The news that Britain’s Prince Harry was fighting “Terry Taliban” in Afghanistan has triggered some debate about the media’s role in keeping it secret. There has been some criticism from the British public. The flipside, meanwhile, was ITN’s News at Ten, which featured a hilariously bitter report by Tom Bradby (”clever Mr Drudge … that’s just brilliant, then”).

Here’s the executive director of the UK’s Society of Editors explaining its decision to comply with the blackout, and here’s a similar piece from the BBC.

The BBC’s editor explains that “a news black-out is unusual, but not unique” and uses the example of a kidnapping, in which reporting is suspended during negotiations. That’s not a great example, given that he could have used the fact that whenever George W Bush or Tony Blair/Gordon Brown or a handful of their ministers have visited either Afghanistan or Iraq, despite the obvious news value in flagging such an event it is only reported afterwards.

As it happens, blackouts, of a sort, are commonplace in the media. Embargoes are rampant. There are embargoes preventing the early review of books sent by publishers, embargoes on movie interviews and embargoes on press releases. (The Booker Prize, for instance, is announced to journalists before writers, so that they can hit their deadlines.) So, this is an industry well used to keeping secrets, and colluding with people far less important than royalty, and for reasons far less important than the life of a soldier.

Those RTE salaries in full:

1) Pat Kenny: €849,139
2) Gerry Ryan: €558,990
3) Marian Finucane: €455,190
4) Joe Duffy: €367,804
5) Ryan Tubridy: €346,667
6) Derek Mooney: €242,408
7) Marty Whelan!: €229,056
8 ) Miriam O’Callaghan: €221,383
9) John Kelly: €204,675
10) Bryan Dobson: €193,610

Some thoughts: (more…)

Is it some ironic joke that they are holding Work Life Balance Day on Friday 29th February: a day on which you’ll essentially work for free?

Can we declare war?

How good is Sinead Gleeson’s series on Musical Rooms? Very.

On the way in to work this morning, I was listening to Jonny Greenwood’s really excellent score for There Will Be Blood. But it really wasn’t suiting my mood, and, while I’ve been getting my kicks from Vampire Weekend, British Sea Power, Robots in Disguise and Holy Fuck of late, I had one of those occassional moments when I didn’t have the appetite for anything new or too recent. One of those mornings when I was a bit bored of music.

Which meant it was time for that vital component of any collection: the fall-back album.

A fall-back album is one you can always rely on; that never lets you down; that’s always waiting for you to come back even after you’ve spent months running around with fancy-pants new music.

This morning, that fall-back album was Rage Against The Machine’s first album. And months since I last bothered to give it any attention, it was as brutally brilliant as ever. (And, of course, infused me with anti-establishment rage for, oh, at least 43 seconds.)

It could have been any of three Wedding Present albums, or Wilco’s Kicking Television: Live in Chicago, or Mogwai’s Government Commissions, or Springsteen’s Born To Run, or Ride’s Going Blank Again, or Sigur Ros’s Takk, or The Stone Roses’s first, or anything at all by Radiohead, or Vitalic’s OK Cowboy or … well, you get the message.

Maybe these are albums you’d run from rather than rely on, but what are your fall-back albums for when you just get a bit bored of everything else?

Holiday reading last week was David Park’s The Truth Commissioner, a novel hinged on a fictional Truth and Reconciliation Commission set up as part of the North’s peace process. It focuses on one case of a “disappeared” 15 year old, through four points of view - a truth commissioner, a newly-retired RUC officer, a provo-turned-politician, and another former provo who left for a new life in the States.

It’s a big subject, but Parks succeeds in not only keeping it under control, but also in adding something fresh to what might appear to be an already jaded subject. It is a novel about collusion - about how a boy dies for it, only for the truth about this to later be suppressed by an alliance of provos and “securocrats”. It is cynical but Parks doesn’t allow himself to be submerged by that, and while his characters are sometimes familiar, he gives them depth and a vital individuality even when they are linked on many levels.

And it gathers pace as it progresses, fairly zipping by over the closing 100 pages - always a treat with any novel.

At times, it is a little stylised for my liking,with the writer’s presence too apparent at times. There are also at least two recurring similes in the novel - across different characters - which are so obvious that I became inclined to believe they were deliberate - even when they appear clumsy. Then again, it’s a simile-heavy novel.

It is, though, assured and engrossing for the most part - and I’d recommend it.

Back to the weekend’s rugby, for a moment. Some observations.

Before we get to the match itself, by the end of the eight and a half hours of broadcasting, didn’t George Hook look knackered?

Like a drunk at closing time. Or a fighter in the corner as the bell goes for the last round. He roused himself as much as possible, but it was clear that a marathon bout had taken its toll.

Now, to Croke Park. (more…)

The paper’s changed this morning, both in its look and with the addition today of a new photographic supplement and an extra page of opinion and analysis.

Any thoughts?

I’m taking a week away from the computer screen, and will return on Monday 25th February. However, comments will be updated (thanks Conor).

Have a nice week everyone.

Those of you lucky enough to be going to any of the Arvo Pärt events in Dublin this weekend are in for a treat. I was in Dundalk’s St Patrick’s Cathedral last night for the performance of several of his choral and instrumental works, including a new work which was premiered in Drogheda on Wednesday night. It was probably as good as anything I’ll get to see for the rest of the year, with the real thrill coming in the fact that Pärt was at the event - and that I went all fanboy and got him to sign my programme.

For those of you who haven’t yet listened to Pärt’s works, don’t be at all put off by the fact that he’s a modern classical composer out of Estonia. He writes beautiful, accessible music. As a primer in his orchestral work, I’d recommend this collection, or look for Spiegel Im Spiegel. For choral works, try De Profundis. You won’t regret it.

19-year-old, middle-class, Skins-scriptwriting Max Gogarty decides to head to India for a bit of gap fun. He blogs about it on the Guardian website. The readers give him a hammering, while unearthing the fact that he appears to be the son of another Guardian contributor. Much hilarity ensues, for everyone but Max and his dad. Nathan Barley gets mentioned a lot. And the editor, who commissioned the piece thinking it would be a regular bit of whimsy that would connect with the backpacking masses, has a bad day at the office.

A sample comment:

Here’s an idea, Max.

Instead of setting off on yet another inane, identikit trip around Asia before you take up your place at Oxbridge (or wherever), why don’t you leave your family’s Highgate mansion FOR GOOD, cut yourself off from your father’s allowance, move into a council estate in Salford, STAY THERE, and then consider writing a blog about your experiences.

Why does our society only grant a voice to those with nothing to say?

P.S. Are you Paul Gogarty’s son?

(as spotted on Dan’s blog)

Senators will have to move to the Natural History Museum while reconstruction work takes place on Leinster House - is this because neither Fossett’s Circus or Jim Henson’s studio were available?

The new anti-drugs campaign - largely focussed on cocaine - has a couple of problems.

Firstly, the ad that features a balloon popping over and over is, ironically, the kind of thing that would drive someone to substance abuse.

Secondly, the slogan it reveals - The Party’s Over - represents a preachy, finger-wagging attitude that people only bristle against. The radio ads are pretty bad - badly acted, badly scripted - but the slogan might actually suggest the wrong thing: that a party’s only a party with drugs. It’s a “right now folks, time to go home to your beds and be responsible citizens” message of a killjoy authority.

Besides, having complained about the “same aul’ jargon” last week, what does the minister with responsibility for drugs, Pat Carey think about a campaign that, despite the information leaflets and website, is largely hinged on the kind of aul’ jargon that has proven useless in the past?

Under the most intriguing headline of the day, is this story:

Elephant head-butt claim settled

A man who claimed he had been head-butted by an elephant has settled a personal injury claim against a circus for an undisclosed amount of damages.

First, RTÉ Radio 1 cut the FAI press conference early, which was frustrating in itself. Then Drivetime’s Mary Wilson went to an interview with Denis O’Brien, whose modesty does not stretch to preventing himself from going on the national airwaves to admit that it was, indeed, he who has quietly come to the rescue of Irish soccer. No strings attached. The thanks of the Irish people will be enough. Adoration would be a bonus. OK, then, you may kiss his ring.

(By the way, at the press conference it was suggested that O’Brien hasn’t done it for match tickets. I’m guessing that, should he want to, he can already watch the match from behind bulletproof glass, while being fed champagne and caviar by women dressed in nothing but 1988 Irish jerseys.)

But from there, Wilson went to the only man more likely to somehow turn this great moment for Irish soccer into a personal triumph - Bertie Ahern. Why ask Bertie what he thinks? Because he’s An Taoiseach Jimmy Rabbitte.

And in fairness to him, he showed once again that he has a future in football punditry by spouting dull cliche with the verve of a pro. Thank you RTÉ for giving us the chance to hear his forgettable platitudes.

I’m well-disposed towards Humanism, but the new magazine launched yesterday doesn’t appeal to me. I’m wondering if it’s just because of its title. When browsing the shops, will you really be enticed by a copy of the gleaming Humanism Ireland? They should have appealed to a higher power on this: a brand manager, or PR guru, that sort of person. They would have suggested alternative titles, such as:

- God Is Dead. We Have Killed Him. Yay!
- Hellbound Monthly
- Go God Go

Every so often in here, we need to get a new byline picture done. Today’s that day.

It’s no fun. If you get that expression wrong, it will haunt you every time you open the paper. You don’t want to be a guffawing idiot alongside a piece about one woman’s battle against the disease that wiped out her entire family. Nor do you want to be too miserable. So, in order to find a decent medium, you aim for a half-smile, not-too-jokey, but-not-depressing contortion. Which only makes you look as if you’ve been told to “act natural” by a man pointing a gun to your head.

Besides, people never look like their byline pictures. There is a running debate among colleagues about who looks least like their byline picture. There is one reporter who would only be less like his photo if it was replaced by a picture of a small gazelle. (more…)

€10 million: the amount of unclaimed change held by Dublin Bus. It’s collected some €13.3 million since 2001, with “about a quarter” reclaimed each year. It’s putting a percentage of this into a grants scheme, but most of the fund is untouchable because the change tickets are valid indefinitely. The only way to reclaim the cash is by going to the O’Connell St head office. Nice system that. Very handy. How much tourist cash is sitting in that treasure chest?

ZERO: the number of women seen wearing their pyjamas on the street.

- I’m beginning to think that the rugby match is a penance that must be gone through in order to enjoy the rest of the weekend in Paris. People keep telling me that it was a great game. No it wasn’t. It was torture, compounded by how victory briefly appeared inevitable. A 30-point defeat is a clean cut to the soul. A narrow one after a surprise comeback is a cruel botch job.

- It was, without doubt, the worst rendition of Ireland’s Call yet. The male voice choir went a capella, starting with a low groan and then setting off at a random pace. You wondered how any team could avoid being enervated by it, never mind inspired.

- A truly great national anthem is one that makes even your enemies sing along. I haven’t been at a Paris game yet without hearing a few Irish voices join in with La Marseillaise. All together now, Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Naaaaa-Na-Na…

- Blue skies, warmth in the sun, the cafés and markets buzzing, the bars open all night. When you come back to Dublin, you feel immediately inadequate. (more…)

More than €10 million worth of cannabis was seized in a raid on a criminal gang in Kildare this week.

The amount was so large that, added to the €1 million worth seized in another recent raid, we are already close to topping the €15.6 million total seized in all of 2007. And will this make a difference to supply? Barely.

In the current issue of Hot Press, there is an interview with the Minister of State with responsibility for drugs, Pat Carey. “The ‘war on drugs’ business, let’s stop using that aul’ jargon,” he says. “This kind of top-of-the-head stuff to grab headlines is irresponsible . . . this does not contribute to the public debate.” How sensible. Except that Carey is pictured wearing a large badge containing the phrase “Say no to drugs” - which is aul’ jargon that is as empty-headed now as it was when championed during the 1980s. Saying no to drugs is not something this society has done before. A bright shiny badge isn’t going to be the tipping point. (more…)

Back to Senator Mary White’s bid for glory in 2011. She’s just been on the News at One showing her humility: people “thank me for inspiring them” and giving her Liveline-lite spiel again.

“We’re becoming more aggressive and less caring,” she says. More aggressive and caring than a society that used to beat children, protect sexual abusers, lock away pregnant women and steal their babies? Really?

She was also been going on about age again, that there’s an unfairness against older members of society. And she has a point. But she’s running for a position that is not available to anyone under 35, which is pretty unfair too.

The Constitution should be changed to abolish that age restriction. For a start, a young president would be more representative of the population. Plus they wouldn’t be prone to constantly harking back to some non-existent heyday.

3hrs 24mins: time Hillary Clinton spends each day widening her eyes and pointing at people in the crowd.

This video is obviously going for the Cloverfield factor in a big way, and it could be accused of lacking taste, but, whatever it’s selling, the novelty value comes from blowing up a bit of Dublin. Next up, a giant monster demolishes Liberty Hall.

Perhaps she’s been hyped up by the US Presidential primaries but Senator Mary White has announced that she’s running for the Áras. The election is not until 2011, but she’s starting early.

“I want to be the third Mary in the Park,” Senator White (63) said today. “I’m a warrior and I’ll give it my best shot.” Ms White said her goal for the presidency was to bring Ireland back to being a caring society in the post-Celtic Tiger era.

She how she’s getting the overblown, hand-wringing “caring society” talk in early. It’s the Liveline approach to political campaigning, and if you don’t like it you’ll want to tune out for the next three years.

The big questions are: will Emily O’Reilly up the ante by responding with another meaningful musing on modern society?

And are we reaching a point when the maternalisation of the Presidency is becoming tiresome?

Grange Hill has been axed after 30 years on the BBC.

The Guardian’s reports says:

Anne Gilchrist, the CBBC controller, said the decision to end Grange Hill’s 30-year run was part of a move to reflect more accurately children’s lives today.

“Part of CBBC’s reputation for reflecting contemporary Britain back to UK children has been built upon Phil Redmond’s brilliantly realised idea and of course it’s sad to say goodbye to such a much loved institution,” she said.

“The lives of children have changed a great deal since Grange Hill began and we owe it to our audience to reflect this. We’re actively seeking out new and exciting ways of bringing social realism to the CBBC audience through drama and other genres. (more…)

In Metro, with the caption: “Dublin at night with the lights off.” (Illustrating piece about environmentalists’ call for one hour of energy-saving darkness.)

Some observations from the US primaries:

- Cathal McCoille must have wanted to slap down the American chap this morning who told him on Morning Ireland that he knew a lot for an Irish man. “Hey, aren’t you a clever little leprechaun. Do a jig.” This guy had already arrived on the show by saying hello to the “emerald isle”.

- The New York Times cuts to the chase on its website and just gives its readers the results first.

- Of the many US campaign ads, this has the oddest catchline. It’s like something off a low-calorie chocolate bar (”Choconums: surprisingly moist”). Although, it would be fun to see an ad of this type on Irish television. “Willie O’Dea: surprisingly bitey.” “Enda Kenny: surprisingly evil.” etc.

It’s online here, folks. Is he really the new McSavage? Should we even be giving this any further attention?

Also, while you’re there have a look at the Gerald Kean interview. A few minutes in, we meet Lisa Murphy, who is pretty much introduced by Pat as being Michael Flatley’s ex. Class.

Two years ago, when the Irish rugby team was 40 points down against France in Paris, I left my seat in the stands and went for a beer. It was the only thing left to believe in. I ordered a beer, gave the ridiculous sum of money to the barman, and headed back to my seat. As I did, someone in the queue said to me, “You know that beer’s non-alcoholic, don’t you?”

It was one of the lowest moments of my life.

I’m a natural pessimist when it comes to Irish sport, for the good reason that I witnessed every international rugby match of the 1990s. That was bound to leave a scar. I’ll be in Paris this weekend for the Six Nations match against France, and I have never travelled with such fear as before. I’ve gone with blind optimism, sneaky hope and a niggling sense of foreboding, but never with the certainty that we’re going to be shredded, trounced, destroyed, and that all the dreams of being alive to see an Irish Grand Slam will once again disappear.

The team has been announced. Jackman, Heaslip and Kearney are in. But there’s a sense that this coach has run his course. That he is falling foul of the gravity that affects almost every single sports manager or coach. That failure is inevitable. That the O’Sullivan era is over.

And that I’m spending a lot of money to go to Paris and bear witness to it.

Doing the rounds: England’s new rugby shirt.

In last night’s documentary on Dylan McGrath, The Pressure Cooker, the chef mentioned how fun it is. Hard but fun. Tough but fun. But it’s fun, you know.

The film taught us a few things. Not to “serve the salmon backwards”. That chefs in is kitchen have a shorter lifespan than second World War fighter pilots. That a waiter can last even less time. That a small kitchen is not a happy place. That his drive is matched by his talent. That McGrath’s experience in London, under Tom Aikens, was brutal and, it seems, scarring, and that McGrath has carried that brutality into the kitchen with him. That when you ask him how much it would hurt not to get a Michelin star, his whole face tightens and his words dry up.

And none of this - not one single moment of it - looked like fun.

Having missed the Late Late Show on Friday night, I was somewhat aghast to realise that I’d missed a “great” Late Late Show moment in the appearance of funnyman Dave Young. Nat King Coleslaw recounts the details of this and other moments from Friday. We must wait until it pops up online to see it. And such will be the anticipation that we’ll be pressing refresh every five minutes for the next three days until that page updates.

Although, while I was annoyed at having missed it (because, let’s face it, the Late Late is the most watchable thing on television) I realised that there’s one of these moments every other week (Seinfeld, McSavage, man jumping from audience, etc) and that it’s possible to recreate and rerun a great Late Late Show in your own head. Here’s a suggested running order:

2130 - Pat gives rundown of the show to come. His tone of voice remains unchanged as he skips from “wild fun with funnyman David McSavage” to “a panel discussion on whether society is being destroyed by drugs, crime, murder, plastic surgery and tribunals”.

2132 - Introduces a song by Tommy Fleming, who is backed by a 30-strong choir, a trad band and a small child playing a harp.

2136 - Pat applauds the act with that weird clap of his that suggests he is calling some women to come strew his path with rose petals.

2137 - Pat introduces first (and every guest) with the line: “what can I tell you about my next guest..?” Makes it sound very exciting. It turns out to be somebody who was eliminated in an early round of Celebrity Ice Dancing. (more…)

We now know, since The Irish Times started printing sales figures alongside the books in the weekly bestsellers chart.

In original fiction, The Gathering is number five on the list with 334 sales last week, although the bestselling hardback novel, Lessons in Heartbreak, sold 2,496.

In hardback fiction Rhonda Byrne’s The Secret tops with 1,218 copies sold, but Rachel’s Food for Living sneaks in with just 168 sales.

In paperback fiction it took 782 copies of The Shakespeare Secret (don’t know it, but I’m guessing the title offers a clue to the genre) to get in at number five. In non-fiction, misery-lit Ma, He Sold Me For A Pack of Cigarettes, at number five, sold 273 books, only a few behind top-seller, the cult-took-my-children romp Escape by Carolyn Jessop (315).

In comparison, The Secret needed to sell 2,932 to reach number five in the UK harback non-fiction chart, while it takes over 21,000 sales to get onto to its paperback fiction list.

Keep in mind that sales are seasonal and that this is not the best time to flog books - the Spring season is still around the corner and during December (the boom time for books) sales can double week on week until Christmas Eve.

However, as a general point, it suggests that a book called, say, Please Don’t Beat Me, Da, Or I’ll Keep The Secret Of The Shakespeare Code has a good chance of getting in there on title alone.

A report this week came to the conclusion that middle age is, on average, the worst age. Across the US and western Europe, especially, people in their 40s are least happy with their lot. The mid-life crisis, it turns out, is the crisis.

But we know that already. Enough novels, plays, comedy sketches, and country and western songs have reinforced the stereotype. But what was more interesting in this report from the University of Warwick is how things improve. Life doesn’t continue on a downward slope. The graph doesn’t sag like the skin. Instead, as people move into old age, they feel happier about their lives. Which is revolutionary, because, in a society obsessed with putting off ageing - with reversing it, with ignoring it whenever possible - it suggests that we should instead embrace it. (more…)

Following on from the earlier post about the €55 cocktail, it turns out that anyone daft enough to buy it might as well do so after a day’s White Rhino hunting. The Beluga Sturgeon - which donates its caviar to it - is not in plentiful supply. According to Reuters:

Russia says the population of beluga sturgeon, source of the dearest caviar, has fallen by 90 percent over the past 20 years.

A spokesman for the fisheries agency said just 9 tonnes of black caviar was produced legally each year in Russia, none of it for export.

Even in Moscow, once known for its feasts of Beluga eggs washed down with pancakes, sour cream and vodka shots, black caviar is now too expensive for all but the mega-rich.

In Moscow, 1 kg of Russian Beluga now sells for about $10,000 ($4,540 a lb). At the Harrods department store in London, Iranian Beluga costs 10,000 pounds a kg ($19,580 a kg, or $8,900 a lb).

You can get the WWF’s view here. Its message:

WWF is also advising citizens from other countries not to buy caviar from Russia, Turkmenistan, Iran, Azerbaijan or Kazakhstan as it belongs to the same depleted fish stock.

“If urgent measures are not taken now, sturgeons will become extinct in the region where they are most renowned”, said Vaisman.

So, should you go to the over-hyped Shelbourne bar or the Four Seasons, or any of the “select number of Dublin’s five-star hotels” that serve the cocktail, make sure to ask them all about it.

If you see anyone drinking it, chase them with an elephant gun.

Key words and phrases: “Magnum opus”. “Tour de force”. “Agitated”. “Opulent”. “€55 per cocktail, which reflects the experience one receives”.

elit by Stolichnaya is set to launch Ireland’s most exclusive cocktail, The elit Martini. Designed by Ireland’s leading mixologist Paul Lambert, the elit Martini represents the magnum opus of the classic vodka cocktail, the Vodka Martini. Created with Ireland’s most expensive vodka at it’s heart, The elit Martini showcases the rarest and most exclusive expressions of each of the ingredients that make up this classic cocktail.

Agitated together with elit by Stolichnaya in a Boston Shaker is France’s finest vermouth: Lillet, a carefully-aged blend of select French wines and fruit liqueurs. Added to the cocktail in it’s crystal martini glass by Mother of Pearl spoon are hand picked olives from Bella di Cerignola, the world leader in organic olives and Beluga Grade “0″ Caviar, harvested from the largest and rarest sturgeon in existence.

The elit Martini is a tour de force of cocktails. It represents true luxury as it takes the rarest and finest ingredients in each field and unites them harmoniously together. As one would expect with such an opulent cocktail, The elit Martini will be exclusively available in the bars of a select number of Dublin’s five-star hotels such as The Shelbourne and The Ice Bar of Four Seasons at around €55 per cocktail, which reflects the experience one receives.

What experience? A mind-trip to the moon? The alcoholic equivalent of a night with Dita Von Teese?

(By the way, thanks to Roisin for passing this on to me)