Karen Luby

@LindaMu38317430 😪😪 R.I.P. Noelia.

She's gone😭 💔💔

@IrishTimesOpEd Nothing to do with religion -all shops should be closed on Sundays to preserve family life. It's so easy for people who have weekends off to push for extended opening.

Newton Emerson: Absence of religious fervour in the debate about Sunday shopping is suspicious irishtimes.com/opinion/2026/0…

@brianymoran @VirginMediaIE I've no clue about broadband as I don't have that either. I gave up on it all due to the expense.

@RuftynTufty @VirginMediaIE True. And for broadband I might try starlink

I’ve news for you @VirginMediaIE The contract is definitely changing. I’m cancelling the thing. Fed up with these price increases #virginmedia

@real_eire The #bekind left really are a special type of people.

The woman attacking Ryan Casey has now released another video. She doubles down and explains if someone has a different opinion to her then they deserve to be publicly attacked for how they look.

@TRobinsonNewEra @Ayaan Looking forward to this. @Ayaan is one amazing, brave and very intelligent lady who has walked the walk and knows exactly how Islam works.

What a day. From one amazing heroine to the next. It was my honour to finally meet @Ayaan Full interview coming soon...

@fiannafact 1995 purely because we had an amazing summer. Ner a mention of 'climate change' in RTE's reporting during that fabulous summer either. 😎 youtu.be/b_FFotUxby8?is…

If you could reset Ireland back to an earlier time, what year would you choose??

@ImtiazMadmood 😪😪 R.I.P. to this beautiful brave lady.

The Islamic regime has confirmed the death-sentence of 18 year old Melika Azizi was carried earlier today. Melika was arrested in January 2026 during nation-wide protests and charged with "moharebeh" (waging war against god for allegedly burning Islamic regime symbols. In court, Melika told the judge: "You let so many young people bleed. How can I remain silent? I don't care just kill me" She was a brave young lady!

@Rockmusic70S @rtenews I am attacking @GovIE on how they treat non nationals better than the Irish. Ppl who work their arses off should not have to pay for foreigners.

@RuftynTufty @rtenews Please don't attack the foreigners - this problem lies solely in government hands - they are the ones to be taken to task over it - not the foreigners or indeed anyone else who has no hand in this whatsoever. The government is at fault.

Minister for Education Hildegarde Naughton has defended the reintroduction this year of exam fees for Leaving Certificate and Junior Cycle students rte.ie/news/education…

@mullallyelaine Absolutely! Dr. Billy is a proper doctor. 👏👏

When Dr Billy Ralph heard that the government were offering the “Covid vaccines” to under 12 year olds, he tweeted this message. “ I will not be injecting any child with this completely untried product in this cohort. 27 years of practice I have never seen an experimental product used on children. Especially for a condition that holds less risk than the treatment.” He should be rewarded and promoted to chief medical office not called up to a hearing in the Irish Medical Council! irishtimes.com/crime-law/cour…

@IrishTimes Misinformation such as 'covid vaccines will stop transmission' or is that misinformation acceptable? It's difficult to keep up with the newspeak.

Hundreds of scientists back all-Ireland service to tackle misinformation irishtimes.com/science/2026/0…

@TheAkoFiles @pb4p 'Virtually half of Ireland's population was wiped out during the famine...we're actually an under populated country'. This obnoxious woman sounds about right for PBP who pushed relentlessly for abortion. We now have about 10,000 babies a year being 'wiped out'.

No surprise whatsoever that @pb4p would select such a nasty individual to run for them. I’m quite sick and tired of these middle class yuppies speaking down to and abusing the working class Irish for not sharing their worldview. Buffoons.

@ClydeDonnelly99 @griptmedia 👏👏👏

@griptmedia Think I've seen this movie before. She goes on to become a Congresswoman.

A judge has raised concerns for the whereabouts of the mother of a child who was smuggled into Ireland by his Somali refugee father, who claimed that his sister was his wife. gript.ie/refugee-smuggl…

@rtenews Fabulous to see a bit of sanity returning to Europe. 🙏

Danish Prime Minister Mette Frederiksen's Social Democrats appeared headed for their worst election outcome in over a century, as migration and welfare concerns obscured broad support for her defiant stance toward the US over Greenland rte.ie/news/europe/20…

@Niall_Boylan What an horrific tragedy for your family to go through Niall, simply awful. Best of luck with the book-the title is perfect!

We simply did not have that kind of relationship. “No,” I said. “Why?” She told me he had not come home. That was unusual. Arthur was not someone who stayed out all night. In fact he barely went out at all. My father was already worried sick and had gone to the local Garda station that afternoon, but they told him there was nothing they could do yet. A person had to be missing for forty eight hours before they would treat it as a serious case. When I got home my mother explained what had happened. Arthur had come home from work in the ESB. He had only recently started there as an office maintenance worker. He was tired and went straight to bed. That night was the ESB Christmas party. It was the week before Christmas and all the staff were going out together. My mother asked him if he was going and he said he was too tired and wanted an early night. She felt sorry for him. She did not like the thought of him missing out while everyone else from work was socialising and enjoying themselves. So at about nine o’clock she went into his room and woke him. “Go on out,” she said. “You should go. Meet your workmates. Have a bit of fun.” At first he resisted, but eventually he agreed, mostly to keep her happy. He got dressed and left the house. Twenty four hours later he still had not returned. I tried not to think the worst. I convinced myself he had simply stayed over at someone’s house. Maybe he had ended up watching a football match late into the night. Maybe he missed the last bus. Something simple like that. I even went out to work that night as normal, telling myself everything would be fine. He would walk through the door later that evening or the next morning and we would all laugh about the panic. But the next morning I was woken by my father. He looked pale and shaken. “The Gardaí rang,” he said. “They’re on their way over.” I assumed Arthur had got himself into some sort of trouble. Maybe a fight, maybe he had drunk too much and caused a scene somewhere. But when the Gardaí arrived they told us something very different. They had received a call that morning. A body had been found in the canal in Inchicore. They asked if we could go into the city morgue and identify the body, just to make sure it was not Arthur. My mother became hysterical immediately. My father was beside himself with worry but trying to stay composed. I went with him into town. We parked outside the morgue. And then my father said he could not go in. He simply could not face the possibility. “There’s no chance it’s him,” I kept telling him. “The odds are a million to one.” But he would not move. “You go in,” he said. “I just can’t.” So I walked inside. A Garda met me at the door along with the mortician. They brought me into a quiet room. In the centre of the room was a table. On the table was a body bag. The Garda asked me gently if I was sure I was able to do this. I said yes. But nothing in the world could have prepared me for what I was about to see. The mortician slowly unzipped the bag. There he was. After two days in the canal. It was Arthur. I sat down immediately, completely numb. I knew that the moment I walked out that door my mother and father’s world would change forever. And just as I was trying to gather myself, my father walked into the room. He looked straight at me. “It’s not him, right?” he said. I could not speak. I did not need to. He saw the answer on my face and collapsed in tears. Then he insisted on seeing for himself. All I could think was the words I feared hearing him shout when he saw the body. “Arthur… Arthur… what have you done?” Eventually I persuaded him to leave. We sat in the car in silence for a long time. Not just devastated about Arthur, but about what we now had to do. We had to go home. And tell my mother. It was the longest drive back to Edenmore that either of us would ever make.

I’ve often said I would write a book, not because I think I’ve lived an extraordinary life, but because there are lessons in knowing when to stay silent and when you must speak. It’s not a simple story. It begins with being born in a Mother and Baby home in 1963. It moves through the suspicious death of my younger brother many years later. It touches on being told, again and again, to keep quiet in school. Then losing my hair at nine, and the bullying that followed me from childhood into adulthood, even into the workplace. What matters most is how, years later, a radio studio and a microphone finally gave me a voice. Tools to push back against a lifetime of being told to shut up. Only to find, as the world changed, that the same pressure to stay silent returned in different forms. This book looks at the people who lifted me up, and those who made life difficult. It looks at school, work, and the media, and at those who believed they could control what I said, how I said it, and whether I should say anything at all. I’ve taken a short break over the last few weeks, and for the first time I had the space to think. One thing I do have is a good memory, and suddenly it all began to fall into place. (Book cover is a first mock-up) Here’s a sample from a chapter about my brother, Arthur. ————————— Arthur, Arthur… What Have You Done? I always had an odd relationship with my younger brother Arthur. It was not that we disliked each other or fought the way some brothers do. It was more that we existed in two different worlds under the same roof. Arthur was four years younger than me and very different in personality. He was quiet, reserved, almost timid in many ways. My father seemed to connect with him more than he did with me, though whether that was true or just how it felt to me as a child I will never know. Children have a way of interpreting love in strange ways, and sometimes the smallest differences can leave lasting impressions. Arthur shared something with my father that I never did: a love of sport. My father and mother were obsessed with football and almost every other sport going. If there was a match on television, the house revolved around it. Arthur loved it too. They could sit together watching a game, discussing players and tactics, sharing something I never really understood or cared about. I suppose in my mind that made him closer to them. Arthur also had his own struggles. Looking back now, it was obvious he had deep insecurities. At the time we did not have the language people use today, but I would now describe much of his behaviour as obsessive compulsive. Everything had to be spotless. Everything had to be in order. He would shower five times a day. If he saw a speck of dirt on the floor he would immediately grab the Hoover. After dinner he insisted on washing up every plate, every fork, every cup, even if my mother told him not to bother. In many ways he was invaluable to her. The house was always immaculate because Arthur could not tolerate anything less. But for him it was not about helping. It was about control. Life went on like that for years. Then one December weekend in 1991 everything changed. At the time I was twenty eight and working as a DJ in Faces nightclub. One Friday night after finishing work I went back to a friend’s place and ended up staying over for a couple of nights. That was fairly normal in those days. There were no mobile phones, no instant messages, no way for people to track each other down. If someone wanted to reach you they rang the house phone and hoped you were there. On Saturday morning the phone rang at my friend’s house. It was my mother. Her voice had that edge to it, the one that immediately tells you something is not quite right. “Have you heard anything from Arthur?” I remember thinking it was a strange question. Arthur would never have reason to call me, and even if he did he would ring the house, not some random number where I happened to be staying.

@havingagiraf I visited Krakow a few months ago and felt a helluva lot safer there than in my home town Dublin. A tour guide said crime rate was very low in Krakow.

Over last few months I’ve been lucky enough to spend time in New York, Prague(below) Krakow, Dublin, Paris and of course london. It’s very clear from those visits that Diversity is not a strength it doesn’t make anywhere stronger, from those visits it was only Prague and Krakow where I felt truly safe walking the streets at 2-3am whilst in the other cities even during the day if felt intimidating and you would consciously avoid areas or places. Why are the EU so desperate to force Islamic occupation on countries like Czech republic , Poland and Hungary when they can see the damage and division it is causing across the world.

@LifeNewsHQ 😅😅

The Savannah Bananas do a baby race between innings. This is hilarious! 😅

@Ben_Scallan Ah the curious mind of toddlers. 🤗 I scraped moss off a stone wall at the end of my garden, shoved it in the cracks & stuck some campanula flowers which are taking nicely. For me moss 'does be' a great growing source for wild flowers.

My toddler pointed at some moss on the ground and asked me what it is. I said "That's moss." He asked me "What does moss do?" How am I supposed to answer that

@griptmedia When you've gone through (and still going through) what Ryan has, being called "nazi scum" means nothing.

NIAMH UÍ BHRIAIN: Ryan Casey was called 'nazi scum' over the weekend for continuing to speak his mind on immigration, but the viciousness of the left is being derailed by the sheer weight of support from Irish people for his views. He won't be silenced. gript.ie/the-lefts-vile…