Esther McCarthy: From Sober October to Cork carry on, my highlights and lowlights of 2025
Esther McCarthy's nephew Kieran with his mam Ger. Kieran got a kidney transplat this year. Picture: Chani Anderson
It is that time of year again, when columnists look back on the past 12 months because the calendar says so, and frankly, my brain now resembles my fridge on December 27 – overcrowded, faintly sticky, and full of things I no longer recognise.
So, in no particular order, here are the highlights and lowlights of 2025. Don’t be expecting deep insights or heartwarming lessons, like, it’s just random stuff that stands out amongst the haze. I literally couldn’t remember my own name the other day, so some of this may have been a dream. You have been warned.
My 16-year-old nephew got a kidney transplant this year. Saying it out loud still feels slightly unreal. The relief, the gratitude, it is, quite literally, a new lease of life for Kieran.
Fair play to her, she had that sick kid ace up her sleeve and used it well. He was a great excuse for not going to things she couldn’t be arsed about. And, his now-functioning renal system means they have to park in the normal spaces like the rest of us plebs.
But keeping a sense of humour while living in a constant, low-level state of terror is no small thing. I admire their family hugely. I would never tell them this directly, obviously. I am Irish. I will instead mock her hair and fight her like Mrs Doyle to pay for lunch. And while I’m here, a quiet shout-out to anyone who carried something heavy this year.
Illness. Loss. Worry. Or just the long grind of getting through the days. That counts. If you managed to laugh at any point, you’re a superhero. Cape optional, but so stylish these days.
Look, I tried. I really did. But there always seemed to be an emergency that required wine. Or beer. Or gin. Or seven Baby Guinnesses. Emergencies like... a night out with a long-lost pal. Or just wanting to pretend I’m young enough to care not for hangovers. Or crises like The Toy Show (keep reading). I am but human.
I was given a book by a good friend called The Accidental Soberista, which I am absolutely going to read. At some point. It’s apparently life-changing for the sober curious. So you never know, Dry January may yet have its moment. Watch this space! But I make no promises and accept no follow-up questions.
Then they started fighting over who got the good spot on the couch. Oh jaysus, the red mist descended. In my defence, I hadn’t had my Lenzetto spray yet. I may have called them something baby hedgehogs have, and something you might also find inside a BMW. Yes. I called my children little pricks. Over a montage of wholesome little boggers scooting around a studio. It’s fair to say that wasn’t my finest hour.
Lots of good things happened for Cork this year. (If we don’t mention the hurling. Or the Peace Park being concreted over.) There was Roy Keane giving a century-old northside shop a sweet surprise by raving about their clove rocks. And that’s not even his job, at the end of the day, all fairness to sweets.
We’re also unmatched when it comes to nicknaming things. The incomprehensible Kinsale Road intersection is The Magic Roundabout. Daly’s Bridge? Nah, it’s the Shaky Bridge. Anyone enjoy a good night out in Mallafornia lately? Hopefully it didn’t end in The Wilton Hilton (CUH).
But my favourite discovery this year is the roundabout near Togher Garda Station on Tramore Road. I only just found out it’s known as the Soundabout. Everyone knows if you’re coming up the slip road off the link, every second car is let out.
A finger is popped up in acknowledgement. Pure sound. It genuinely made my day to find this out. So much so that now I drive by it deliberately, just to say to the kids: “Come on. We’ll go via the Soundabout, ye little pricks.”
