I HAD breakfast with Stanley Tucci once. Well, not quite with him, but a few feet away from him.

Close enough to smell the coffee, far enough for him not to call security.

I was speaking at the Dingle Literary Festival in 2023, and they had put me up in a lovely hotel with crisp, white linen tablecloths, polished cutlery, and the faint hum of writers pretending they don’t care who else is in the room.

And there, standing by the buffet eating a banana, with the poise of a man who has never once dropped crumbs down himself, was the star of The Hunger Games, amongst other big hit films.

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There was only one problem: I couldn’t place him. Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, something was niggling me, telling me I knew him from somewhere.

My companion at the table, fellow northerner and author of Dirty Linen, Martin Doyle, tried to help. He leaned in, with the subtlety of a man passing state secrets, and whispered hints in an inconspicuous manner. None of it landed.

I was starving, and the fry in front of me was eating up my attention. I decided to leave Stanley, with his very stylish attire, alone.

In Ireland, we almost take........

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