The new County Council office for Kildare, Áras Cill Dara, opened a couple of years ago. You can see pictures of it here. Hailed as a monument to environmentalism, it has solar roof-panels to heat the water for the kitchen and washrooms. The air conditioning is by means of computer controlled louvres on the widows that control the flow of air throughout. The fact that neither the heating nor cooling system work properly is inconsequential as the building had already been awarded the Best Public Building award before this was discovered.

A close relation, Conor, worked there. As a wheelchair user, he was very impressed with the building. Large wide doors, shallow ramps leading from floor to floor instead of stairs, accessible lifts. There was even a staff entrance right where the disabled parking spaces were located. This was what he like most. Or rather, what his wife, Denise, liked most. She could get him from the car to the chair, up the lift and down the hall to his desk in minutes.

One morning they were running late and his wife was annoyed to see a large black car parked right across the disabled spaces. She found a regular space and with great difficulty, as anyone who ever assisted a wheelchair user in a confined space will appreciate, got her husband in the chair. Only when coming back across the carpark did they notice the Irish flag on the offending vehicle and a number of gardaí patrolling around. Oh, I forgot what day it is, announced Conor. It’s the official opening by President McAleese.

They were denied entry via the staff door by a garda. It’s locked for security reasons, he explained. She had to push him around to the other side of the building and up the long ramp to the public entrance. Quite a distance and uphill the whole way. They were met by a security guard who told them all staff must make their way to the Council Chamber to listen to the President’s speech. Now very late for work, his wife reluctantly agreed to take him. Too late for the speech also. The President was leaving the Chamber flanked by Council officials, local dignitaries, gardaí and photographers. Quick as she could, Denise slew the wheelchair around and backed into the side.

Not quickly enough. They had been spotted by the President of Ireland. All politicians, including presidents, are eagle eyed when it comes to photo-ops. She diverted from her entourage and strode over. This is Conor who works in Roads, said the County Manager. Great to meet you Conor, beamed the President. How do you like the new building?

The cameras were flashing. It’s grand, Mary. So what are you doing here anyway?

Eh, I’m opening the new offices, mumbled a bewildered looking president.

Oh great! Listen, while you have the keys on you, would you mind tipping down and opening the side door. My wife’s wrecked after pushing me around the long way. And while you’re down there, shur you might ask yer man in the big Merc to get the fek out of the disabled area.

The mast has broken. I am drifting aimlessly. There is no chance of rescue for another week at least. Supplies are running low. I am unable to send up flares. I fear for my life.

So the inevitable happened. The ISP I have been with for nearly 3 years now got into difficulties. I mentioned this before. One partner claims he put up most of the money for the business and did all of the work. He says the other attempted to sell the business behind his back while he was on holiday. The other asserts he skipped the country taking all the company funds. I know which to believe and the upcoming court case will be very intriguing, but that doesn’t help me right now.

On Thursday, the mast I receive my signal from, developed a fault. It will not be repaired. I have been without service since then.

Knowing that this would happen eventually, a neighbour and I requested line-of-sight tests from 3 other suppliers over a month ago. One responded. Just one. Well, two if you count the one who, after being badgered for a response, told my neighbour to “fuck off. You are just a small player. I have far bigger customers who are more important to me”. Customer service in Ireland is second to none.

The sole respondent has a 15 working day lead time advertised on their website. 20 days is what their automated phone line says. I called and explained my predicament on Friday. I pleaded to be pushed up the waiting list. They agreed and will be here on Friday morning.

Until then I am relying on friends and neighbours for Internet access. Not wishing to strain relations with any of them, I am limiting my visits to work related matters. After all, I have to put beer on the counter and will soon have a new ISP to feed. I’m afraid blogging is low on the priority list and will be restricted for the next while. I doubt I will even get to update Mo Rogha tomorrow. My apologies for not replying to comments and mail. Hopefully I will be back in cyberspace this time next week.

In other news, I burned my lip yesterday testing if the soup was hot. It looks ugly and hurts like hell. Life is far from good right now.

Only recently moved into the area he didn’t realise who he was dealing with. With a lopsided grin he remarked on old Bill Drennan’s ample beer gut - If that belly was on a woman you’d think she was pregnant.

It was. And she is.

Of all the characters I’ve known, Bill is the most colourful. Not because he is widely travelled, well read, a linguist. He is none of these. But he is the quickest wit. He is in his early nineties now and confined to bed in a nursing home but he can still cut you down to size with his quips.

He was a legend in the locality. Before he had to go to the home he knew every man, woman and child by name. And they knew him. No-one would pass him on the street without stopping for a chat. As he grew old, everyone looked out for him.

He was a martyr for the drink so he needed more looking after than most. His next door neighbour would cook his meals and stand over him to make sure he ate. She would patrol like a customs officer, confiscating any alcohol we tried to smuggle down the laneway past what he called the dry line. Some of us hated seeing him going without his drop and concocted various schemes. A half-bottle of Power’s Gold Label concealed in a Pringles container worked for me until the customs officer developed a taste for sour cream & onion.

As with most characters, Bill was at his best in the pub. That is where his victims were most relaxed and let their guard down. A barmaid, a large girl to put it mildly, introduced him to her new boyfriend, an equally heavy individual. Well the handicapper got it right for once. On another occasion the same barmaid was leaning over the counter blathering away to an unhappy customer - unhappy, as while normally a welcome sight, her ample bosom was obscuring his racing page. He asked if she would remove her bouncy castles off his paper. Bouncy castles me arse. Fekin hanging baskets them.

Great with his hands, Bill was seldom stuck for work. When he was young the main employers were farmers and he spent many years with one of the bigger landowners in the area, Dan Coughlan. At meal times, Mrs. Coughlan would dish out enormous quantities of potatoes and turnips to the men. The meat would then be served - one slice for each worker but the farmer’s plate would be piled high. On his (unintended) last day in the job, Bill couldn’t hold back when Dan made the same remark he made every mealtime - Oh ho lads, ya can hear the bull roaring in that. Well it’s not for the want of fekin jayzez turnips he’s roaring.

Later the main employers were builders. Repairs were being made to the sewerage system up at the big house. Bill was dispatched to speak to her Ladyship. Cap in hand he relayed the message. We’re starting work on the pipes now, ma’am. We’d be grateful if you’d refrain from using the facilities until further notice. We apologise for the disturbance, but it is quite necessary. We hope you understand, ma’am. The pipe from the top floor was being dismantled when it became obvious her Ladyship had ignored the request. Two men were being hosed down while Bill was dispatched again. I thought I told ya not to shite, ma’am. Do it again and I’ll ram this shovel so far up your arse ye’ll craping crooked for a month.

I know it’s not true, but I always like to think the character Fr. Jack Hackett in the Father Ted series was based on our Bill.

It was 1989. The year two walls came down - the big one in Berlin and the small one Pat Gleeson built for his mother. I wasn’t around to see Mrs. Gleeson’s collapse but I was in Germany for the other one. I will never forget that day as long as I live.

On the afternoon of November the 9th we were hitching a machine to the tractor when my unable assistant removed the safety stays too soon and my hand got jammed. Nothing broken, but one finger was split wide open.

It was obvious I needed a half dozen stitches or so. The boss’ wife, Maria, would drive me. Now Maria, a Californian of immigrant parents, was a stunning woman. A incredibly beautiful Latina. She was also incredibly fluffy-headed. She didn’t smoke dope - she didn’t need to. Her body somehow produced it naturally, and in large quantities. She lived in a world of her own and was oblivious to what was happening around her. In summer she would wear a bikini while supervising the Turkish staff. This would cause an immediate strike. She’d cover up for a few days then forget and don swimwear again. (I admit we looked forward to Streiktag). Her morale boosting idea of beginning and ending each work day with hugs didn’t fly with the 60 Muslim women either, although we 4 horny Irish lads were willing to give it a go. Once she booked a flight home for one of us. He noticed the ticket showed Frankfurt-Heathrow. Can’t you take a bus from there? So you appreciate I was apprehensive that I would be in her care.

In the car I asked for her thoughts on the developments in Berlin but she switched the conversation to her theories about when a woman is most ready for sex and how a man can tell. If I didn’t know her better I would have taken it as a come-on.

We pulled up outside an office with Frauenarzt over the door. Do you have an appointment with the gynaecologist, I asked. No. You need a letter from a doctor to be seen at the hospital. Thursday is their half-day and this is the only one open in the town. Oh, right so. Hey, Primey. Maybe you can practice detecting women’s cycles. There’ll be a lot of women here.

Naturally the chattering ceased abruptly when I entered the waiting room. The ever helpful Maria announced it’s okay, girls. He doesn’t speak much German so you can talk away. He’d like to look at you though. He’s learning about women.

After 20 of the most embarrassing minutes ever we left with the letter and headed to the hospital. Sniggers from the receptionist when she seen who penned the letter. Maria wouldn’t let up as we waited. What about the receptionist? I reckon not. Right on, Primey. You’re getting the hang of this. A nurse was coming in and out of the surgery. What about her then? Eh, a yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. She’s a definite. She needs a man right this minute. I can sense her need. It’s so strong.

I was called in. 5 stitches and the doctor left the nurse to finish up. She was trying to explain something I knew was important as she administered the anti-tetanus but I didn’t understand and suggested she ask Maria to translate. As I was pulling up my trousers Maria walked in. She clapped and jumped up and down and squealed in delight. See, Primey. I told you. I knew it. She was sooo in need of a man. Aren’t you the lucky one. Then she gave the bewildered nurse directions to the farm and promised her I would be allowed time off work the next time she was in need. Rather than have to face going back there I took the stitches out myself.

• There are a couple of new blogs on the block which are worth keeping an eye on. MacKozer has set-up a new photoblog to cater for his non-Irish work. Don’t go rushing over there yet though - he needs time to upload stuff. In the meantime, you could have a look at his current photoblog. With these, and the work he does for Carlow.pl, Nenagh.pl, his band and more, this man has more sites on the go at any one time than John Sisk, SIAC and Ascon put together.

• And thanks to Mac, I have begun reading Lina Žigelytė’s new blog, Emigration etc. Lina is a Lithuanian journalist living in Dublin. Her blog is the subjective rantings from a journalist stuck in a wine shop. The frustration of not working in her own profession shows clearly. For me, it’s a crying shame - this lady can write. She gets this week’s spot in Mo Rogha.

• In other news, we had no rainfall for a full 10hour stretch yesterday. None. Unbelievable. It was the first day in 45 I didn’t take an umbrella with me. Number-junkies out there might like to check out the figures on the Met Éireann site. The average Irish rainfall for June is just over 50mm and just under for July. This year there were 130mm in June and 120mm so far in July. I like rain. Just not this much.

• The Eolaí lad has gone and set himself up on MySpace. I’m not sure that I want to get into the MySpace thing myself - look what happened when I decided to play with blogging technology for a couple of days - just to see how it worked. But it works for Eolaí. MySpace is perfect for music and art. Caoimhín Ó Raghallaigh’s wonderful Rhythm of Her Toes is playing on there now and the dog is not impressed. He doesn’t take well to trad. Which is strange, him being from the west Cork Gaeltacht.

• Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, Eolaí setting up reminded me of another MySpace site I check regularly - My neighbour, Heidi Talbot’s. Pop over there and have a listen. She has the voice of an angel and body that brings out the devil in me. Christ, her mother would have my guts for garters if she knew I said that, so no-one tell her. Heidi is based in the US but works globally so you can all get to see her live. Keep an eye on her tour dates.

It rained today. Nothing new there. This is the 44th consecutive day of Ireland’s monsoon season. It rained heavily as I walked up the street and within seconds the road was flooded. Irish drains weren’t designed for a monsoon. Still nothing new. A white van sped by and soaked me from the waist down. I mean soaked. Still nothing new. Irish drivers, especially ones in white vans, delight in spraying pedestrians.

But today was different. I watched the van’s brake lights come on. It pulled into a carpark down the way. The driver got out and came running back in the teeming rain without so much as a baseball hat. He was all apologies. He was insisting on driving me home so I could change.

I was in shock. I have been soaked by motorists many times before and I’m sure I will again, but none have ever stopped and said sorry. The most I ever got was a weak wristed wave, barely visible in the distance through a back window. The wankers!

I declined his offer. Asked if I could give him a good kick in the bollix just to make things even. And we had a good laugh.

Anyway. This is today’s third post. Why three? I normally do one every three days. Well today is my blog’s first birthday and it deserves to be spoiled a little.

Blogs can’t drink. Unless you count getting alcohol induced/inspired comments/posts. So I’m off to celebrate for it. Thanks for reading this muck the past twelve months and for all your comments.