Half a million readers: they can’t all be wrong - and that's just online since 2007.
Double Vision ran in physical newspapers from 1992-2019. Other works here include features from the Irish Times, Irish Examiner and Irish Post, with a shmattering of fiction and autofiction.
Have a browse around.
Thanks!
Fall, 1998. We’re walking through San Francisco’s Marina District. My beautiful friend Meg stops, turns to face me, upright in relaxed yoga goddess style, Scandi bob and shardic blue eyes.
“Here’s what I don’t get. You spent all those years travelling around, living all over, looking for somewhere that felt like your home. And then you finally found it. And then you left it.“
I stare down at the sidewalk.
Beneath lies the wreckage of the 1906 quake. The Marina was built on top of and out of that rubble, so these sterile mansions have foundations as precarious as their millionaire owners. The Marina is incubating the gentrification that has destroyed the Bay Area’s liberal artistic heritage.
None of us like being delivered harsh truths about ourselves. Life decisions are built on strata more complex than one simple fact.
Yes, I loved Ireland and I left Ireland, because I loved her more.
No it didn’t work out, but The Beatles lied. Love is not all you need.
You need a home.
A year before I left Ireland for California, I felt my first explosion of joy. I didn't realise, but before I moved to that tiny house in Connemara, I’d felt at best happiness.
In that house in Connemara I felt joy and it was dangerous and powerful and it made me stop and breathe different as I walked.
A home.
A house.
A house on my own.
A house on my own in the place I love.
Off the road.
The ocean on three sides and a lake behind.
Less than two miles from the shop and pub.
My god but I loved her.
That’s why I left my home. Yet America was never home; not mine. You know it’s home when it feels like you’re swimming with the tide.
In America I discovered how it feels when the tide goes against me, and after 4 years I broke.
Came back to Ireland.
Back to Galway.
I'd never been back anywhere, but went back to Galway three times.
That was my second time back, and the most extraordinary of them all; stronger and stranger than the first, because I was utterly committed to her and it and us and never envisaged any return.
Before Ireland I’d lived (earned a wage) all over North West London, in Cambridge, Bradford, Melbourne, Barcelona and Otaki.
As a teenager I’d felt at home hitching around the baked landscapes of rural France. I loved the long green avenues, the peeling plaster rustic walls, the plat du jour and carafe. At 17 I reckoned I’d probably live there as an adult.
A village somewhere.
On Friday 10th April 1992, the day after the Tory’s fourth successive general election victory, I went to to the local travel agent and asked for the cheapest one-way ticket out of the country.
Malaga, £39. That’ll do nicely. Check out Granada, up to Barcelona for their incredible Olympics, and then let the road lead me to my French village.
I make no apologies for sounding a tad hippy dippy. I’ve hitched to the moon and I trust the road.
End of.
JB still talks about the Road To Vic. After he nobly hosted me throughout that outstanding Barcelona summer (JB might well choose a different adjective) he drove me all the way out of the city to a motorway junction, concrete underpass glowing pink pumping 45°C, and left me roadside with the dust and Blue Bag.
At last, my French life awaited, but the road had other plans.
Saturday night I slept out on the lush long grass of French Pyrenean foothills, to awake covered in mountain dew.
Heavy dew for a heavy Jew puns aside, I knew Sunday was a terrible day to hitch, with families packing cars and Grandma behind the wheel for her one drive a week.
Perfect. I was in no rush. I’d stick to D roads, avoiding anything with a hard shoulder and HGVs.
I’d meander and -
and that night I was in Rennes, way up in Brittany. Every lift had rushed me North. Instead of my desired dawdle, I’d dashed through to plans anew.
Much as I love Brittany, if I’m moving to France I’m going to warmer climes, somewhere south of a line from the Vendée to Dijon.
I loved the irony of going around the planet twice and ending up in the country next door, of which I knew nada zip.
Disembarking at Cobh, walking through the streets of Cork City on a damp August afternoon, I was excited that I knew nobody.
I didn’t have a single connection to this new country, this final country, this country that really had to become my home, otherwise I’d be back where I bloody started.
I had no idea.
No idea how madly I would love Ireland and the compassion of the Irish. No idea how I would rip the skin off a tiny slice of Galway life in the early ‘90s, and fall deeply in love with Connemara: my soul’s home.
Then yes, I left, as we established, but I came home, and knew I was home because I had left and grieved and mourned.
I moved to live the second time in a house on my own, this time by a river in Killala, where I felt joy for the second time in my life.
Years later, back to Galway and married again, but in 2018 that all fell apart in crushingly unwelcome circumstances.
The following year I fell apart physically. Not enough there’s a global pandemic. Oh no. His Maj here has to develop an incredibly dangerous, ridiculously rare bacterial infection that tried to kill me several ways.
It started off with pleurisy and double pneumonia, and then there were months of empyema, with a litre and a half of pus in my chest cavity. Then I was coughing up blood.
Despite the best care and a zillion scans they didn’t know what was wrong with me (who does?) so they cut off half a lung to find out, and then there was another year of intense treatment, that involved giving myself intravenous antibiotics at home, with a van driving up from Galway weekly, delivering fresh medicines.
During this time I was also trying to deal with a divorce, a complete loss of income, my life savings already gone on keeping us afloat years before, and an eviction notice given on the day I was told about my lung surgery.
Didn’t have to make it up. Dark would be an understatement. I joked that if reincarnation is real, I must’ve been some special kind of arsehole in a previous life.
My friend in Killala offered me her stable conversion, and that was my home for four years. Were it not for her I would’ve had nowhere to live.
Nowhere.
I couldn’t pay rent, even if there had been anywhere to rent, which there was not.
She saved me, and then four months ago, Mayo County Council offered me a home.
A one bedroom bungalow in a quiet estate 300 yards from the village centre.
A place of my own.
A place where I can stay.
Joy.
Ireland became my home, and now Ireland has given me a home.
No greater gift to this scribbler.
Thank you.
©Charlie Adley
12.04.2025
Welcome to Chelsea Anonymous.
My name is Charlie and I’m a Chelsea Fan.
As Chelsea fans we are used being tested, tormented and tortured. We suffer because along the way we celebrate, win more than any other London team (pretty much all of them combined!) or play incredible creative exciting football and lose with honour. Or Costa.
Watching the last two games with Young Richard, over 100 years of True Blue between us, we both felt as low as we ever have as Chelsea fans.
We don’t care if we lose, as long as we play with passion. We know there are as many downs as ups; that the notorious midwinter Chelsea ‘Bad Moment’, as coined by our greatest ever manager (himself Ancelotti The Eyebrow), can last for two months; that being a Chelsea fan is worrying often if the team will turn up.
But this bunch of young exciting talented players are pretty much the same crew who were blowing teams away before Christmas. I was in shock at how quickly Maresca gelled us into an attacking unit that scored for fun, from all over the pitch.
That - as we know - is how you win titles. And when I say titles, I don’t mean the foreign manager description of the Community Shield.
I mean Premierships.
The league.
League Division One in the old money.
A mere four months ago we were fearless, focused and - but for the lack of a mature striker, a fit Fofana and the return of Petrovic - as good as I could hope for.
So what happened? Some ideas: not even opinion. Just trying to make sense of this drivel we’re playing.
No leadership. We look clueless, but Maresca is a great tactician, so I’m sure there is a plan. If we’re not executing it then somebody on the pitch must make it happen.
Nobody’s shouting or pointing out there. Nobody's taking charge on the pitch. Young players without a mature mix, desperate for a kick up the backside during games.
What happened to change our season? Well, Maresca played to type, a mini-Pep, and started playing Moisés Caicedo at right back, inverting with possession.
All very clever, two shapes for when you have and haven’t the ball. Mind-blowing when introduced by Pep years ago, but now teams know how to exploit it, so don’t do it.
Anyway, Moises is the best Midfield Destroyer since St. Claude ‘Wot Moi?’ of Makelele, so leave him at the neck of the spine to bite like a vampire.
Stop tinkering with the centre backs and goalie. That triangular three is the rhythm section of all great teams, so choose and stick, as much as injury allows. Then everyone knows their job and players start to trust each other.
Anyone in goal but Sanchez or Kepa. Bring Petrovic home from loan. If it ain’t broke blah blah blah. He did well enough last year.
I know Fofana is injured, Disaster’s out on loan, Badiashile turned out to be an anagram of his name and yuk, it’s ugly, but choose and stick.
The reason our defence has been so shite is that nobody feels safe in their position. Play there every week. Tackled by Terry. Cleared by Carvalho. Allow it to evolve.
A hedge fund doesn’t change its spots. In this world of bottom lines and pure profit, fans are clients and academy players a commodity.
It’s never going to change but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Excel will always be more important than Footballing Excellence, yet we fans know that academy players will put in the extra 7 minutes after a long bruising 90, to win with the team they love.
Watching a True Blue play for the first team transports us fans down onto the pitch. It's an empathy exchange that clings to the core of club loyalty.
Elephant in the room: how do you spend over £1bn and fail to buy a viable striker? If a frustrated wasted miserable Ice Cole has to masquerade as a false 9 again, he’ll be off to Real Madrid come the Summer, before you can say “Buy-Out Clause.”
Finally, in that vein, don’t give players eight year contracts. Alongside large salaries it makes them unaffordable to other teams, thereby removing jeopardy from their status as Chelsea players.
A goal up after 20 minutes and they think they've done enough. They’re under contract for another 6 years. Crazy and then some.
So have we been Pep-a-ruined by our very own Guardiola clone?
Tinkered from simple success to complex catastrophe?
How long is this season's ‘moment’ going to be?
©Charlie Adley
18.02.2025
“If you’ve got power back tomorrow I’ll drive over to you. If my power’s back I’ll meet you off the usual bus tomorrow afternoon. One way or another we’ll watch the match together.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan. Cool. Talk tomorrow morning then, bruv. Cheers.”
Next day I’m calling him from the chilled darkness of my electricity-free home.
“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
Straight to voicemail.
Bugger.
Same an hour later.
Double bugger.
Didn’t know what to do.
Brain not functioning after such a cold night.
I needed heat inside me.
The wind had eased, but world outside was frozen solid, so after chiselling my way into Joey SX, I drove him through a snowy icy North Mayo, in search of a cooked breakfast.
In a pub near Ballina they bought to me a large pot of strong hot sweet tea, which arrived at my shivering core with the pleasure and power of an illegal drug.
After two eggs, two rashers, two sausages, black and white, beans and toast, I tried calling my mate again.
“Hi. Leave a message and I’ll -"
Then I sent a text, saying if I didn’t hear from him, I’d drive to his gaff (an hour away in Co. Roscommon), ‘cos my spare room was like an igloo, whereas his sofa bed was by the stove in his cosy living room.
I’d be warmer at his place without power than he would be at mine.
Yeh but no but, ‘cos I’d no way of knowing if he'd seen any texts or heard any messages.
What to do?
Where to go?
No point driving through that dangerous winterscape, all the way to his town, only to find he’d already jumped on the bus to Ballina.
I’d have to meet that bus, just in case he was on it.
The 22 bus comes from Dublin Airport, stopping at 5,379 towns and villages on its merry way. It was due at 14:16 (not 14:15, oh no) but even on a good day, I know from experience, it arrives at least 20 minutes late.
You’d think that this mélange of knowledge and experience might cocktail into some wisdom, but sadly we can’t escape who we are.
Even though I’ve lived in Ireland for 33 years, I’m still very English, and can’t arrive late for anything. I pulled into the tiny lay-by outside the bus station at 14:10, and sat in Joey, watching the drab damp world progress outside.
The sky was as dark as daylight allows. The freezing wind smashed huge wet snowflakes onto the windscreen.
After an hour I ran the engine to get some heat into the car. As I defrosted I suddenly and urgently needed to go to the loo. Zipping up my coat I headed out into into the weather.
Bloomin' heck! Before I made it into the bus station, that wind cut clean through my layers of weatherproof clothing, pierced my own fatty cladding, slashing shards of ice onto my innards.
Relieved, a few minutes later I came out to see another car had squeezed into the lay-by behind Joey. Drawing level I glimpsed through the window a middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat, texting.
Without hesitation I knocked on her window and asked if she was waiting for the 22 bus, and if so, was she texting someone on board?
Despite the freezing cold wind smashing into her face, she wound down her window and smiled as she explained that yes, she was. Apparently the bus was crawling along at two miles an hour, and was only in Swinford now.
Thanking her profusely I climbed back in Joey SX, wondering for the umpteen-kabillionth time how lovely the people are, here in the West of Ireland.
It is of course possible that an English person might’ve responded with the same warmth, care and smile, but equally it’s very likely that, had I asked them to lower their window and enquired whether they were waiting for the 22, the response would've been something along the lines of
“What’s it to you? Fuck off and mind your own business.”
Half an hour later I heard doors thumping, and saw through my rear window two young people climbing into her car.
Had I somehow missed the bus arriving? No, even given the appalling conditions, I’d’ve seen a whacking great bright red Bus Eireann Expressway coach turning into the station.
Nearby, other people were walking past, rolling their suitcases and carrying backpacks.
What was going on?
Behind me her car was now full, and I expected her to drive off, but instead she climbed out of her warm dry environment and walked over to Joey, tapping on his window.
“The bus broke down half a mile down the road, so your friend should be here any minute."
“Oh right. Broke down? Bloody hell! Thanks so much for letting me know. I was wondering what was going on.”
“All the best. Stay safe, now.”
And she was gone…
I waited a short while longer, and then climbed out to look down the road. Nobody in sight, but I’d hate to drive off now and miss him, after waiting an hour and three quarters.
But no. He wasn’t there.
Off I headed, back to my cold dark home, only to find - yippedy dippedy dingle dongle dooooo!!!! - the power was back on, and bliss: light and cheer and whiskey followed.
We won’t talk about the football, but that woman and her kindness stayed in my head.
She could’ve simply driven off, but instead she decided to venture from the warmth and safety of her car to tell a stranger what was going on.
In the majestic order of the universe, it might look like an insignificant gesture, but not to me.
She walked through that cold wet wind, just to tell me about the bus. She didn’t have to, but she wanted to.
Now, instead of remembering a wasted miserable wait and an absent friend, I’m thinking only of a golden beam of kindness on legs. Her humanity shone through the coldest of wet afternoons.
I’m so glad I live here. The weather is a challenge, but the strangers are the finest.
©Charlie Adley
26.01.2025
Thanks to caricatures-ireland.com
In 2003 I was incredibly down on myself. The emotions I needed to write the novel were too raw; too painful to access.
As I complained in my journal at the time, it felt like grabbing hold of shards of glass.
Feeling like a failure as a writer, I sat at the kitchen table listening to the radio, where a woman was talking about people who live off their writing.
She said that at that time there were less than 30 people in Europe who were making their entire living by writing whatever they wanted.
My head rose from its downward stare to soak up the sunlight coming through the window. My spirit made a similar journey.
That’s exactly what I was doing. I was one of those less-than-30 people.
I had my Double Vision column in the Connacht and City Tribunes, and my Diary of a Blow-In column was running in the Irish Examiner. The features editor of the Irish Examiner used everything I sent him.
I’d had a good few features published in the Irish Times and the inestimable Martin Doyle was then editor of the Irish Post in the UK, and he was buying my features regularly.
Living in a lovely farmhouse in North Mayo, paying €80 a month rent I was clearing over 400 quid a week (a fair wad 20 years ago) by scribbling exactly what I wanted for all those different publications.
When people described me as a journalist I didn’t want to seem like a pretentious prat, but I never felt like a journalist, because I never wrote a news story.
I wrote exactly what I wanted, the way I wanted to. When I went on holiday to Greece, I wrote about my holiday to Greece. If I went to Galway and got drunk, I wrote about going to get drunk in Galway.
When the government pissed me off I wrote about that, and if I sat on my back step and watched the clouds and the birds, I wrote about clouds and birds, and sold the piece.
Far from a failure, I realised I was a privileged and successful writer. My work was pure pleasure.
For 27 years my scribbling paid the rent, but there’s more to life than rent, so below is a list that I’ve been updating all my life, never really thinking I would use it.
As you read the list you will think ‘Oh my God, he’s milking every single opportunity!’ and that's exactly right. This is not a list of all my jobs.
This is a list of every single way I’ve earned money over the decades. Here’s the story of what this scribbler did to get by.
What are not listed are the thousands of freebies I (and every other writer) wrote for friends, colleagues, and anyone who asked for a little favour.
1 - Unloading trucks, London
2 - Handyman/Driver, London
3 - Bakery Cleaner, London
4 - Santa Claus, London
5 - Envelope stuffer, London
6 - Transporting models to catwalk, London
7 - Children’s tutor, London and Bradford
8 - Lift operative, Harley Street surgery
9 - Photocopier marketer, London
10 - Barman. The Gate, Northwood
11 - PR, Equestrian Statues, London
12 - Roadie, Equestrian Statues, London
13 - Record shop assistant, Record Fayre, London
14 - Newspaper game designer, London
15 - Community Letter writer, London
16 - Sales Incentive Game designer, London
17 - Sales Recruiter, London
18 - Sales trainer, London
19 - Gardener, London
20 - Magazine distributor, London
21 - Car Washer, London
22 - Market Researcher, London
23 - Cardboard factory sales, London
24 - Truck Hire Administrator, London
25 - Snow Clearer, London
26 - Babysitter, London
27 - Video Shop manager, London
28 - Milkman’s Assistant, London
29 - Unistrut Worker, London
30 - Gas Station attendant, London
31 - Domestic cleaner, London
32 - Squash Club manager, London
33 - Meat truck driver, London
34 - Warehouse worker, London
35 - Industrial cleaners salesman, Cambridge
36 - Barman, The Mill, Cambridge
37 - Roadie, Perfect Vision, Cambridge
38 - Columnist, Freebase Kevin, Cambridge/Galway
39 - Venue manager/Kiosk attendant, Bradford
40 - Barman, The Biko Bar, Bradford
41 - Laundry worker, Bradford
42 - Barman, The Peel, Bradford
43 - Car Telesales, Bradford
44 - Beer festival organiser, Bradford
45 - Student Residence Cleaner, Bradford
46 - Pizza chef, Bradford
47 - Cinema advertising Sales, South-West England
48 - Paxo Stuffing Roadshow driver, touring
49 - Glass manufacturers stand operative, touring
50 - Car detailer, Melbourne, Australia
51 - Kitchen Porter, Kinsale, Ireland
52 - Flyer’s deliverer, Galway
53 - Columnist, Pink O’Bum - Galway
54 - Columnist, Lionel's Labours Lost, Galway
55 - Columnist, Andy Prince - Galway
56 - Youth Worker, Bethany, Galway
57 - Youth Worker, Mon an Oige, Galway
58 - Youth Worker, Crisis Drop - in Centre, Galway
59 - Mail room worker, San Francisco
60 - Café bookkeeper, San Francisco
61 - Shelf-builder, San Francisco
62 - Document puller, San Francisco
63 - Accounts assistant, San Francisco
64 - Receptionist/Telephonist, San Francisco
65 - Escrow Assistant, San Francisco
66 - File clerk, San Francisco
67 - Receptionist, Architect’s office, San Francisco
68 - Assistant to the Dean, University of San Francisco
69 - Receptionist, Family Mosaic, San Francisco
70 - Receptionist, Allied Digital Technologies, San Francisco
71 - Administrator, University of San Francisco
72 - Receptionist, Engineering Office, San Francisco
73 - Mail distributor, Goldman Sachs, San Francisco
74 - Assistant, Law Office of Donna Brorby, San Francisco
75 - Assistant to Real Estate Appraiser, Santa Rosa
76 - Telephonist, NA Mortgage Company, Santa Rosa
77 - Receptionist, Donald Judd, CPA., Santa Rosa
78 - Rewrite editor, Jim Boulden, Cyberspace
79 - Claim expediter, State Farm Insurance, Rohnert Park
80 - HR Assistant, Homecoming Financial, Petaluma
81 - Construction labourer, Pacific Heights, San Francisco
82 - Shipping clerk, Kendall Jackson Winery, Santa Rosa
83 - Company Secretary, Monterey Import, Cotati
84 - Columnist, ‘Addled Impressions’, Galway City Tribune
85 - Geriatric care worker, Taylors Hill, Galway
86 - Fundraising consultant, NUI Galway
87 - Age Action Charity Shop Manager, Galway
88 - Arts Festival Crew, Galway
89 - Feature writer, Magpie Magazine, Ireland
90 - Cleaner, Bellissimo, Galway
91 - Feature writer, Irish Post, U.K.
92 - Cleaner, Nimmo’s Wine Bar, Galway
93 - Minority Sports interviews, Irish Examiner
94 - Diary of a Blow-in Column, Irish Examiner
95 - Fish farm, Palmerstown, Killala
96 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner ‘Bricks and Mortar’
97 - Tutor to autistic child, Crossmolina, Co. Mayo
98 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner weekend supplement
99 - Copywriter, Target Communications, Barcelona
100 - Feature writer, Irish Examiner weddings supplement
101 - E-zine writer, Target Communications, Barcelona
102 - Off Licence Worker, Ballina, Co. Mayo
103 - Wine Shop worker, Salthill, Galway
104 - Youth Worker, Ballybane Traveller Youth Project
105 - Columnist, ‘Double Vision’, Connacht Tribune
106 - Youth Worker, Salthill Traveller Youth Project
107 - Feature writer, Irish Times health supplement
108 - Craft of Writing teacher, Killala, Co. Mayo
109 - Craft of Writing teacher, Galway Arts Centre
110 - Craft of Writing teacher, 1-1, Salthill, Galway
111 - Craft of Writing teacher, Westside Community Centre
112 - Craft of Writing teacher, Co.Tipperary
Don't think they'll all go on my CV.
