It was the mid-nineties and I was working for large multinational. I had won a prize for being absolutely brilliant or something. Being the heady days of the dot com boom, the prize was equally heady. Myself and the other absolutely brilliant employees from all around Europe and the Middle East were to be brought to London for a weekend where we would be presented with our awards and collect nice fat cheques.

Then the IRA went and blew up Canary Wharf. The company decided London was too dangerous and the venue was switched to Edinburgh. It would be bad press to have your absolutely brilliant employees killed and wouldn’t make a lot of economic sense either. Edinburgh suited me much better anyway - the beer would be drinkable.

The itinerary went like this:

Friday afternoon: Fly to Edinburgh. Limo from airport to fancy hotel. [Grand. Friday off work and paid]

Friday evening: Wine & cheese reception. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday morning: Shopping trip. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday afternoon: The matinée of a musical. [I'd find a bar near a bookies]

Saturday evening: Gala dinner. Business-casual dress. [What was that about? I'd find the bar]

Sunday morning: Sightseeing tour. [I'd find a bar. Get a cure]

Sunday afternoon: Limo to airport. Fly back home. [Bollix! I'd have to work Monday]

I hadn’t even left Ireland before I made the first cock-up. I queued for 45mins at the Aer Lingus check-in only to be told that I needn’t have bothered - I had a first class ticket. I’d never had a first class ticket before. Not even on a train. This was going to be great.

I was ushered onto the plane first. This was going to be great. They gave me a newspaper. Offered pillows and sweets and stuff. An absolutely stunning girl was next to board and sat beside me. I introduced myself: I’m an absolutely brilliant employee. You’re an absolutely stunning girl. She laughed. Not surprising - women always laugh when they see me first. We got chatting and she told me she went to Edinburgh nearly every weekend to visit her sister. I got the whole story on the best restaurants. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She told me what shows were playing. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She listed all the must-see attractions. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She didn’t but would find out.

A chauffeur greeted me at the airport with a sign saying Mr. P. Sneeze. Peaked cap, black gloves, the works. He insisted on carrying my bag and opening doors for me and calling me sir. This was going to be great.

The hotel was amazing. The room was more of a suite. On the desk there was a note from the company welcoming me and an envelope with my ticket for the musical. I tossed that in the bin. On the bed was a gift from the company - a picnic hamper. But not a Yogi Bear one. This had a really soft tartan woollen rug, a radio that could even pick up aircraft frequencies, a bottle of champagne, Waterford Crystal glasses, binoculars and I can’t remember what else. I suppose it was intended for those who like to picnic at exclusive airports.

It was nearly time for the cheese and wine do in the lobby. I rang down to reception and asked them to tell the bosses I wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. And then I asked if the hotel had a back door. I found a bar.

The next morning there was a message for me at reception. I called the number. It was the girl from the plane with directions to a pub near a bookies. Highly recommended by the locals. Would she be there? No, she was going to the big musical. Ah fek, I could’ve given you a ticket - I had a free one and threw it away.

I met up with another two absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland at breakfast. Was I feeling better? Was I going shopping with them? Yes, much better (except for a hangover). And no, all my shopping was done. I had a lovely rug for the mother. A radio for the father. Waterford Crystal for the sibling. Champagne for the Sneeze’s squeeze. Binoculars for her dad. Ya cheap bastard, Primal. Would you not have given your mum the whole basket and bought more stuff for the others? The ma doesn’t like airports, I explained. And anyway I was skint and my budget only ran to alcohol.

So what was I doing for the afternoon now that we weren’t being taken to the show? We’re not? Why? The last minute switch from London meant it was too late for them to buy us tickets. That’s why they put £100 cash in the envelope instead of tickets. They fekin’ what? Oh, Christ! This wasn’t going to be great.

I raced back up to the room. The bin was empty. I ran down the hallway, around the corner and slammed straight into a rather portly lady in a blue pinny. Was it yourself cleaned room 404? (I should have known that number would bring bad luck). It was her. You did a great job. Now just bear with me for a minute. This is an emergency. I upended her trolley and rummaged through the pile for my envelope. I planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and danced back down the hall waving the cash in the air and whooping like, like a thing that whoops. All I could hear behind me was bloody Irish. They’re all mad.

Maybe this was going to be great after all.

It went well. By my standards anyway. I hid the car around the back, locked the front door, turned off the lights, phone and radio, and settled down to work. It’s surprising how much you can get done without distractions. I left word with the dog to tell any neighbours who called to invite me for Christmas morning drinks that I was indisposed. That’s a big word for a small dog and he may have told them I was gone or away or both.

I made one brief foray into the outside world that day. Just to see Seán open his presents. There was a power cut right then and the wee man, having experienced as many power cuts in his short life as I have noses, knew what to do - he fetched candles. It didn’t matter that it was daytime - you don’t ever miss a chance to play with fire when you’re nearly 3.

Some of the wrapping was proving difficult to open but he knew what to - he fetched a scissors. It didn’t matter that there were three adults there to help - you don’t ever miss a chance to play with sharp objects when you’re nearly 3.

The Bob the Builder socks were well received as was the Gruffalo book set. The Buntús Foclóra created a whole new game - within minutes he had figured out the rules: When you have this book in your hands, dog is not doggie it’s madra; bike is not bike it’s rothar. His daddy scowled and kept muttering on about wasting time and money but I knew what to do - I sniggered and got Seán started on the numbers - you don’t ever miss a chance to piss off monoglots when you’re nearly 43.

Well that was it then. That was the highlight of the festive season. The following days are what I normally look forward to - the post-Christmas racing at Leopardstown. This year’s festival has been a disaster for me. Every single damn horse I backed fell. Every last one of them. I’m afraid to back again in case I am the cause of some poor jockey getting killed.

But in typical Irish fashion I have to look for someone worse off than me. If you’ve never used the expression ah shur, it could be worse then you are not Irish. When they bring in the language test for citizenship I bet that will be question one.

Luckily I found someone. A mickey-relation* of mine went to get out of car at work on Christmas Eve. She had just leaned back in to grab something off the passenger seat when there was an all-merciful clatter. A truck had taken the door clean off the hinges. Ah shur, it could have been worse - it could have taken me with it.

The insurance company were wonderful. They organised a garage to take the car and what was left of the door away. And they even gave her the loan of a car until her own is repaired. On Christmas morning her brother reversed his tractor into the side of it and made shite of the driver’s door. But she knew what to do - she rang the insurance and explained - ah shur, it could have been worse - it could have been me own car - you’d don’t ever miss a chance to defy logic when you’re nearly 23.

*For US readers: Related through marriage, not by blood.

I had to do it. What choice was there? If I didn’t buy my adopted nephews and nieces presents they’d never talk to/try to talk to/gurgle at/dribble on me again. So I hit the shops.

An Irish rugby jersey for Oisín. By the time the season kicks off he’ll fit into it. And a tee that says “Am I cute or what?”. An Irish language pictionary for his big brother - with a Gaeilge-phobic dad that’ll cause a stir. Oh, and of course the obligatory Robert the Construction Operative socks - complete with spanner shaped rubber grips on the soles. A book of Roald Dahl poems for another ‘nephew’. A really girlie pinky flowery thingy for making your own party invitations for his sister - her birthday’s in January. And so on until each would have something to wear or read and something to play with. Sort of Kinder Surprise without the chocolate and poorly dubbed voices.

The whole operation only took an hour and a half and that was in three different shopping centres. Not bad going. The only shop I had to queue for service was Eason, which says something about our nation’s love of reading. But what does it say about the economy?

I don’t know. I’m no economist. But I do know that 1½ hours is the quickest I’ve ever done the prezzie-run. Is it that there are so many shopping centres now that the buyers are spread out among them? Or are consumers cutting back this year? Are they short of money or just sick of buying crap non-stop the whole year long?

The ESRI would know, so I had a look at their website. Big mistake! Christmas is depressing enough without reading ESRI reports. “Growth to slow in 2008″. “Unemployment to rise”. And damn difficult to understand too: “Factory gates” and “gross national product”. Well if the products are that gross then I suppose the factory would have to be behind big gates.

Then I noticed something I would understand - the Consumer Sentiment report. Wrong again! It’s all figures. “The forward-looking sub-index weakened to 49.2 in November, from 58.4 in October”. What the hell is that about? I checked the archives and still more figures. If I was writing these I’d tell it like it is: “Mid February showed consumer sentiment to be soppy”. “In the heat of July consumers were horny”. “At Hallow’een consumers were scared”.

A jeweller I met tells me she’s having the slowest Christmas ever. Yesterday should have been mad busy in my local with most people finishing work for the holidays, but the manager had to send one of the staff home. My builder had a team of 16 working on 4 sites last June. As of yesterday he has just 4 and he’s trying to find things for them to do on the single site remaining.

I think the real test will be to ring around on Christmas morning and ask the kids what Santy brought. If the reindeer were tired this year and couldn’t carry much then we’ll know the true state of the economy.

I made this list. But I didn’t check it twice. So apologies for any errors.

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• An end to world hunger. No use to me. I’ll never be in a beauty pageant.

• Our troops home. The fekers went for a few pints on Tuesday and haven’t been seen since. Ah shur let them at it - they’re only young.

• World peace. No, changed my mind. How else would Americans learn geography?

• More time on my hands. Yeah, that might be nice. But I’d like some on my feet too. Maybe even a little on the spot behind the knee that doesn’t have a name.

• A token of appreciation, affection or one that I can use in supermarket trolleys. Maybe not. Any chance of a snog, a shag or a euro instead?

• A baseball cap that doesn’t have a logo. But they don’t make them do they?

• Something to do on the Internet that there isn’t an award for. Better be careful - I could win a logo to stick on my blog for thinking that up. See - Fekin logos again.

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No. None of the above. But how about this: What if all the folks who check in on this blog but never comment just say “hi”, “howya”, “g’day” or whatever they’re most comfortable with? Don’t say “happy Christmas” or you’re barred! So how about it lads? Go on, go on, go on. Ya will, ya will, ya will.

As the year comes to an end we all like to sit back in front of a blazing fire with a nice glass of wine and reminisce on the utter bollix we made of the last 12 months.

Last night, sitting forward (my chair’s broken) over a warm laptop (the fire went out) with a big mug of tea (the wine’s all gone), I began to think of all the folks who found this blog by making an utter bollix of searching the Internet. Some were genuine and just got messed up by Google’s incomprehensible indexing, but others, well what can I say except what the fek were they expecting to find?

 

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• Ah Christmas! Don’t you just love it? Grandad bemoans the fact that Christmas isn’t as it used be. At least it is still the season of robberies and road deaths. That’ll never change.

• Although the latest campaign by the Road Safety Authority might make a difference. In an innovative move they will be running TV ads - gory ones as you’d expect - but this time they’ll be factual accounts voiced-over by the those affected or their bereaved families. Two things are bugging me: Firstly, this is not innovative. The Ray D’Arcy Show did this on radio a couple of years back. The station aired them for free, Cawley Nea Advertising produced them for free and the RSA, well they said that’s all very lovely lads, but didn’t help at all. Secondly, on the launch day the ads were shown during Coronation Street and Fair City. Com’on lads! Is that your target audience? Auld ones who watch crappy soaps?

• Maybe the €15m collected in speeding fines this year will pay for the campaign. You know the ones I’m on about - the €80 a pop fines the Gardaí dish out on the carriageways and motorways where fewest accidents happen. Not the ones they hand out on the minor roads where most fatalities occur. Hold on a minute. What am I saying? They don’t police those roads. Silly me. Checkpoints on those roads wouldn’t pay. Maybe in lives saved it would but not financially and that’s what matters isn’t it.

• Which brings us on very nicely to robbery. The local bookies was robbed at Stanley-knife point at 17:40 Monday last. The local rag reports the man was wearing a hoodie (standard issue for robbers as I understand), 5th 8in tall (yes robbers still come in imperial sizes), around 20 years and spoke with a “local accent”. The last bit required some detective work on the part of the three brave unarmed uniforms that arrived at the scene 20minutes later and stood around outside until the three brave, presumably armed, plain-clothes arrived - apparently the two young female staff consider a Dublin accent to be the local one.

• Fekin ejit of a robber anyway. He must be an apprentice. Who’d bother holding up a bookies at that time of the day in winter when the racing is long over and the takings in the floor safe. He’ll never make the big time like this guy, and will never be as good as this guy.

• On a totally different note, I just now discovered a young lady called Laura Marling. I know, I know, I’m slow. Anyway, back to notes - Ms Marling has has them in abundance. Check out the video for New Romantic. It is the best I’ve seen in a long time. In fact, the best ever - I can say that - it’s my blog.