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Michael O'Doherty: Note to Grainne -- don't sign up for the WAG brigade

I'm thrilled for Grainne Seoige, the talented and, yes, impossibly sexy Galway girl who was always destined for greater things. And I'm quite sure that her job as Features Editor on the new GMTV breakfast show is but another stepping stone on the upward trajectory of her career.

But already the hyperbole has begun. Her co-presenter Christine Bleakley has been speaking about the massive media interest in her since she agreed to take over as co-host.

"If you go for a drink or dinner with someone, you can be guaranteed it will be in the papers the next day," Christine warned, having had to change the location of her interview at the last minute because she was being hounded by paparazzi.

Well I'm sorry Christine, but the spot you chose for your 'quiet' chat with the press was The Ivy restaurant, just about the biggest celebrity hotspot in London.

It may seem a little obvious, but if you don't want to get papped, why arrange to meet somewhere that you're guaranteed newspapers photographers will be camped outside?

Most importantly, maybe it hasn't occurred to Christine why the press are so interested in who's she dining with.

Could it have something to do with the small matter that she's currently dating one of England's biggest football stars, Frank Lampard? Nah, surely not...

As long as our Gra can keep her mitts off Stevie Gerrard, I think she'll be okay in the short term.

Nothing compares 2 my fave celeb loon Sinead

Two of my favourite descriptions of Irish celebrities go like this.

One is the unpredictable and man-eating actress who was described by an ex as "hardly the girl next door, unless you happen to live next door to psychiatric hospital".

The other is the portly male star whose sexual technique drew the following criticism from a former conquest -- "it was like having an enormous wardrobe fall on you, with the key still stuck in the door."


It's a bitchy, dog eat dog world, but let's be honest, many celebrities are their own worst enemies.

And for some reason, the Irish music industry seems to have more eccentrics per square foot than just about any other walk of life.

Enya's reclusiveness. Jim Corr's bizarre conspiracy theories. Van Morrison's terminal grumpiness.

But nothing compares to that most adorable of Irish loons, Sinead O'Connor.

Everyone was caught on the hop about her wedding last week to musician Steve Cooney, primarily because we all thought she was still going out with Frank Bonadio, with whom she has a son.


But on her website was the announcement of her third marriage, rounded off in the style that we've come to love of Sinead -- "Thanks be to the great Lord Jah. Rastafari, Dread I. Conquering Lion I. One love."

Don't bother trying to think of any lawful impediment why this woman should not be wed; you're on the wrong planet...

In a world of glamorous celebrity unions, stage-managed down to the last detail, Sinead and Steve's wedding album was refreshingly eccentric.

One photograph of the couple kissing at what looked like the altar of a small church.

The religious atmosphere, however, is tainted somewhat by the mangy old sofa that seemed to have been positioned in front of the first pew, the cheap office desk and hat stand against the side wall, the confession box/photo booth that's been painted white, and the wedding party, which comprises solely of two slightly bemused onlookers, who seem to be waiting impatiently for the loved-up couple to stop kissing so they can finish sweeping the floor.

As celebrity weddings go, it's the most bizarre I've ever seen. Sinead actually featured in a six-page photoshoot in the May edition of VIP, but gave us little indication that she was about to get married.

When asked her about her plans for the future, she answered "work, rearing my kids, hopefully having some grandchildren some day... and there are loads of things going on musically".


I guess it just slipped her mind to mention "oh yeah, and I'm getting married in two months".

But the world would be duller with the Sinead O'Connors of this world, the religious zealot on a one-woman mission to prove that marriage can be till death do you part.

Or at least the next concert tour.

Callan proves himself a right twit

ON top of the primary reason to dislike Twitter -- Mark Little uses it -- a new one presented itself this weekend in the shape of Nob Nation creator Oliver Callan.

In a week when road traffic safety was back in the headlines, Callan, a man whose chief skill is managing to be equally unfunny in 100 different voices, chose his Twitter site to boast about a skirmish with the gardai. Having being caught breaking a red light, Callan bragged that he was let go because the officer "said he loved the show".

All of which I find a bit puzzling.

Quite how the garda could have recognised Callan is beyond me -- not only does he work almost exclusively on radio, in person he also has the most unmemorable, nondescript face imaginable.

I can only presume that upon being stopped, he launched into one of his stupendously unfunny routines, which usually sees Michael Noonan, Bill O'Herlihy, Michael Douglas and Jack Nicholson (who all sound remarkably like the same person) engaged in some poor man's Apres Match banter.

And the increasingly nauseous garda probably left him off so as not to be subjected to any more of this 'humour' than was absolutely necessary.