A cool creamy pint of Guinness. You can’t beat it. I suppose that makes me a stereotype Irish male.

A cool creamy pint while watching your horse win. Better still. That makes me a stereotype Kildare man. A love of national hunt and a disdain for the flat means I’m a north Kildare stereotype.

But here’s the snag - I love the rain. I’m Irish. I’m supposed to hate it. I’m supposed to bitch about it constantly. Even when it’s not raining. I’m supposed to say shur anything’s better than the rain when it gets so hot that I’m sweating like a priest in a playground; when it gets so cold that monkeys are pleading for welders; when it gets so windy that a tinker’s wife can rest easy; when it gets so foggy that nose tips are the horizon.

On Saturday evening I had a winner, a cool creamy pint, great company and it was raining. Heaven on a high-stool.

The problem was we couldn’t reach consensus what kind of rain it was. If the Inuit can have 40 words for snow (which they don’t by the way) then we should have at least 20 for rain.

It wasn’t a cold, icy or sleety rain. That was obvious. They are for winter which is when the heavy, pelting, driving, bucketing rains comes. It wasn’t a sudden shower because there were more than one. It wasn’t a continuous downpour because it took breaks. Probably a union thing.

It couldn’t be a spring rain as it’s now summer. But it wasn’t a proper summer rain either. That’s a warm rain. We volunteered someone to stay outside for 10 minutes to verify this scientifically. We wanted to tie a thermometer to his wheelchair but couldn’t find one so it wasn’t as scientific as we hoped. But we trusted Peter’s judgement.

Anyway, summer rain can be sub-classified into light, drizzly or dripping and it was none of these. Sub-sub-classes of these like misty and combinations such as light drizzle were automatically ruled out.

And it definitely wasn’t a sun shower because the sun hadn’t appeared in over a week. We didn’t have to even consider a hay-maker. That’s light, warm, short and sweet like a barmaid’s birthday kiss.

It wasn’t a depressing rain. We had all had a winner or two. And a pint or two.

The only thing to do was put Peter out again. Just for 5 minutes this time. His wife was collecting him shortly. We checked him with our vast array of scientific instruments - fingers, betting dockets, phase-tester. He wasn’t electrically charged. He wasn’t too warm. He wasn’t too cold either. Well not that cold. But he was wet. Very wet. Betting dockets stuck to him and turned to mush instantly. So that was it. It was wet rain.

That was that solved. Better still, we all (except Peter) decided we actually do like the rain. So I may actually be a stereotype after all.

• There is something special about a great story read by a great voice. Such is the case with Bock’s, The Sailor, read by the late Jock Hunter. Listening to it, the adult I am supposed to be kept trying to work out the deeper meaning, the hidden message, but the child in me won out and I just sat back, closed my eyes, let my imagination take over and allowed myself to be carried on its magic.

• I add links to my Blog Picks now and again. Sometimes I drop one, usually because the site is not being updated. I hate blogwebs. Feel free to add me or drop me from your site. I don’t make money from this site so the number of hits I get doesn’t bother me in the slightest. In fact I’m still wondering why I am still doing something which began as a short term experiment merely out of an interest in the technology. Such is the way with addictions.

• The links added today are DerFen and Seanachie. Both deserve an apology: derfen is labelled DerFen because all lowercase doesn’t fit the style of my Blog Picks and The Pleasures of Underachievement labelled Seanachie as it’s just too long.

• You all love TV and radio ads? Yeah? Some are better than the programming. My personal favourites are the Amstel ones. You can view them on their site or just do a search on Youtube. Crap beer - great ads though. I recently met one of the lads who acted in them and it was more exciting than the time I met Bono and De Niro.

• Ads are particularly welcome when good programming goes bad. The normally excellent Nationwide on RTÉ1 this week did just that. A piece about unemployment in Killybegs had a travel agent whining that the highly skilled youth (welders, fitters, carpenters) of the area were being forced to emigrate to Australia to find work. Why wasn’t this woman asked why weren’t they moving to Belfast, Derry, Dublin? Are they not going to Australia simply out of choice? The interviewer also allowed one man to gloss over the fact that Killbegs is in this situation due to (likely illegal) overfishing.

• Bertie elected Taoiseach. Bertie went to Áras an Uachtaráin to get his seal of office. Bertie went back to Dáil Éireann. Bertie announced his cabinet. The cabinet went to the Áras to get their seals. I was thinking wouldn’t it be better to have Mary McAleese pop down to Kildare Street instead of the whole government travelling back and forth. Then I heard that the two Green ministers would be cycling to the Park. Wonderful. What a picture - Two bucks on bikes with Garda motorcycle outriders. But it rained, so everyone took the bus over to Mary’s for tea and seals. Well, I think they did - There’s a pic of Mary Harney getting off a bus outside the Áras - I assume it wasn’t just for her.

Shock horror, cried this week’s papers. 101,000 drivers on Irish roads are on their 3rd, or subsequent, provisional license. Shock horror my arse! The dogs on the street knew that. Let me rephrase - the dogs on the footpath knew that - they are too smart to walk out on the street.

For non-Irish readers who want to know what is meant by a provisional license, or simply want to have a good belly laugh at an unbelievably stupid approach to learner driver licensing, take a quick look at the Dept. of Transport explanation.

The previous/current (which is it anyway?) government have been spouting rubbish for years about reducing waiting lists for driving tests. Clear the backlog. What would that achieve? What is the logic? Mary gets to take the test and passes. Great. It proves Mary is a capable driver. But she was a capable driver in the lead up to her test. She didn’t suddenly become one on the day. Joe takes the test and fails. He isn’t capable of driving. Simple as that. He isn’t capable of driving. One more time - he isn’t capable of driving. But what happens when Joe is given a piece of paper with FAIL on it? He drives (yes, drives) down to the local authority office and buys himself another provisional license. Now get this - if he is applying for a 3rd or subsequent provisional he can get a 2 year one. Work that out: Joe has failed the test twice. He isn’t capable of driving. But he is allowed on the road for another 2 years.

Joe must have a fully licensed driver accompanying him. Makes sense. But if Joe is on his 2nd provisional he doesn’t. Explain that to me. Joe must display an L sign on the front and back of his car. He cannot drive on a motorway.

Now Joe, lives in Newbridge and works in Dublin. He uses the M7 and M50 motorways each working day. Like the thousands of others in similar circumstances he takes down his L signs - he might be pulled by the cops on the motorway if they seen them. Joe’s father accompanied Joe a few times as the fully licensed driver, but he can’t travel to work with Joe every day. In fact, his father was really only ever in the car with him while he was teaching Joe how to drive. Joe never took lessons from a professional - they were expensive and anyway, he doesn’t have to under law.

So we have two major things wrong here. Firstly, the licensing system is a mess. It hasn’t changed a whole lot since the days when you just walked into the post office and bought one across the counter. The pathetic restrictions which are in place, are seldom never enforced. Drivers like Joe get stopped at the odd checkpoint and the cop glances at the tax, insurance and NCT discs and waves him on. Never is he asked for his license so he can continue on his way with no L signs, on a motorway and with no fully licensed driver in the passenger seat.

[ As an aside: What Joe fails to realise is that by not complying with these restrictions he is not insured. Uninsured. Just like the boyracers who fail to check the box on the insurance form which asks has the vehicle modifications/adaptations to increase top speed, performance or acceleration. Uninsured. This is something else those who draw up statistics ignore, as do the government who (should) act on them. Uninsured is usually calculated based on the number of cars registered less the number of people insured. ]

The media, government, AA, Gardaí, MADD and so on bombard us with statistics on road deaths. Fine. I’m okay with that. It is truly horrific and needs to be kept in the public’s mind if it is ever to improve. But we never see statistics on the number of minor incidents bandied about in this way. I’m talking about shunts and scrapes. Has anyone ever dinted your car at the supermarket because they can’t park? Do you know how much it costs for a new wing? Have you ever seen a car buried in a ditch because it was only a Micra and the driver was trying to take a corner at 70km/h because that’s the speed daddy takes it in his Mazda 6? Have you seen cars with the front battered in because the driver was just 5m behind a truck which had to brake coming to a corner - a corner the car driver couldn’t see because they were too close to see around the truck? I could go on. These cost billions every year. Billions.

I’m not blaming provisional drivers solely. But they have to play a part. Especially if they have failed their test many times. Most so called fully licensed drivers just got lucky on the day of the test. Others perform just for the test and ignore the rules thereafter. Many get no professional instruction whatsoever. There are advanced driving courses that can be taken. as with regular lessons there is no obligation to do them under law. Stranger still, what we call advanced lessons are the basic compulsory requirement in most other developed countries.

The last government never seen the bigger picture. (Their only answer was to reduce test waiting times). I doubt the incoming one will either. Their posturing about zero alcohol, 1litre engine size restriction and so on is merely patching a system which needs to be redesigned from scratch. Some of what they are proposing is simply not practical, the remainder will be unenforced as usual.

The week just gone was hectic as you may have deduced from there being no new posts by me. But, touch timber, things will go more smoothly from now.

All piping and wiring have been reconnected. Well nearly - when marking out the foundations we found that an electricity pole is sitting right smack on one corner. It has to be moved as the council won’t allow the wall plan to be changed even by the 4cm needed. It’s at times like this I curse GIS, theodolites and all that goes with them. In the old days the wall would have just been realigned by 4cm and no-one would’ve noticed. Actually it would have been a couple of inches.

And what a hot week. By Irish standards it was roasting. Mid to high twenties every day. The grass in the paddock, when flattened by the diggers, dumpers, jeeps and vans*, turned yellow within an hour. There were frequent brushfires caused by sparks from the angle grinder cutting the steel mesh for the foundations. Once the fire spread to the rubble pile which caused a flurry of excitement.

Bock warned me about the dust. But I didn’t expect it to be so all pervasive. Everywhere would seem clean until the light at sunset showed up a greyish film covering everything. Even in rooms that were closed all day. Clean it and the dust would be visible again at dawn. Why do photographers love the half-light when it shows up the dirt like that?

Don’t get me wrong - I’m not house-proud and wuzzie. The dust doesn’t really bother me in that way, but I do fret over what it’s doing to my computers’ innards.

The foundations went in on Saturday. Eight men,** two** with hangovers, laboured non-stop (stopping is not an option with concrete) from 8:00 until 14:00. The heat was bitched about often and these outbursts, without fail, followed up by a ah, shur we shouldn’t complain. It reminded me of when I was small and my mum screaming at me when I’d do something wrong: Jesus, Christ almighty, wait ’til I get me hands on ya, ya little feker was always appended with a God forgive me for cursing. In the Irish psyche, declaring a dislike for a hot day, like cursing, must be apologised for.

The builders’ day ended with them setting aside an area to take a load of sand later. Very impressive. Bordered on three sides by sheets of plywood with SAND painted in large letters on the one at the back. No delivery driver could make a mistake. A smaller sign was placed nearby: mine pipe. I had to know what one was, wouldn’t you? I don’t know whether the foreman or I felt the more stupid.

* Plus one boyracer vehicle complete with alloys, sub-woofers, spoilers etc. Every building site must have a boyracer vehicle.

** Includes one young lad. Every building site must have a young lad, perhaps it is law - Someone to drive the boyracer vehicle.

• Emptying the office is not going well. It has been raining household pets since 3am and the temporary storage container is 40m away. I hear you - it always rains in Ireland. Well, no, it doesn’t. That’s a myth. It only rains when you have washing on the clothes line, you decide to have a barbecue or you have to traipse back and forth from your office to a container carrying heavy boxes.
• UPDATE: The builders did great work yesterday. All service pipes and cables were dug up and rerouted. They plumbed their canteen and wired it up. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to replumb the house or office. No water or trout-tubes for either. I suppose I shouldn’t complain - I’m only the customer after all. The wankers!

  Right, I’m off to bug a neighbour. I need a shite, shower and shave. And coffee.

• Ireland is strange though. One of my favourite radio shows is very strange indeed. For example, it runs a competition on Friday mornings where callers play rock-paper-scissors with the DJ. The show’s highlight from last week was with bodhrán players Rónán Ó’Snodaigh and Cormac Lyons. You can listen to Duelling Bodhráns on iTunes. (A lot of blather at the start but it’s worth it in the end).

• A Polish friend told me Friday, June 1, was Children’s Day in Poland. Is it Children’s Day here too, she asked. No, I said, it’s bin day. She’s trying to decide if it’s just me that’s weird or the whole nation.

• I’m not sure myself. But if Ireland is weird, then Poland is catching up quickly. You probably heard they are assessing the children’s TV show, the Teletubbys, for possible homosexual overtones and it may be banned. But that’s not the only crazy thing going on there. Pop over to MacKozer for some truly frightening developments. And I mean frightening.

In case you thought my mention of an outbreak of Arsenia constructoris at my place was just a sly preamble to the joke, it wasn’t. I do have builders here and will have for about six months. The house is being extended. Effectively doubled in size.

As anyone who ever had a house built from scratch, like MacDara’s doing, will know, it is a major headache. But extending or renovating a house, with all the existing pipes and cables needing to be rerouted, is like having your scrotum squeezed in a Vise-grip by a Bulgarian arm wrestler whose mother you insulted. (Sorry, Igor, I was only joking. Really! She’s a lovely woman. The beard suits her).

In my case, every single cable and pipe, and even the boiler house and dog kennel, is exactly where the new structure has to go. Has to go, because the county council say so. Muppets!

To make matters worse, and make me sing castrato, I have one of those semi-permanent timber offices (not as fancy as the ones in the link, mind you). A great idea at the time - no planning permission needed, fully plumbed, heated, and best of all, quiet. I even have a little kitchen area with fridge, cooker, microwave, cat-skinner etc. You guessed it, it’s in the way too. Once emptied and all services disconnected, it can be shifted easily. Or so says Robert the Constructionist.

But, as you do, over the years I’ve managed to stuff it with books, DVDs, old computers, more books, vinyl, things I don’t know the names for. It is also an overflow wardrobe. Oh, and there are even more books, if I could find them. They might be buried under my neighbour’s wedding presents. (Don’t ask).

So there’s my long weekend gone. And I reckon Tuesday too. Robert the Constructionist has promised it will be relocated and all services reconnected by that evening, but I don’t believe him. As Fr. McNally always says, a builder’s promise is about as genuine as a whore’s kiss. How he knows about builders is beyond me, but I reckon he’s right.