• Breakingnews.ie ran a piece yesterday that mentions 13-year-old Saoirse Ronan’s nomination for Best Supporting Actress in Atonement. It explores the life of writer Briony Tallis and looks at her character at three ages – 13, 18 and 77 – with separate actresses for each part. You would kind of expect that, wouldn’t you? Saoirse, with a life-long interest in acting, played the part of the young fledgling writer. Life-long? She’s only a child for fcuk sake! But thanks for letting me know she doesn’t play the 77-year-old - I’d been cheering on the granny until now.

• In other mejia: The Sunday Times reports on a study by the American Journal of Public Health that finds intelligent people are at higher risk of suffering from alcohol problems as they tend to have more stressful careers. I dropped into my local yesterday to be met with hoards of half-pissed t-shirts ranting on about their team’s success/being cheated by the referee - teams they have never seen other than on TV - and thought about inviting the folks from the American Journal to take a second look. It made me smile.

• Smiling wasn’t difficult as the weather this weekend put me in good humour anyway. Saturday was a balmy 15° with sunshine. (4.5 hours of sunshine to be exact). It was like spring. Every bird I seen had a sledgehammer in its beak. Off to erect a planning permission sign I reckon. Spring is definitely in the air. With the birds. Time for new beginnings. Over the next while a new category will appear on the blog: Poetry Middle. (I can’t fit it in a corner). All poetry will be plain and simple and in Hiberno-English and Irish. None of that Aosdána convoluted claptrap. And there’ll be no mention of young Nepalese boys.

• As a taster, and seeing as Saint Vaseline’s day is this week:

                Roses is red, violets is blue
                Some poems rhyme
                But this one doesn’t
                So it doesn’t

Many moons ago, my parents’ house was renovated by the County Council. As with all public authority works, it was put out to tender. The builder awarded the contract had worked as an accountant in the Council for many years. Whether he knew the ins and outs of the system, or simply knew people, is irrelevant - what he didn’t know was building.

Doors would be hung that wouldn’t close. They’d be rehung. The wind would whistle through the gaps. They’d be rehung. The Council’s clerk of works would come to inspect them and find substandard hinges. They’d be replaced.

Paint would have to be stripped off, a sealer applied and then repainted. Cracks would appear in the walls and be hastily blocked with fillers. They’d appear again, be refilled and reappear until eventually they didn’t show. And so on until finally everything were as per the specification laid down - or near enough - having been patched up so often, nothing could never be perfect without demolishing and starting from scratch.

He became known, even to Council engineers, as Frankie-four-times.

The Council continued to give him contracts even when he built a wheelchair ramp at their own offices - packed with dusty rubble instead of the hardcore requested, it collapsed within weeks. He redone it and moved on to his next job.

Next up, my generation - I’ve had builders in for months now^Δ. Like all good boys and girls I listened to my parents - didn’t take lifts with strangers; carried a clean hankie; polished the heels of my shoes; didn’t make faces in case the wind left me like that; said please and thank you and didn’t hire Frankie-four-times. He’s probably too busy with local authority work anyway.

The Hymac driver, Ritchie-right hired to dig the foundations, was more expensive than most. But no one had to lift a shovel to tidy the edges when he’d done. The sub-floor was laid and the service lines marked out meticulously with yellow paint. That took time, but the plumbers came the next day and laid the pipes in hours, not days.

The bricklayer too was a little expensive. But he left the gaps the plumbers and electricians would need in exactly the right places and the plasterers worked fast because the walls were plumb and square. A child could have put in the doors and windows thanks to the bricklayer’s skill - the installers didn’t have to take out a chisel.

Floor plans were drawn up in advance and the cabinetmaker didn’t have to cut a skirting board or have a power point moved to put in the fitted presses - the carpenters and electricians had everything laid out for him. The latter ran co-axial, phone and ethernet cable throughout despite my protestations that I don’t watch TV, use a mobile and have a wireless network - you might change your mind in the future and it’s cheaper to do it now. If that happens, it will all be there ready for you, the builder told me.

The tilers found everything level and a dream to work on. The painters had little filling to do, thanks to the work of the plasterers, carpenters and tilers.

Every evening, all rubble was gathered up and placed in a skip. Tools were cleaned and machines refuelled. Floors were swept. Wet work clothes were hung in a room with low heat. The following morning they’d arrive at 8:00 and be working at 8:01.

I have to admit there were occasions I was frustrated with the time it was taking and how much things were costing. Often I tried persuade the builder that something would do, it was fine, there was no need to be that particular, only to be met with a lecture about getting things right the first time. His belief was, if you start right, you’ll finish right. And he was right. I see that now. I should have seen it before - I knew that in 25 years as a builder, he has not once been called back to a single job. 25 years of happy clients. In 25 years he has never had to advertise or tout for work.

Such a contrast to the State-run work done for my parents. But then, that’s the way of things.

Years ago, the State built two trams lines into the capital. They didn’t meet! Now they are to be connected and will cost billions. A businessman offered to foot the bill to extend one line to Citywest and his offer was refused. Now the line is being extended and will cost billions. Why not spend an extra couple of billion now and extend it even further and build a park-and-ride facility 10 times the size that’s needed? Why not at least purchase the strip of land now that would be needed for this? Like the co-axial cable in my house it will be there if we change our minds.

Most civil engineering firms tendering for the M50 design contract proposed a spaghetti junction of flyovers and underpasses for the Red Cow exit, the busiest on the route, but no, a bridge with a roundabout, and later, with traffic lights, was built. The flyovers and underpasses are now under construction and costing billions. Why not build flyovers and underpasses on all roads now being built - just in case we need them in the future?

It’s not just in construction this patching up goes on. Our health service is a shambles costing billions and achieving little. Recently some hospitals stopped performing elective surgery for a period of months to cut costs. Surely bearing the cost of a patient undergoing a small operation and a short stay in hospital now is far less than that which will be incurred later should their condition worsen and they need to avail of A&E and/or a major operation and/or an extended stay.

Our road users are a joke, though not a very funny one. Hundreds die each year. Minor collisions happen every minute of every day, but we don’t know just how many or what the cost is. The State launches anti drink driving campaigns. The State brings in a penalty points system. The State adds more offences to the points list every year. The Gardaí can’t enforce them and even if they do catch a driver guilty of a number of infringements only the one with the highest point rating goes on their record. You can sit a driving test without prior instruction. You can fail that test, get back in a car and drive away. Now here are some mad ideas: Why not train learner drivers properly? Why not reduce policing on major roads and concentrate on the minor ones where most accidents occur? Why not clamp down on the driver who speeds in a 50km/h zone and doesn’t use indicators at roundabouts? The driver who obeys these simple rules is not the one who gets in the car full of drink and kills themselves - it is the one who is continually flouting the law.

I could go on. I could tell you about how, on the second year we had car-free day, everyone drove, including those who normally take a bus or train, because the previous year the public transport system couldn’t take the strain and people were stranded. I could tell you how a debit-card system is proposed whereby under 25s can only purchase a limited amount of alcohol over a given period. It is hard enough to judge a person is under 18 but how do you know a 25 year old? We have no national ID card system. What will be the cost of installing card readers in every outlet? Will the retailers bother to use them? I could tell you how approval was given to An Garda Síochána for a secure digital radio system in 1999. It may come into use in 2010, but until then, the one they have will do even though criminals can listen in.

I could go on ad infinitum. But I’m tired. I’m tired of the whole thing. I’m tired of the State failing to do things right first time. I’m tired of the State continually patching up problems but never fixing them properly. I’m tired of the State digging the foundations and letting sections collapse because it will do. It can be difficult to see so far ahead or make the connection, but if the foundations are right the painters will have no problems.

It may never happen, it will never happen, but I dream of the day when Ritchie-right is running my country and Frankie-four-times has been banished for ever.

»» In the list of top 20 programmes favoured by 20 to 44-year-olds, audiences are increasingly turning to Today FM. Half of the top 20 shows are Today FM shows – the Ray D’Arcy Show is number two with this younger audience after Gerry Ryan, who takes the top slot, with 248,000 and 327,000 listeners respectively. [Source: BCI-JNLR survey - November, 2007]

»» Ryan and D’Arcy are two of the biggest gobshites ever to blow spit into a microphone - There are 575,000 gobshites listening to spittle in Ireland in the 20 to 44-year-old age group. [Source: Primal Sneeze - February, 2008]

Ryan, I could never take seriously since the lamb episode. Of all the voices on the national airwaves, only Joe Duffy’s grates more on my ears, and his Oprahesque treatment of topics is the only reason I can see for his show running 3 hours instead of one. One minute. The man uses more unnecessary adjectives than you’d read in a schoolgirl’s essay.

D’Arcy. His show’s a bit like Viz - Not as good as it used to be. At least Viz coined the slogan and they pride themselves in it.

I admit to being a mad fan years back when Martin Maguire was the producer. I’m no longer a fan. Just mad. And everyone involved with the show seems to be a producer these days. Maybe it’s a case of too many cooks or maybe Martin was a strong leader and made D’Arcy toe the line. I don’t know. All I know is that I seldom turn on the radio in the mornings.

I did tune in briefly on Friday while in the car. D’Arcy was disgusted that anyone would use a towel a second time. That didn’t surprise me - he’s a girl when it comes to hygiene. Actually he is a girl, so I just giggled like a girl back at the radio. I make myself laugh sometimes.

The next earth shattering topic was the Irish for gloves. A listener, a tradesman, was working outdoors in a Gaeltacht village and needed to buy some urgently. Someone suggested lámhainní via text. Someone else suggested miotóga. Neither D’Arcy, who worked briefly with Radió na Gaeltachta, nor co-presenter Jenny Kelly, who was winner of TG4’s Ní Gaelgóir Mé, could pronounce them. Well they actually could, but feigned inability. D’Arcy has become more Gaelophobic over the years. Maybe he thinks it’s hip and cool, and is what his listeners want. But my blood boiled when they positively bubbled with mutual appreciation of their failing. Christ on a bike, it’s not that difficult! Law-v-knee. Mi(t)-toe-ga. There. Now you have them in pronounceable body parts.

For me, the camel’s back was well and truly bollixed long before Friday. His increasingly I’m-open-minded, as-long-as-you-believe-what-I-do attitude led to the dromedary’s demise. Christ on another bike, get a blog if you want to be like that, man!

I cried as the poor camel breathed its last in August when he interviewed fellow blogger, Niall O’Keeffe, about Shitedrivers.com. A radio presenter himself, and well used to speaking, Niall couldn’t get a word in. D’Arcy was convinced Shitedrivers.com would glorify joyriders and boyracers and that was it. Adolescents would upload videos of themselves doing doughnuts and such. Niall tried to explain the registration and moderation processes. No! D’Arcy knew all about the Internet (like John Waters does) and there would be an endless stream of kids lining up to do crazy antics for the camera. And how will the site help reduce road deaths? Niall tried explain that wasn’t its aim. No, no, no. D’Arcy knew it wouldn’t do any good - there’d just be videos of car stunts. How Niall didn’t rip the big bobble head off the midget I don’t know.

Niall wasn’t the first, nor was he the last, to be subjected to D’Arcy’s pontifications. If he wants to play pope and issue Papal Bulls, then fine, let him. Waters does it all the time. But the funny thing is D’Arcy genuinely believes he is a fair interviewer. He tells the listeners he is often enough. I think I gave so-and-so his chance. I just asked him the questions you, the listeners, wanted answered. How many times have I heard this? Why the bull to accompany the Bull? If he needs explain himself, then surely something is wrong.

As for the 327,000 gobshites listening to the other eejit, well, they’re a lost cause altogether - lambs to Gerry Ryan’s slaughter so to speak. More worrying, is that 248,000 247,999 of 20 to 44-year-olds in Ireland don’t seem to see anything wrong with Pope D’Arcy the First either.