Me wallet’s as empty as me grandfather’s grave.

Good fek! Don’t say grave robbers!

No. He’s not dead.

In a neighbour’s kitchen

I wrote on it with an indisputable marker by accident.

You mean indelible marker.

Yeah. But if you can’t rub it out it’s indisputable too. Right?

When the starter at Cheltenham calls another totally unnecessary false-start

Would ya look at that useless bastard. He wouldn’t start a row shouting “knacker” in a halting site.

A Fine Gael politician explains the history of Ireland’s economic woes on KFM Radio

The bankers and the builders were like two dogs in heat down an alleyway. What was needed was to throw a bucket of cold water over them. But no. What did the Fianna Fáil government do instead? They jumped in and made it a lurid ménage à trois.

No. Sold it. Sort of.

Fair play to him. Say he got a few quid for it – it was a monster.

Dead right it was. 11 by 4½ metres. And high too.

So what did he get for it?

Not sure if he got anything.

How did they get it out? A crane?

No. A bottle jack, a hammer, a stepladder and a sweeping brush.

What?

And a truck. Not that it helped much.

Weeks ago the builder rang to let me know he’d sold it. To a Mr. Ward. Mr. Ward would call me a few days before he would be collecting it to make arrangements.

He did. I have a lad with a lorry lined up to take that away, Boss. We’ll be there tomorrow morning. Half 3. If ye’d just leave the gates open we’ll work away. No need to be getting up or anything, Boss.

Damn sure I’d be getting up. I didn’t want the gates, car, fence, dog kennel, even the dog himself being taken away as well.

Mr. Ward arrived bang on 3. He was accompanied by his cousin, Mr. Ward, and a friend, Mr. Ward.

The truck arrived shortly after. Driven by a Mr. Ward.

It was like being in a hospital.

I had expected a crane, but no, the Wards didn’t see the need. A flatbed would do nicely. And how, I asked, are you going to get it down off the blocks it’s resting on without a crane?

A bottlejack, boss. We have a bottlejack.

And so began the process of raising each corner, pulling the blocks out and lowering again. One corner at a time. And how, I asked, are you going to get it up on the truck without a crane?

Drag it, boss. Drag it with a winch.

And so began the painfully slow process of inching the portacabin along the ground and up on the truck. It was like watching the spaceshuttle being transported from its hangar to the launchpad at minus-miles an hour.

The monotony was broken when Mr. Ward noticed an empty gas cylinder being dragged along behind. It was chained to the portacabin. Another Mr. Ward remembered he’d been given a key. But the padlock was seized. Mr. Ward (not the same one, eh, kind of obviously) had an idea. He took a hammer to it and with a couple of well placed strikes it popped off. Never fails, boss. The hammer never fails.

By now it was 6 and the traffic had begun to build. Mr. Ward waited for a break and edged the truck out the gate.

Disaster!

The flue from the gas boiler snagged the telephone wires. Worse, one wire had somehow flicked over and was caught behind. The truck could neither go forward not back. The road was blocked. The queues began to build.

We may just bull her on, boss. Break the wires.

You will in your brown, I said. I’ll end up paying for it. I won’t get away with it with all these witnesses.

Standing atop a stepladder I lifted the wires with a sweeping brush. The truck edged forward. The tail swing caught the ladder and I came crashing down. I tried again. Came tumbling down again.

By now a group of motorists had left their cars and were standing around offering advice. I thanked them as politely as I could: Would yez all just fuck off!

I’m late for work. Very late. I’m calling the Guards to get this road cleared, declared a cantankerous-looking middle-aged woman with her nurse’s uniform straining over her potbelly.

Ah don’t let her call the Guards, boss. Sure we’re supposed to have a permit for moving that, it’s so wide.

Now you tell me!

I convinced her she’d be better employed holding the ladder and she forgot about the men in blue (and yellow).

With the help of Florence Nighting-Grump, the lady with the lump, I got the wires freed, the truck rolled off, the traffic moved once more, and all was well with the world.

Or at least I thought it was.

The builder rang later. Yeah, it’s gone, I told him. A bit of a struggle, but it’s gone.

Good stuff. I’ll drop over in bit to get the money.

Eh, what money? I thought you’d been paid already …

Like all pub-talk, I expected it to die out and be replaced with a new fad pretty quickly. After all it had just recently replaced the “the Nigerians had ways to get into the [telephone] exchanges to phone home – that’s why eircom put new locks on them” and I expected the next to be something along the lines of “the Jews have their own men in every government – that’s why they’re getting away with what they’re doing in Gaza”.

I was wrong. Instead of dying out it resurged.

Siptu trade union official Michael Kilcoyne babbled about these “No Irish” signs to the media and suddenly it was transformed from pub-talk to news. The Irish Times, the Irish Independent and the Belfast Telegraph ran the story. It was a hot topic on the boards. Even on some blogs.

In defence of the newspapers and blogs they hinged their reports on the fact it was Mr Kilcoyne, a union official, that said it, not what he said. However, each piece I have read was written in such as way lend credence to what he said.

The boards on the other hand, despise them as the pub-talk of the Internet as I may, at least questioned what he said.

None of my Polish friends have ever heard of these “No Irish” signs never mind seen one. No one I know who has travelled to Poland recently has seen any.

The Polish people I ask are flabbergasted. “Why would any Irish person want to work here? They’d have more money on the dole in Ireland” is the usual reaction.

That is not to say these signs don’t exist. They may, but I have seen no evidence they do. Nor, I suspect, has Mr Kilcoyne.

In short, Mr Kilcoyne, pictures or it never happened.

The wave will likely remain small because, unlike in the 80s, there are few places to go this time around. The old reliables of the UK and the US are not an option. Canada is being talked about as one of the few still experiencing a shortage of workers with particular skills. Australia too and you don’t even need a criminal record to get in any more but she is running the risk of being swamped.

The destination that intrigues me is Poland. EU money and that made by its citizens abroad over the last few years has sparked a mini-boom in the construction industry. That may not last, but is attracting a number of Irish builders and tradesmen for now.

How will they adjust to being the butt of the jokes on the building site instead of the ones dishing out the slagging? How will they react to constantly being told to learn to speak the language? How will they cope with low wages; lack of understanding of the laws and social norms; little knowledge of their rights and entitlements?

It will be interesting. I hope Poland’s mini-boom lasts long enough to show some Irish workers what it’s like when the tables are turned.

They met in London. She was nursing England. He was building it. Within months they both knew they had found their match.

That summer they came home for a holiday and stayed with her parents. Things were going very well until the third day when he was left alone with Maureen Waters for the first time.

Maureen can be daunting at first. I know that myself. Straight-backed and always immaculately groomed, her accent and even her gait betray a background far above her husband’s station.

So, Patrick, tell me again what it is you do? I understand it is in the area of construction.

Groundworker mainly, Mrs. Waters. But I can turn me hand to anything, as they say.

A groundworker? What exactly does that entail? Would one consider it a skilled profession?

Well ya have to know what you’re at. We get the ground cleared and lay down the drains and the paths and the foundations and all that.

It does not appear to be quite an important role. Or indeed, skilled. Unless of course I am misinterpreting what you say, Patrick.

Oh it is important, missis! Shur if we don’t get our bit right then the whole lot could come tumbling down.

I see. And the remuneration?

Huh?

The money, Patrick. As a career, is it well paid?

Well I’ll put it to ya this way, Mrs. Waters. If that lassie of yours sticks with me, in no time at all she’ll be farting through pure silk.

Head of the RSA, Noel Brett, said among the problems identified is that a 16-year-old can drive a tractor and trailer weighing more than 30 tonnes without a driving test and he was concerned that the vehicles themselves are not officially checked for road-worthiness.

What bolt of inspirational lightening struck Mr. Brett to prompt him question the suitability of archaic legislation in today’s world? Had he been en-route to a holiday resort in Damascus when suddenly he felt compelled to rush back to base, losing his deposit, and tell everyone there was something wrong? Fek it, lads, I’ve just realised these laws are so old, God could have legally driven a tractor when he was in short trousers.

The press release ended with a link to the RSA website from were the document could be downloaded. That I couldn’t locate it on the site for days didn’t surprise me – the RSA, like all State quangos, commonly adopt (to use an agricultural term) a cart before the horse approach.

It appeared a few days later, though was still difficult to find and the inclusion of so many paragraphs of statutory regulations made it not unlike the Lisbon Treaty on both counts.

A child could tell you it is wrong for a child to be driving a high powered vehicle on a public road. A child, seeing a tractor pulling a 30 tonne load hurtle toward it at 40km/h might cry out mammy, mammy, will it stop? That is clear. So what is the fuss about? What is really behind this proposed legislation discussion document?

A lot. A heck of a lot in fact.

Why do Irish farmers use, or appear to use, the public roads more frequently that their European counterparts? Historically, Irish farms were small for a number of reasons that I won’t bore you with here. To enlarge a farm meant purchasing more land, obviously, but the likelihood of securing adjacent holdings was slim. Farms became disjointed parcels. Land swaps, championed by Mary Coughlan during her time as Minister for Agriculture, designed to avoid the purchase and sales taxes, proved unworkable in the main. Bottom line: To get their work done, farmers have to use the public roads. Drawing comparisons with the UK, as the RSA do, is not comparing like with like (and is one of my pet hates).

It is patently obvious that agricultural contractors must use the roads to get to and from the numerous farms they work on and to haul produce (silage, grain etc.).

Infrastructure improvements in recent times has resulted in the construction of new roads with little or no provision made for agricultural traffic – new one opened, old one closed. Upgraded roads resulted in increased traffic volumes and speeds. The number of farmers using these routes has not increased but the number of motorists seeing them has, leading to a perception it has.

The use of farm tractors by the construction industry has distorted this further. Not only are they perfectly suited to the rugged terrain of building sites but they are capable of relatively high road-speeds – the MB-trac which ceased production in ‘91 had a rating of 40km/h but with some mechanical know how could be cranked up to 65km/h. 50km/h is the standard in today’s mid- to high-range tractors and the horsepower is sufficient to pull loads that articulated trucks do.

But the big bonus is they can be registered as works vehicles. This means far lower tax, insurance and more importantly, they can be run cheaply on rebated fuel (green diesel). Who can blame them? The cost savings are enormous.

Seeing what the builders were doing, some farmers and agricultural contractors began using their machinery in the off-season to transport construction materials and supplies. Who can blame them? The more hours an expensive machine can be worked the sooner it pays for itself.

It is the pseudo-farm tractors that the road users encounter most and that made the small child cry out.

The most crying is being done by another group – the road hauliers. They are required to be licensed, to pay higher tax and insurance, to use non-rebated fuel (white/road diesel), to equip their trucks with tachographs, to employ drivers with higher standard driving licenses, and so on. Who would blame them crying? They are the ones losing out most.

They are also a very strong lobby group. Is the RSA pandering to a strong group financially disadvantaged in this instance? Is the Road Safety Authority really concerned with a safety issue at all or is there political manoeuvring afoot? Let the hauliers have their way with this and they’ll give in on something else the RSA want implemented.

It is the safety aspect that is puzzling me:

- When founded in 2006, one of the RSA’s first projects was to review all legislation as pertaining to road safety. Aborted holiday in Damascus aside, how come they are only realising now about the issue of 16-year-olds driving tractors on the public roads on learner permits? Did it not occur to them during the revamping of the rules-of-the-road booklet?

- If the road-worthiness of agricultural vehicles is of such concern (and the farmers agree it is) why not also be concerned that road haulage vehicles are, for all intents and purposes, self-certified for road-worthiness? Any garage, or indeed, haulier, can be licensed to certify vehicles.

- Is a slow-moving vehicle on the public a hazard? The RSA say it has concerns about tailbacks caused by tractors on public roads but has no suggestion for how to address this. What are they really saying here? Is it that, yes, fatal and non-fatal collisions do happen, but the fault lies generally not with the tractor driver but with the absolutely horrendous driving standards of motorists? But they can’t say that. That would be admitting that 99% of Irish motorists, let’s face it, couldn’t drive a lawnmower never mind a car. Rather than forcing drivers to be alert to potential hazards it is easier to remove the hazard. No suggestion for how to address this is a prompt to the public to call for a tractor-ban.

- Are they concerned about a slow-moving digger or other works machine? The discussion document states the following: As they generally do not carry goods or pull a trailer, they do not give rise to any competitive issues in relation to road haulage however there are road safety issues to be considered. Note their concern for the haulage industry. Since when are competitive issues the concern of a safety authority?

But as a stereotypical Irish male, I know all there is to know about Publicans. Stingy robbing bastards the lot of them^{[no citation needed]}. The bastard that owns my local has rubber pockets in his jeans for robbing soup.

Down through the years the local publican was seen as a pillar of the community. I recall two occasions in the 80s that my local pub owner acted as character witness for an individual charged with public order offences, or whatever we called them then – messing? Minor-ish charges.

In the Age of Enlightenment, we began to see them for what they were. Pubs and pub licenses changed hands in the 90s for astronomical amounts of money. Backwater publicans became sidewinder multi-millionaires over night. They fought the smoking ban. The fought against stricter drink-driving laws. All in the best interest of the customer, of course. Figure that! Yet prices charged across the counter continued to rise. And rise dramatically.

There were justifications trotted out for this. Higher staff costs was a common one. I never really got my head around that – how would wages rise at a time when publicans were replacing local workers with much lower-paid immigrants? Well, I suppose they figured if we believed it from the builders, we’d believe it from them.

Overheads. Ah yes, overheads. Now that was a doozy. It was the ultimate cover-all excuse. Never explained. It didn’t have to be. My overheads have risen. No details needed. None given. It may have had something to do with golf club fees, holidays in Dubai and new SUVs.

The best of all by a long shot was the old reliables of the brewery, the VAT and the duty. I use the singular was intentionally. These were rattled off as a single item. In one breath. No commas. Guinness-put-the-pint-up-then-there’s-the-VAT-and-duty.

By another long shot I am no tax accountant, but this does not compute with me. Does not compute. Does not compute.

Duty. Excise duty on alcohol is levied by the State on the basis of volume of alcohol, not sale value. So the duty owing on a pint of beer costing €2 is exactly the same as on one costing €20. It is a flat amount. Don’t tell me that businesses trading in liquor don’t know that!

For anyone who wants to play with the figures, the current rate for beers of above 1.2% alcohol by volume is €19.87 per Hectolitre per cent of alcohol. You won’t though – it’s too complicated. The publicans like it that way – you’ll get a headache trying to work it out and it’ll be easier just accept what they tell you.

To further complicate matters, the Irish government’s love of double taxation means that, VAT is levied on the duty. A tax is, itself, taxed.

Now, what does a publican pay for a pint of Guinness for example? I reckon any publican paying more than €2.67 is out of his head based on what Homekegs.ie charge. That’s €2.20 before VAT.

Guinness recently mooted the idea of increasing their prices by 2%. The media reported this could extrapolate into an 8cent increase at the pumps. How? Take that €2.20 pre VAT wholesale price and deduct excise duty of 50cent^{[Note: My effort at working out the above rates]} leaves €1.70. A 2% increase is 3.4cent.

So the publican is selling now at €4.00 per pint, or €3.30 before VAT. To recoup the increase his pre-VAT price rises to €3.334, or €4.04 (rounded up) after VAT. A 4cent increase which he will round up again to €4.05.

But what he will actually do is add 2% to his VAT inclusive price of €4.00 to get €4.08, which is the figure quoted by the media and which he will then round up to €4.10.

Guinness get 3.4cent extra and the publican gets 6.6cent. Ask why a meagre 2% increase has put the price of your pint up so much and you will be told Guinness-put-the-pint-up-then-there’s-the-VAT-and-duty.

~~~~~

He got something in his eye and spent Friday at the hospital. His wife came though. She owns a cleaning company and offered to have the place scrubbed down in lieu of a house-warming gift. That’s a bit of a misnomer seeing as it isn’t a new house, just an extension to an old one. So strictly speaking her services were in lieu of an extension-warming gift. But that sounds like something you’d buy on eBay and hope the postman wouldn’t (mis)read the customs label.

I checked on her at lunchtime. We’re flying, Primal. The windows were a curse though – took hours – them fekin builders never took the tape off them. I suggested she let Lar know that – he’d be very interested. I got a quizzical look. Ok. I was going to call anyway to see how he was getting on with the eye. I made a hasty exit.

~~~~~

The cat turned up on Saturday after a three week absence. He was barely able to walk. Puss (appropriately for a cat) was oozing from a wound on its throat. Obviously there had been a fight and he’d lost and had been lying in a ditch somewhere. Now I hate cats, but I felt sorry for it. Something had to be done.

I called the vet. White male – approximately 3 years old – gangland victim – heavy discharge from infected wound on neck – deep laceration to left foreleg – dehydrated – impaired mobility – possible euthanasia candidate. Okay, Mr. Sneeze. You’d better bring him in. What’s his name? Name? I don’t know. He’s a stray then? No. He was one of three white sibs – Disclaimer, Terms and Conditions. Two died from trafficitis. I could never tell one from the other. Trafficitis? Yeah. Severe trauma to the torso caused by pneumatic tyres on heavy goods vehicles. I see. So what name will I put in the computer? Anonycat. What? Well it’d be stupid to call it Anonymouse.

~~~~~

Nervy Neighbour wanted to have a chat. He was having trouble with Nasty Neighbour again. We could have a pint. Pints are great catalysts for sorting out the woes of the world.

The pub was buzzing but not a barhound in sight. We stood there playing spot-the-barman. One bustled in all hot and bothered. The soccer? The soccer is it? Room down the hall there. Eh, no we w… Oh, the rugby. On in the lounge. No, we ju… Yee’re grand then – the racing’s on here. NO! We just want two fekin pints, ya tool!

That Irish publicans are more interested in sport than drink was another woe we added to the world’s ever growing list.

We hadn’t even gotten to start on the list when Strange Fellow plopped himself down between us. Know anything about car seats, lads? Are you giving up the window cleaning business and going into car valeting? No I am not. I bought a car. An 06 Saab. Well fair play to ya. After years riding around on the bike it’ll be great comfort. So what’s wrong with the seats? I can’t fit me ladders in. I’ll have to take out the seats. Do yee know how ya do that?

~~~~~

I’ve been needing two RJ-45 connectors to finish networking the office. Two lousy pins. Do you think I could get them? Not a hope in Hades. The so-called geeks in PC World never heard of them. I didn’t mind the blank looks from the staff in the hardware stores, but in PC World – com’on lads, get your act together. A local electrical supplies shop, Wesco, had them. 50c each. I suggested the guy behind the counter perform a sexual act on his own person if he thought I would pay 50c for something worth about 15c. I am a man of principle after all. Bad language, but principle. Principally bad language.

I could get them from an Irish online supplier, Komplett. €2 for a 10 pack. Excellent. €13 postage. Shite. They could perform the same act.

Maplin in Blanchardstown had them at a reasonable price, but I would join the folks at Wesco and Komplett in their new pastime if I was driving all that way just for two pins.

Would I go to Argos on Sunday morning and collect stuff? Ok. Maplin is near there so I could get the RJ-45 connectors. Men are from Maplin, women are from Argos. Fact. The women in my life happily spend hours poring over the Argos catalogue – I get as excited as a hungry baby in a topless bar with the Maplin catalogue in front of me.

But letting me loose in an electronics store is as dangerous as letting a woman loose [double checks order of those words] in Macys at sales time. I came home with a cordless screwdriver, a network tester, a solar-powered battery charger, a watch case opener and a simcard reader. All of which I will probably never use. Unlike the RJ-45 pins which I will. Or would have used, if I hadn’t left them behind on the counter.

~~~~~

Today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick driving the snakes up ladders without passing go or something like that. Maybe it’s the time he went camping with Tara and he lit a fire to cook shamrock while she played with his crozier. I’m not really sure any more. Sometimes I get mixed up between the St. Patrick’s Day we have in Ireland and the St. Patty’s Day they celebrate in America.

All I know is that I am to drink pints today as required by law. They will be black ones as they always are. I will wear jeans. They will be blue ones as they always are. I will express my wish that a friend be happy. I will say happy birthday to her as I always do on March 17.

It’s a bank holiday. Our national day. No one else’s. What could possibly go wrong?

The Gardaí recommended the foreman discretely monitor the tank levels to find out how much was being taken and how often. After a couple of weeks it was clear that every two or three nights about 100l was going missing.

I was asked to stake out the place for a week. With the promise of overtime I naturally jumped at the chance. Plus I was given a mobile phone. A mobile phone! It was the ’80s remember and mobiles were big clunky contraptions with a handset wired to what looked like a car battery and just as heavy. Even car phones weren’t available in Ireland back then. It was all very exciting.

My first night as Primal PI I hid my van behind a stack of pallets at the side of the compound and waited. Christ the boredom! My watch crawled. Had it stopped? No. The clock on the dash read the same. I was only there an hour. How would I do seven nights of this?

I needn’t have worried. A car pulled up. The driver unlocked the gates to the compound and drove in. A small truck followed soon after and made it’s way toward the tanks. I made the call – my first ever mobile phone call. I got my instructions.

As the visitors were about to leave I started the van. At least I tried to. Panic set in. I’d forgotten to set the ignition to heat first and the engine just wouldn’t fire on cold diesel. Set to heat. Count. 1 … 2 … slowly damn it! … … 3 … … 4. It fired. But I’d been seen. Sweat. Cold sweat. Shaking hands. I gunned the engine as all good TV detectives do and sped around the corner. Gravel flying from the wheels. I parked right across the entrance, turned off the engine and jumped out.

Only now did it dawn on me what I’d let myself into. What was I to do now? My instructions were to block them in but I was told nothing more. What if they forced me to move the van? I locked the door and tossed the keys into a hedge. Fek, that was a mistake! What if they came to attack me? I would have no way to escape.

A figure approached. Ah Primal. It’s yerself. What are ya doing here? We never see you in this yard? It was the plant manager – the foreman had been wise to go straight to the owners.

Ah howya Pat, I croaked. I was driving by and seen the lights on.

Fair ball to ya, Primal. Eh, this man here ran out of diesel and I was giving him a drop to get him as far as a garage. Move that auld van there ’til we let him out.

By now I was shaking like a leaf. What was I to say? Do?

I was still stuttering incoherently when I realised we were now surrounded by a mass of blue flashing lights. One of the cops – a local one I knew – pulled me aside to calm me down. Who were the other people, I asked. Customs and Excise, he said grinning. They’re going to dip both [the manager's and his guest's] tanks. We reckon he [the manager] has been fuelling up half the knackers in the county. And helping himself to a drop too.

The following day I was still rattled. My legs went to jelly and my voice croaked again the day I had to stand up in court and testify against this man. A man I thought I knew. A man I’d drank with at company parties. A man whose house I’d been in once. A man whose son I’d been to school with.

I had listened as evidence of other charges was given. He had been fuelling his own car with red diesel – I had guessed that. He had been stealing red diesel and selling it – I was the key witness that. He had been burning the stolen diesel in his home heating system. He had been siphoning off company money by producing fake invoices. He had been found in possession of stolen goods. Goods that allegedly came via the same individuals he was selling diesel to. And some more that I forget.

One of the Gardaí remarked outside the court later that if they’re at one thing, you can be sure they’re up to a hundred others.

I was reminded of this story by the report this week that the Revenue’s customs section had seized 301 vehicles in 2007 on which VRT had not been paid. Of these, 49 were top of the range cars, on which €1.25m in taxes and penalties was recouped. What was of major interest though, was that many of these cases resulted in full tax audits which recovered a further €1m for the State’s coffers. Just like that Garda said all those years ago, if they were guilty of one offence, they are likely guilty of more. The revenue people realise that.

The same scenario applies elsewhere. Take a politician who is found to have accepted a bribe from a property developer to have land rezoned. Asking what else he has taken bribes for is a reasonable question. It is highly unlikely he is specialising in rezoning bribes.

Take the motorist that is fined for driving at 110km/h in a 100km/h zone, on a good road, in good conditions and with little traffic. Very unfair might be your immediate reaction. But isn’t this the same driver that will do 80km/h in a busy 60km/h? And 65km/h in a 50mk/h in the rain? And 40km/h in a 30km/h outside a school. Your reaction to his being fined for those offences isn’t that it is unfair. This driver hasn’t made a policy decision to speed in 100km/h zones only and that he’ll obey lower limits. And does he specialise in speeding offences? I would doubt it.

Take the builder that installs inferior windows that begin leaking a year later. It would be wise to find out what other poor work he has done. If he is cheating the home-owner, who else is he cheating? The taxman probably. His employees too. If I were to tell you the only thing is ever does wrong is using inferior windows you would laugh at me.

No one who flouts a particular law or ethic flouts only that. It makes a fair case for the so-called zero tolerance.

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.