make sense of all that shite, it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re so obviously biting the hand that stuffs your face.

Brendan O’Connor

Brendan, you recently wrote an article in the Sunday Independent in which you nominated a number of celebrities you would like to see banished to Siberia because they are too ubiquitous for your liking. The concept was good and the potential for amusement was huge, but you blew it by picking easy targets and setting about them in a manner that was far too obvious. For example, I don’t know the girl, but I’m prepared to wager Jennifer Lopez doesn’t care a jot if you think she has a big arse. I wouldn’t really care except you’ve proved you can do funny when you put your mind to it by unleashing a few zingers on Don’t Feed The Gondolas. Put your mind to it more often please.

John Ryan

John, your “Gay GAA Players” advertising campaign for GI magazine is a work of genius and you are a media mogul who has pulled some cracking women in his day. More power to you. However, in the past few months I’ve read two interviews in which you’ve prattled on at length about your feminine side, your worries about other people’s conceptions of you and your penchant for throwing girly hissy fits. By all means give up the drink if you’re finding the smell of the cork irresistable, but next time you’re Talking To The Blonde, steer the conversation away from the subject of: “Laughable epiphanies I have had upon locking eyes with Alex Higgins in Joys nightclub.” You’d be better served just cheering the fuck up and not worrying what everyone else thinks of you.

Christy Dignam

Christy, you recently spoke of your sensitivity and insecurities in a Sunday Independent interview. You said that even though Aslan’s album had been number one in the charts for two weeks, the only thing you could concentrate on was “one poxy review in hotpress.” You are articulate, clever and good at what you do, so take your tortured head out of your tortured arse, take the criticism on the chin and stop fretting about it. I haven’t heard the album or read the review, but while I enjoy slaughtering the indefensible in hotpress, I would much prefer to be the lead singer of Aslan.