A tap on the shoulder. I turned to the lady in the pew behind me. Howya, Primal. Tell me, is this woman any relation of Michael who lived in the last house on our row? Yes, Mrs. K, she was a sister. That’s grand then - I didn’t come over here for nothing then.

Nothing surprises me anymore about funerals. Not my own family ones anyway. A woman turning up at my aunt’s this week just on the off chance she knew her didn’t even raise a smile. We have a history incredulous internments.

The evening of my father’s we decided to take the hearse on a circuitous route so it could pause for a moment outside the house where he was born and reared. We were seconds too late. As we approached we could see a Hymac tear it down to make way for apartments. Someone mumbled, the feker, he’s gone now and he’s took the shaggin house with him.

As is compulsory in this country, there was a right royal session. The pub closed only when the last two mourners were left. Myself and a mate. Both full as ticks. We parted company and I rang for a taxi. Jayzez, before ya ask, I’m not working tonight. At the befores of a funeral. Primal’s auld lad. I’ve been on the tear with him all evening. I just left him there now.

I stumbled on and two sound young lads pulled up and offered me a lift. Never one to question a gift horse’s dental work I hopped in. We had a great chat. They commiserated with my loss. Wearing the black suit, pointed out one, I was a danger to myself and others on such a dark night. I was lucky they had picked me up. I agreed and thanked them wholeheartedly. Really sound lads as I said. Only when the were driving off did I see the blue lights atop the car.

The following day was relatively uneventful. Except when one of the druid’s little helper’s phone rang and she couldn’t extradite it from her pocket under the robes. We were treated to Com’on Barbie let’s go party for what seemed an age. The poor lassie was having a bad day. The top came off the stick used to ring the gong and rolled under the coffin. As she crawled beneath to retrieve it, Com’on Barbie let’s go party began again.

My mother’s is mostly a blur. We were very close and I was younger then. First of all, I was nearly late. The father had agreed at the last minute to bring proceedings forward by half an hour as there was to be a second service in the church that evening. Frantic phone calls were made to everyone except me. I was having a quick pint (the drink again, see) with the guy who was taking me when I did get the call. Luckily he had one of the unmarked cars (the cops again, see) from work that day and he hit the siren and lights and we sped down the N7 and up through the town. The prayers had begun and the stare I got from the druid for the noisy way I interrupted proceedings could have cut steel girders.

I must have looked as if I was about to completely break down later as I wheeled the coffin out of the funeral parlour with the undertakers and people rushed over to support me. Yes, I was upset, but mainly it was the painful and bloodied fingers from catching them on a bolt under the lid as it was being closed.

The following day I made sure I was on time. Others didn’t. Including a then government minister, now an EU commissioner (you can figure out who). He had to stand outside. It was a scorching hot day but just as the coffin was being brought out there was an unmerciful downpour and we paused in the hallway. Not being seemly to run for shelter, the minister commandeered his minder’s jacket (the cops again). Such a pity it wasn’t a different ceremony where cameras would have been plentiful. What a picture it was to see him there holding a coat over his head while his soaking Tonto tried to cover his holstered gun with both hands. I still don’t know whether that was out of respect or just to keep it dry.

To cap it all, there had been two druids officiating. The local one and one who introduced himself as being from the college. A cousin works there and had asked him to come along to make a big show I reckoned. He came up to me at the graveyard as we waited for the crowd to arrive and shook hands. He had only spoken to my mother a few times but said she was a wonderful woman and seldom missed his morning mass in the college. We came close to ordering a second grave when I told him she’d never went to mass there. Another woman of the same name always did though, and still does as far as I know. Once again I looked distraught and about to cave in. It is next to impossible to carry a coffin when your shoulders shake and tears well up trying to stifle the laughing.

If you think this is weird, wait ’til you hear about weddings in our clan. Or weirder still, my other encounters with the cops.

Young Barry asked me if I’d sell him my car. It’s old, but unlike me, is well looked after and has such low mileage I’m often asked if I’ve had it clocked. I haven’t. It’s just that I don’t use it unless I really have to. Barry knows that, hence his interest.

He explained he wanted a car to get to school. Why, I wondered, given the bus picks him up right outside his house and drops him a 2 minute walk from school. And all for student fare. Why would he want the expense of running a car. I assumed peer pressure and a teenage male’s natural inclination to show off. No, he was just pissed off at getting home at 5:00 or later when school finished at 4:00. An hour or more to travel 6km, because the buses are always late and sometimes don’t turn up at all.

I suggested he use his bike. Or at least stop looking up the road - a watched bus never boils.

But he’s right about the buses. I know others who make the same short journey for work and all have dispensed with the services of Bus Éireann for the same reason.

I was offered a 6 month contract based at Eastpoint Business Park a short time ago. Before accepting I did a few trial runs. Bus, train, Luas, combinations thereof - I didn’t even think of using the car. The quickest return trip was 3 and a half hours for less than 30km. I turned down the contract.

It is no wonder that rural and semi-rural dwellers shun public transport even when it is available.

A number of initiatives are in place to encourage public transport use. Some are excellent such as the full tax relief available for monthly and annual travel passes. Others are stealth taxes dressed up as disincentives such as exorbitant parking fees. Others are just plain stupid. Quality bus corridors (QBC’s) that are unused - they are not on a bus route. Reducing the number of parking spaces in towns to discourage cars - rural dwellers have no where to leave their cars when they take the bus. Small unsecured carparks at train stations. Can you think of more?

What one hand giveth and the other taketh away.

The Central Statistics Office published figures yesterday showing that, including those who drive work vehicles, 65% of the population drive to work. And those involved in the various authorities wonder why.

The elections are done and dusted. We have a new government. Sorry, I mean the same one again, led by Il Duce, Bertisconni. Sorry again, I mean created by Bertisconni. The Greens got a coat of paint as soon as they sat down at the cabinet table; the PD’s got a ministry despite being shunned by the electorate; a bankrupt has had her little problem fixed by a state owned organisation and was invited back into the clique.

Ah well, it’s all over and it’s safe to go into the hallway once more. No more piles of junk mail from candidates to greet me in the mornings.

Wait! There is more junk mail. I forgot all about the senate elections. 24 candidates looking for my vote for 3 NUI seats. If you don’t know what the senate does, doesn’t do, and how it is elected, read Kathy Foley’s latest post, originally printed in the Sunday Times. Actually, even if you do know all about Seanad Éireann, go read it anyway - you deserve something better than the drivel you’re reading here.

Now here’s a my dilemma: I don’t believe the upper house (yeah, funny the way they call it that) should be abolished. It can have a role as watchdog. So I want to see it reformed. But I am extremely uncomfortable with the way it is elected. I am honestly embarrassed that I have a vote while hundreds of thousands of other citizens don’t.

So should I vote? If I don’t, then I am not exercising my franchise. If I do, will it make a difference? Can the senate be changed from the inside? Unlikely. And if I do vote, who do I vote for? 19 of the 24 candidates have sent me junk mail. (Thanks for that lads - I really needed more filling for my recycle bin). But all I know about most of them is what they managed to fit on their blurbs.

Here’s a taste of what/who is on offer:

Tina Lowe - Vows to improve the way Ireland treats the disabled, especially in the area of education opportunities. Okay, Tina, you’re on my possibles list.

Liam Crowley - Sorry lad, your blurb doesn’t entice me to find out more about you. Boring!

Dr. John Hillery - Lovely shot of you chatting to good looking young people. Just like the ones Bertisconni had … hold on, you’re one of Bertisconni’s lapdogs. Bugger off!

Martin Hogan - “I am running as an independent … I have the endorsement of the Green Party”. Confusing me now, Martin. And you’re daughter’s called Chantel! Poor child. You can bugger off too.

Fergal Quinn - Ah here, don’t be annoying me.

Brendan Price - Likes seals. Biblical quotes and images on the blurb - No way, Brendan

John Kennedy - Looks like Leonardo de Caprio. That’s enough. Bugger off.

Daniel Sullivan - Wants a vote for graduates from universities other than NUI and TCD. Good man, Dan. Hold on, how about a vote for every single citizen?

Susan Philips - Wonderful brochure. Must have cost you a few bob? Ah shur you can afford it. Multi-culturalism an opportunity? Depends on which cultural practices you want me accept. No, you’re off my list. Sorry.

The voting papers arrived yesterday. And what do I see on the list but a lad with a big droopy moustache wearing a trilby. Yeah, no messing, he’s got a hat on in the picture. I didn’t know that was allowed - it’s not on your passport. Mark Connelly didn’t send me junk mail and he doesn’t have a website, so I can’t tell you anything about him. And I can’t show you what he looks like - but think of a cross between Bock’s Boys at the blog awards and Willie Power in RTÉ’s Killnaskully. If it comes to it, he’ll get my vote just for taking the piss out of the whole thing.

A few months ago I was having a few problems with my Internet connection and popped off a text to Andrew who runs the service. Normally, I’d get a text or call back immediately to let me know what the issue was, what was being done and when it he reckoned it would be fixed. But this time the text read I’m away. Call their support on 08x-xxxxxxx.

I assumed this meant call the company who provide the backhaul. It wasn’t. I got through to a west Brit accent who gave his name as Robert. Nothing else. No surname. No company name. Just Robert. He did however tell me my ISP had been taken over by the outfit he worked for and they were trying to integrate the two services but were having difficulties.

Over the following weeks, from another couple of calls to Robert and a lot of detective work I discovered the main difficulty: Andrew had had a business partner who somehow owned a greater share despite investing less capital. This partner had sold the business out from under him. (I can’t say much more as I just learned a court case is in the works. I really wish I could, and I will as soon as I can, because it will shock you. Trust me. I’ll be able to use the real names for individuals and companies then too). I also learned Robert’s second name and the name of the new company. Well part of it.

I couldn’t find a website and searching the Companies Registration Office website yielded little as I had only part of the name. No ISP with a similar name was listed on the Kildare.ie Network, on the Government broadband site or on any of the private listing-sites. My IP was still showing as Andrew’s company, however his website had been closed down and displayed only the Apache welcome page. This bit bugged me as I could no longer access my account info or log a support ticket. Plus I had been using Andrew’s SMTP server for outgoing mail and this was now unreliable.

Robert no longer took calls or answered texts. The money was coming out of my account each month but service was, to put it bluntly, as reliable as a baby’s arse. I had no-one and no where to complain to.

Before you ask the obvious, no, I couldn’t switch to a different provider. It isn’t possible. The local exchange was broadband enabled a while back but I am too far from it. Satellite is not within my budget and anyway it is, to use the technical term, total crap. Wireless was the only option and Andrew’s transceiver was the only one within reach. Kudos to the man, he didn’t charge a premium knowing this.

Yesterday I ran my checks again. My IP was registered to Robert’s company. Easy to find a website then. My joy was short lived. A 2 page site showing a welcome message, a coverage map and an email address. But at least I now have an email address and know the name of the company I’m dealing with. Better still, I have an address and landline number for the guy who registered the website, so if Robert still refuses to respond to calls, he is going to get calls from me, and I don’t care what time of the day or night that will be. I will be asking/demanding three things: invoices for what I paid since they took down Andrew’s site and disabled online billing; the return of stable service and tech support; a rebate for the months of suffering the equivalent of dialup speeds.

This has to be strangest situation I have ever been in. Not knowing who was providing my service. No-one willing to offer information, no even names - Andrew because of a policy of non-cooperation and Robert for reasons unknown.

Adding my support for Damien in his case (or lack of cases) against Sky Handling Partners.

And again, seeing as he has received a legal letter from them asking that he take down the post.

• The is another great thing about rain I’d forgotten - Badly needed. It’ll keep the dust down. Despite there being builders here six days a week, the gaff is clean for a change. For anyone interested, the foundations are in and blocked up to floor level. The filling will go in a couple of days and the floors poured early next week. Floor level = 0.3m at one corner and 1.8m at the opposite! I never realised the ground dropped off so steeply until now. Probably explains my mountain-man-like gait.

• As I mentioned before, I had to move the dog’s kennel. He has flatly refused to use it since. Even during the heaviest of downpours the only shelter he will take is on the leeward side of the car. On these occasions I, in turn, have flatly refused to engage in belly-tickling and neck-ruffling - It is no wonder wet dog never made it as a perfume label. Even though eau de toilet is the favoured tipple of many a dog.

• Animals are great (except fekin cats). Out for a walk yesterday I came as close to a fox as I ever have. About from here to that wall over there. Really! That close. I was hidden by a hedge and downwind so she couldn’t get even the faint whiff of chien mouillé off me. She mooched about in the grass, probably for evidence of a rabbit run, then turned and took a leak over the bank into the stream. Leak, I said, not leap. I’ve never heard of that before. Can any zoologist/naturist/foxocologist out there tell me if this is a common way of not leaving scent?

• On the way home I got one of those thick support calls from a neighbour. The anti-virus thing says I have to renew my subscription. Should I do that or switch to another? You said there was a one that’s cheaper and just as good. Remind me: Which one have you now? A yellow one. Colour-coded software could be the next big thing.