Dark secrets: Genevieve O’Reilly and James Nesbitt in ‘The Secret’

(...) hint of wine-o’-clock cuteness; it’s as damaging as any illegal drug and, once it has gotten a grip(...)

Sallins. Downstairs is a tiny wine bar with high rough plank bar tables, black painted metal stools topped(...)

 Louis Theroux with  Aurelie, who “hears her doctor’s warnings about drinking herself to death but she says she’s surprised that she’s not dead already”.

(...) presented as a drug without a hint of wine-of-clock cuteness; it’s as damaging as any illegal drug and once(...)

Irish and who prospered by importing wine and salt, principally from Spain, in exchange for the(...)

Lord Byron  Contemplating the Coliseum by James Tilbitts-Willmore. Byron’s significance in English poetry is that he devised a style in which he could say anything that occurred to him, digress without apology from narrative to recollection, slide gracefully from anything to anything. Negligent of many values, he was serious about his rhymes. Photograph: Getty Images

(...) decorator, his tailor, his jeweler, his wine-merchant, and hotels in London, that he was soon in debt to the(...)

(...)’s malevolent deans plot how best to use their students, while quaffing expensive bottles of wine. Smith has a(...)

Russell Wilde, Owner Manager and David O’Byrne, Head Chef, at  “Richmond” restaurant in Portobello Dublin. Photo credit Ros Kavanagh

(...) provided its own unique culinary offering: wine (of sorts) and a full Irish served in the witching hours(...)

(...) wine list is short and predominantly Italian, though a few French, Spanish and New Zealand bottles get(...)

Patrick de Witt is one of the guest speakers at this year’s Cúirt International Festival of Literature in Galway. Photograph: Eric Luke

(...), April 6th at 7pm in Liberties’ Terenure base, tickets are €5, which includes coffee and wine. Tickets(...)

Joanna Walsh: There is nothing less like victimhood than getting a hold on personal pain, and turning it into art: men have been doing it for centuries, but no one accused Michel de Montaigne, or Thomas Burton of narcissistic self-pity, no one was bored with Rilke or Goethe’s examinations of depression and obsession, or thought them less human for it

(...) routes. Early crocuses were pushing through late snowdrops. I gave them wine and copies of my books(...)