If you have had enough of the World Cup, fear not. Here I am, as always, to help you out. Or to sharpen your dress sense, at least.

I’m not sure if I ever noticed before that Father’s Day falls around Bloomsday.

Every action has consequences, intended and otherwise, which is why I start today with the hurling championship.

The World Cup looms in the distance . . . like a vast cloud about to blot out the sun, putting us in mind of Pompeii long ago, writes Michael Moynihan.

Philip Roth passed away last week, but anyone who read last week’s column can breathe easy. I’m not going to try to write in his style the way I did with Tom Wolfe last Monday: the liver is safe in your fridge.

The great Tom Wolfe passed away last week. Master of the masters of the universe, he was 88, and if his last book was an oddity — The Kingdom Of Speech, really? — some of its predecessors are well known to you, gentle reader, writes Michael Moynihan.

The summer is cranking into full gear, though the weather isn’t exactly playing along — a shame that the rain washed out that first Test cricket game in Dublin over the weekend, of which more elsewhere.

If you’re reading this column there’s a good chance you’re a member of a sports club. If so, you may be familiar with a phenomenon best encapsulated by the experience of a man I know in a government organisation.

I see that Wembley is up for sale, writes Michael Moynihan.