Gavin Lambe Murphy. Now there's an odious little scut. He's there in the Tribune magazine gurning up at me, so I decide to read the article.
"Name-dropping like nobody's business, he's clad in black designer jeans and a tight, black polo neck and with his shock of blonde hair; his trademark glasses and his 'man' bag (designer of course) placed firmly on the seat beside him..."
It goes on: "You have to hand it to him; articulate, self-deprecating and unashamedly irreverent, he's great company."
I don't know what's worse about this article. Lambe Murphy himself? He lizards on about his battles with drug addiction, scoring with loike the most beautiful women in Ireland and the fact that he's a changed man now that he's given up the portying (sic) scene and is opening up a hip new Dublin eaterie.
Or is it Erin McCafferty? The sycophantic scribbler who has deemed this epitome of shittiness worthy of a cover article, and has clearly spent hours crawling around the innards of his ass.
I don't recall it myself, but I'm pretty sure there was a time when celebrity was attained through more than getting some black-rimmed glasses, bleaching your hair, talking louder than most, using 'man' bags as accessories and adopting a faux-Dublin 4 brogue that belies utterly your upbringing by decent and hard-working parents.
I've been here before, as has 5X, but I'm finding it harder and harder to enjoy a society that looks up to twats like the self-styled GLM.
Oh, and he's a steamer.