From the Irish Independent breaking news:

” Bad weather conditions forced Garda divers searching for a missing youth to call off their search of the Grand Canal at Clondalkin, shortly after 4pm this afternoon. High winds and rough water made diving conditions increasingly difficult as the day wore on.Earlier, a body was pulled from the water - it’s believed to be that of one of the two youths who disappeared after leaving a house party in Clondalkin on Sunday morning.

Friends David White from Tallaght and Shane Coughlan from Clondalkin, were last seen as they left the party to go and buy cigarettes.

A search operation was launched after footwear belonging to one of the men was found near the canal.

It’s set to resume at 10am tomorrow”.

Ah, Jayzez, lads! You’re diving in a fekin canal! How the hell can there be rough water and high winds? Do yee just want to knock off for the evening? Will yez pull yerselves together.

- Howya, Primal. Listen, that Internet ya put on the computer for me is useless.

- How so, Pádraigh?

- There’s nothing on it. You’ll have to come over here again and put a different Internet on it.

- There’s only one Internet, Pa. Settle for a minute. Tell me more. You were using Google to look up stuff, right?

- Yeah. And all it ever says is “did you mean something else” or “did not match any documents”. I’m looking at it now and that’s what it says - “didn’t match”.

- Well, the “did you mean something else” is usually because you misspelled a word and it is guessing at the correct spelling.

- That could be it. I wouldn’t be great at spelling. But the other yoke - “didn’t match”. If everything is supposed to be on the Internet, how the fek can it find nothing? You’ll have to get me another Internet.

- Keep settled, Pa. What were you trying to look up just now?

- I was looking for lads around here selling hayledge. I’m selling a few bales and I was wondering what other lads are charging.

- Ok. So tell me exactly what you typed in.

- I told ya already, ya eejit. “Lads around here selling hayledge”.

- I have it, Pádraigh. The problem is between the chair and the keyboard. I will have to come over again. We can’t fix this over the phone. Will you be free today? For a few hours? A good few hours.

Some bar staff should never set foot behind a counter.  We all know that.  They probably know it themselves.  Publicans know it too, but hire them anyway probably because they simply can’t get anyone else.

My local has two such staff.  Both part-timers.  Both work full-time in customer service type roles.  You’d expect them to make great drunkard’s labourers.  But they are quite the opposite.  I’m guessing that the few weekend hours in the pub are just a diversion.  A chance to catch up on gossip with the other staff while earning a few quid.  A break from the weekday’s travail of dealing with customers who have to be treated with respect.  Pub clientele are not real customers.  They are just folks who are going to whinge anyway so feck them!  So what if I get sacked.  It’s not a real job and I don’t really need the money.

This weekend I arrived into my local.  “Hope you’re not looking for drink.  The Two are on”, I was told.  They were huddled in a corner chatting away.  Pleas for service were ignored.  A full ten minutes passed and still no joy.  I tried again.  “I’m serving someone else. Just wait”.

“No, you’re fecking not. You’re sitting there mouthing with her. Now will one of ye get off her arse and put me on a pint like you’re paid to do”.

This scene, in one form or another, is played out every weekend.  But this time it took a twist.

“You don’t treat the new barmaid like this.  Oh, yeah, you fawn all over her because she’s blond and pretty.  You don’t like us because we’re not as good looking as her.  Typical man”.

“No.  I don’t like you because you’re as useful as tits on a bull and you’re more interested in nattering than doing the job you’re paid to do. And I’ve never met the new barmaid, but if she can do the job that you two obviously can’t, then get her in here and you fek off home.  I don’t care if she looks like Jade Goody as long as she can pull pints”.

I was backed up by a cheer from the other patrons.  I felt vindicated.  But we all had to wait 15minutes for our next drink. 20 for the following.

The publican got an earful on arrival but could only offer the excuse of not being able to get staff.  We know that.  The problem is The Two know it too.  Ireland’s pub culture is dying, but not for the reasons the media would have us believe.

As someone who suffers from trolley-rage I was overjoyed when my local Little Britain introduced self service checkouts. It would at least halve the time I’d have to spend grocery shopping.

My joy was short lived. Like the mayfly. Or is that the mayflower? Or McFly? Anyway, it started out great. No queues. No-one asking if I had a Clubcard. Had I a parking receipt. Did I know what terrible weather we were having. If I’d fancy a quick shag under the till. No. All I had to do was grab the goods, scan them, drop them in my shopping bag, feed the machine a few euro and go. Easy in - easy out.

Then it all went terribly wrong. Other people have started using my checkouts. The cheek of them! I wouldn’t mind if they could actually use them, but most can’t. And because they can’t, there are queues now.

I have had to develop a totally new algorithm for choosing which queue to join. The old one for regular checkouts had pretty straightforward selection criteria: Number of people in each queue; number of items per person; was the checkout girl worth checking out. That kind of thing. Empty queue - go there. Queue with a number of people but only a few items each - go there. One person in queue with trolley contents spilling out - avoid like the Tánaiste. All queues with a number of people with full trolleys - goto Dunnes.

Now there are extra things to look out for:

Has the shopper in front got loose fruit or veg? Avoid. Some will wave a turnip over and back across the scanner 2.39 million times before realising it isn’t barcoded. (What’s a barcode?) Others will try to tell the machine what the item is. “T-u-r-n-u-p”. [sic.] More will place the turnip on the scanner and stare at it. Then bounce it off the glass.

Has the person using the checkout still got their shopping bag in their hand? Avoid. They are placing everything loosely in the bagging area and will have to pack it later. That’s the bagging area signed Bagging Area, with little arms you hang a bag on to keep it open while you drop in each item when you’ve scanned it.

Is the person in front a large Nigerian lady? Avoid. All large Nigerian ladies need 30 minutes to wait for a bus due in 5. They run walk saunter in slow motion. Lee Majors without the che che che che che che. If you have no option but to queue behind them, ask a passerby to fetch you some razors. You may be scruffy looking by the second day.

If the person in front is a large Nigerian lady, with a shopping bag on her arm and a basket of turnips …

I arranged a B&B for two distant relations at the weekend. Home from Spain for a suprise family thing, the surpisers needed a place to hide overnight from the suprisee.

Nora, being the excellent host she is, engaged them in conversation at breakfast. “Are - you - tra - vell - ing - a - round - I - re - land?”

Maura, my third cousin, not far enough removed, politely replied “we - are - here - for - a - birth - day. How - long - you - live - in - Ire - land?”

“All - my - life. I - born - near - here”.

“Then - why - in - the - name - of - fuck - are - you - talk - ing - like - a - half - fekin - eej - it?”

I’ve just been reading Eolaí’s latest post on how being online helps him remain Irish while away. It’s very good. Great even. So check it out while it’s still hot.

In it, he, being Lord of the Lists, mentions the 20 best Irish sites for maintaining your Irishnessness while abroad. At number 14 is Scrúdú - “Because you’ve left school and Scrúdú is no longer a word to be feared”.

Well 18 months ago, at the tender age of 40-something, I took the plunge, put on the short trousers and went back to school. A postgrad diploma followed by the masters I’m doing now. And let me tell you, exams scare the bejayzez out of me. Remember those nightmares you had for years after the leaving cert where it’s the day of the geography paper and you’ve completely forgotten to study the effects of glacial erosion in Norway? Or the one where you walk out of the Irish exam only to realise you hadn’t attempted the essay? Well I’m getting those again. Only worse this time.

That said, I got the latest set of results this morning and they’re fine. On the finer side of fine, but let’s just call them fine, so I don’t deafen you with the sound of my own trumpet. No nightmares for the next while but I know they’ll be back as big as assess come May. Oh, wailey, wailey!