Nope.

Still has no meaning.

“Whether or not [author Neil] McCormick’s idea could have been turned into a decent comedy by anyone, though, is a moot point. As it is, a badly structured film leaves the young principals clueless and floundering.

Killing Bono doesn’t even bother being chronologically accurate: a pole-dancing club in a 80s rural Irish village is just one of its many sloppy gaffes. The sole bright spot is Martin McCann’s drawling Bono: he’s perfectly cast, and is the only convincing thing is this whole sorry mess.”

Paul Whitington, Irish Independent

“It’s hardly worth pointing out how skewed is the film’s view of Ireland in the 1970s and 1980s, but we’ll do so anyway. Is that a strip club I see? What’s this with U2’s debut album being touted as the soundtrack to the Pope’s visit, when in fact it was released a full year after those sacred events in the Phoenix Park? Why is everyone talking as if they’ve just sat through a marathon viewing of The OC?

Such things matter because they contribute to the overwhelming sense of phoniness that hangs around Killing Bono . If it were funny, the lack of authenticity wouldn’t matter. If it were authentic, then the doleful dearth of humour would, well, matter somewhat less.”

Donald Clarke. Irish Times

We wanted to give this a plug a couple of weeks ago because the writer Alexander O’Hara (otherwise known as Darragh McManus) often brings the funny in his newspaper work.

But we thought we would do something radical instead.

We’d actually read the thing.

And…it’s completely hilarious.

We literally laughed out loud on public transport.

Which is not easy on a bicycle.

It’s an e-book so you’ll need a Kindle whastit.

Cold! Steel! Justice!!! (Amazon)

Alexander O’Hara (Crime Always Pays)

If you weren’t scared watching Vincent Browne last night you may have had the sound down.

It was, of course, Apocalypse Now with Vincent as Kurtz and lots of burning napalm.

A few thoughts, though:

We enjoy watching Paul Sommerville, the fast-blinking stock broker/analyst, even though Chompsky nurses many reservations about his faith in the Market.

But if his job is working off the teensiest sliver of margins from the tiniest murmur of share activity, is it proper he be allowed to cast scary, doom-laden predictions on a late night show which, we are told, is watched by representatives of trading firms, hedge-fund managers, etc., in London and New York?

Anyhoo, Constance Gurglekiev and Margaret E Ward.

If life was high-school, these two would like totally be dating.