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Pól Ó Conghaile: The agony and ecstasy of red-eye flights
Early flights can save time and money… they may also take years off your life.
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Pol Ó Conghaile
August 13 2025 05:30 AM
They are the best of times. They are the worst of times. They can be magical, or utterly miserable. They are red-eye flights, and they are at once an incredible privilege and a perfect torture.
Here’s the Hobson’s choice: pay a little more for a civilised afternoon departure, or pay a little less to get an extra day on holidays. Easy decision, right?
As always, our latest red-eye starts with naive optimism (‘Sure we’ll sleep on the plane’). Then the day comes.
Show me a person who says they don’t mind setting an alarm for 3am and I will show you a liar. We wonder whether to go to bed at 9pm, and lie awake until midnight, or at the normal time, and feel like cadavers. Should we shower the evening before, or argue over the bathroom at 2.30am?
Is it better to wear shorts for the sunshine later, or tracksuits for the cold plane?
He came prepared. Photo: Davor Lovincic / Getty
“Why do flights go so early?” my son asks.
It’s a good question. The answer involves rotations, operations, air traffic control, consumer demand and more, but mostly airlines and airports wanting to make as much money as possible.
‘Red eye’, I can only presume, refers to the sleep-deprived eyeballs of us zombies boarding them. And for all the to-ing and fro-ing on passenger caps, they only look set to increase.
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Light traffic on the M50 is a win, though Dublin Airport between the hours of 3am and 6am is a twilight zone: the friendly faces in full make-up at duty-free; the walking dead, filing by with wheelie cases and neck pillows hanging off backpacks. My skin is dry as paper.
Possibly not the most comfortable place for a snooze: Alexander Farnsworth / Getty
Is it too early for coffee? Or too late?
Whatever about that, it never seems too early for airport pints. Push towards bars and restaurants, and the chatter and craic begins. There are pints on tables next to fry-ups, sandwiches and cheekily opened giant Toblerones. We sit next to two women in leisure wear enjoying goblets of G&T. It’s 5.15am.
Airports at this hour are strange, transitional spaces. They feel Samhain-like, places where the veil between this world and the next is parting, and people wheel their cases between each, against a backdrop of last-minute electronics and Johnny Depp doused in Sauvage.
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On the flight, I pull on my fleece and noise-cancelling headphones. But trying to get comfortable in narrow seats that don’t recline is like trying to squeeze into an Ikea Billy bookshelf. A baby wails. A toddler practises his kicking against the back of one of our seats.
When I nod off, my neck stiffens. My body clock is onto HR (Is it breakfast or dinner time? What are our bowels supposed to do now?). I marvel at how people can sleep with their mouths open. “You had your mouth open,” my son says.
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At 10.25am, we land in Mallorca. Staggering off the plane, like groggy subjects of a science experiment, we are blinded by the light, but reanimated by the warm air.
The mood is changing; zombies are morphing into holidaying humans. Is that a pep I feel in my step? After the passport control, the bag collections, the transfers, we are at our hotel (thankfully, with an early check-in).
I feel binned, discombobulated, useless. But here we are, on holidays, by a pool, with a blue sky over our heads and a sea winking in the near distance, before lunchtime.
That is the agony, and the ecstasy.
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A “Premium” article no less. My God…
Even by the standards of right wing nutcases that person is particularly stupid and repellent.
She used to get invited onto Question Time quite regularly when she was based in the UK. I’d say the people on those panels set up to be in opposition to her couldn’t believe their luck.
She was like a sort of Republic Of Ireland of political panels. A confidence booster for opponents. No matter how shite at debating you were, she’d make you look good.
The Italian restaurant that stole Dublin’s heart: ‘We didn’t have lasagne or carbonara – the things Irish people might expect’
Fionnan Sheehan political journalist and editor is a political ignornamous
Sinn Fein are left wing marxists, their members and associates are left wing, any violence carried out or planned by them is LEFT WING not right wing
Are Irish mainstream journalists really so low IQ ? or is this a wilful attempt to indoctrinate ignorance ?
I’m not sure what the point is here? Would you not expect people working in a kitchen to be working long before the doors actually open?
He’d be a great lad to get into a company right about now. Really hungry for work, ready to put his head down and drive on. I’d imagine he’ll have the arm ripped off him here.
Does he not own the Burger place with Darragh O’Donovan?
Milks cows as well. Man must have a work ethic that can’t be sated.
Sophie White: A car swerved into the family space. A car that didn’t contain a child. Surely this solo man wasn’t about to abuse parent and child parking?
Summarise
Road rage is probably keeping a lot of us from fully losing our minds. Screaming at people from inside the safety of our car is a much-needed release, and it’s kind of a victimless crime.
Now, of course, there are folks who take it too far – and I know I shouldn’t say this – but sometimes I support these people too. Obviously provided the crime fits the punishment.
A professor of mine once locked his bike to the door handle of a car that had minutes earlier just narrowly missed hitting him (the driver didn’t so much as apologise though he had a lot to say upon returning to the car with its new accessory of an attached bike).
“Road rage is probably keeping a lot of us from fully losing our minds.”
This kind of passive aggressive ingenuity is to be lauded in my opinion. In a scenario like this, you’re trying to tread a delicate line between causing a person profound irritation and criminality. You do not want to be doing a crime, you only want to make the offensive person annoyed and lightly ruin their day.
Of course, these interactions don’t always go to plan and sometimes you can find yourself with a whole lot of rage and nowhere to put it, as I did about a year ago.
As I’ve said, I enjoy a bit of a road fracas which is why when a man pulled out of his parking space without so much as checking a mirror and rammed directly into me… I got a bit excited. “Ah-ha!” I thought. “Just the excuse I need to scream at someone.”
I rolled down my window ready to unleash when I realised the other driver apparently hadn’t noticed that he’d backed into me. He pulled forward slightly to adjust his angle and then proceeded to back right into me again.
“Are you serious?” I roared. He showed no indication that he heard me, he was entirely focused on pulling forward in order to back into me a THIRD TIME.
He finally finished pulling out of his space and drove on. Well, I wasn’t having it. I decided to give chase – safely. I followed him to the next lights.
“Turn red, turn red,” I willed them to change and they did! Had my rage activated the telekinesis I was promised when I read Carrie as a teenager?
I stopped behind him and bounded out of the car feeling like a child at Christmas. I knocked on his window and waited while he rolled it down. That was when all my excitement abruptly ebbed.
“Oh, no,” I thought, “this is quite an elderly man. He probably barely even knows he’s in a car, never mind that he’s hitting other cars with said car.” (No shade to all the more than capable, older drivers reading but this particular man didn’t look overly sure of himself.)
He looked up at me confused and I folded like a napkin. “I… eh… thought you were someone else. So sorry. Have a lovely day.” I was obviously disappointed that I couldn’t have a go at a stranger but I believe that, at that moment, the universe took note of my restraint and decided that I would be rewarded handsomely in the future.
Well, last week the day came for my reward. Iwas stuck in a traffic jam in the underground carpark of a supermarket. For once I was thrilled that I’d had to bring my five-year-old on the Big Shop because it meant I could avail of one of the family spaces, the ones reserved for those with children.
As I was getting out, a car swerved into the family space beside mine. A car that did not contain a child. Surely this solo man wasn’t about to abuse the parent and child parking space? Oh reader… he was.
Sophie White. Photo: Kip Carroll
Parent readers will know just how utterly NOT ON this is. We desperately need the extra wide spots for heaving children, pregnant bellies and car seats in and out of the car. Plus, we just need a goddamn break and the good parking spots are one of the main upsides of having kids.
I waited a minute to fully confirm that he was indeed sans child and then I made my approach. I called after him. “That’s a family parking space.” He turned. “I know,” he replied, and kept going.
I was incensed. The absolute neck of this guy. I had to think quickly. I toyed with taking a picture of the reg plate but that idea proved to be a bit of a cul de sac. Take his reg and then what?
I wished I had a bottle of nail polish with me so I could scrawl “loser” across his door — on reflection, even I can see that it was probably best I didn’t have the polish.
In the end, I opted for a good old fashioned stalking and confrontation. I made my way up to the supermarket, located him in the fruit and veg, and tailed him through the apples before accosting him (verbally) around the aubergines.
I stepped out in front of him and smiled. “How’s family life treating you?” I asked. He stared back at me, looking slightly amazed at how bonkers this strange woman was being. “It’s good, thanks,” he said.
“It’s murder shopping with them, isn’t it.” I indicated my child, at that moment caged in the trolley and shouting at the berries.
“Hmmmm,” he nodded, clearly wondering where I had escaped from and who had given me a child to mind. It wasn’t exactly the screaming match I was hoping for but it was satisfying all the same.
Ever since I put a child seat in the car I park in those spaces with or without childer in the car. A wonderful perk and an upside of having the backseat of your car destroyed with shite.
Twink’s beloved bird killed during panto rehearsals - ‘Timby was on my shoulder for the past 26 years’
Pair were starring in Alan Hughes’s ‘Cinderella’ at the National Stadium
MELANIE FINN
Tragedy has struck Adele ‘Twink’ King. Her beloved bird, Timberlake, died during rehearsals for a Christmas panto.
The talking cockatiel, who was due to feature with her in the National Stadium’s rendition of Cinderella, was killed three weeks ago.
Twink (74) was due to film scenes with Timberlake for her role as the queen of the fairies in the Alan Hughes production when the incident occurred.
"The day before filming, my beloved bird Timberlake, that has been on my shoulder for the past 26 years - longer than I’ve ever had a dog, horse, cat or pony - was killed tragically at rehearsals,” she said.
"And that was the end of me. A huge part of me died that night and I just came home a broken, soulless person. I sat in my house that night after a horrendous visit to two vets.”
The stage star said she couldn’t talk about how it happened as she "hasn’t coped with it yet”.
"The next day, Karl [Broderick, writer and co-producer of the panto] and I were nearly killed in a ditch in Summerhill,” she said.
"We were coming around a bend when a big juggernaut came around the far side of the road and forced the two of us into the ditch. It was harrowing.”
An ardent animal lover, Twink likened Timby to a "family member” and said she felt like she’d lost her best friend.
"I’m coping dreadfully with it. I’m hoping that by the time I’ve had to shelve it all that enough time will have passed to ease the pain a bit,” she said.
"But the nights are the worst when I come home. I miss him shouting at me. He went everywhere with me. I rescued him from a minging old pet shop near the airport 26 years ago.”
He had some "wonderfully funny lines” in the forthcoming panto, which will open on Tuesday, Twink said.
The script had to be reworked as a result of his death. Her part has been filmed in advance, incorporating the use of AI, and will be shown on a large screen for audiences.
Twink was initially reluctant to come out of semi-retirement to take on the role. She discussed it with her daughters, Chloe and Naomi, before deciding to give it a go.
She said it was "flattering” to be asked by her pals, Hughes and Broderick.
She found filming the panto scenes "difficult”, having to stand on a box in high heels in front of a green screen for five hours.
Describing her ornate, pink fairy dress as "the dress that ate Dublin”, she said she fell off the box four times as she struggled to stay upright.
"Those things are part of the job,” she said. "I hate whingeing actresses. I don’t moan, I’m not a complainer.”
On the importance of pantos, she said: "It opens the door for future theatre. [Children] mightn’t ever go to a panto again, but they might go to the Gate or the Abbey.”
Twink with her dog, Tayto, and Timby. Photo: Rob Kennedy
Picked up the independent in a waiting room and read this. Daily mail level drivel.
