I was visiting a client, a farmer, in one of those areas the other day. Small talk is the foreplay of business and on this occasion we chatted about how the Irish Farmers Association (IFA) had acted so quickly, organising truck loads of donated fodder be sent to aid farmers in the west whose winter feeding stocks had been ruined. What Tom told me left me quite shocked.

Yes, the majority had acted as asked and gave whatever they could spare. Others, however had been quite unscrupulous and took the chance to rid themselves of their rubbish – 3 or 4 year-old stock with little or no feed value; rotten bales of silage; dust ridden hay and straw. Disposing of such rubbish is a costly exercise and the flooding provided a golden opportunity.

Think of the cost to the IFA of shipping this. Think of the cost of weeding out the dross and disposing of it. Think of the farmer in the west whose livelihood is all but ruined seeing a glimmer of hope but opening a bale only to discover it is unusable.

As I was leaving, Tom suggested I swing by one of the estates affected by the floods. “Take a look in the skips”, he said. “Call me back if you can figure out what you see. I can’t”.

I took a look. I haven’t called him back.

Maybe you the readers can explain this to me:

Among the sodden flooring, clothing, furniture and other items I expected to see were some strange items indeed.

Why would anyone throw out radiators? How could something whose sole purpose is to carry water be flood damaged?

Likewise how can plastic furniture be damaged by water? Or cups, plates etc? Soiled perhaps, but easily cleaned.

How could a wide screen TV that had been, given the visible mountings, on a wall have gotten wet? I seen no indication it had been. No staining whatsoever. Had the fuse in the plug blown and the entire set scrapped?

Most perplexing of all was why the need for a security guard to protect supposedly worthless goods? And why did he ask me to leave when I took out my camera phone?

So what, you say. Some dude’s sitting in a plane, says thanks and links to a picture. Big deal!

Well it was a big deal.

Here’s the picture Darragh took.

Yep. The picture was taken and the message sent from his phone while making his first parachute jump in aid of the Carelocal charity. (Eh, sponsorship still being accepted)

I can’t say if it was the first ever mid-air Tweet. Pretty sure it was Ireland’s first.

So called Social Media experts take note: It was definitely the ultimate in audience communication.

And anyway, nothing of interest happened. Until yesterday, when I (got) volunteered to count and bag the proceeds of a street collection. Doesn’t sound interesting? The thrill of handling those grubby, disease-carrying coins doesn’t make you sit up?

Me neither. But what I am always intrigued by is

a) What the final tally will be and

b) What weird items I will find.

This time, there was c) A coin-counter. A machine! A brand new toy to play with.

Yes, we could use one of those in-store counters but the shops take a percentage. That 5% or whatever is better off in the charity’s coffers than Quiki Mart’s. After one or two uses our machine will have paid for itself.

When I say our, I mean the local branch of the organisation. The national body bought the counters, distributed them, and cross-charged the, let’s call them, sub-offices. That’s what they are – sub-offices. Large charities function like corporations. That can be great for the individual branches in terms of support with advertising, filing accounts and so on, but let me tell you it is a nightmare when it comes to buying coin-counters.

Some loo-laa in the purchasing department at HQ bought a pallet of household counters. The type Mrs. Mulligan uses to tot up the €150 in her change jar the week before Punchestown, not the type you need to handle 2 or 3 grand. (Have you ever tried lifting €3k in change, by the way? Don’t!)

So I struggled with c) the counter, cleaning the sensors and letting it cool down periodically, all the while refining my guess at what a) the final total, would be, but it did give me pauses in which to study b) the weird items. That’s the bit that always gives me most amusement.

Invariably there are four groupings.

1. Foreign (non-Euro) coins; 2. miscellaneous metal objects; 3. religious trinkets; 4. old Irish coins.

Foreign coins I can understand. They are in circulation. And a piece of a broken keyring can easily get mixed up in change.

Holy medals. I reckon 3.7 per €1,000 on average. Maybe they could be classified under the miscellaneous objects category. But I can’t help thinking some people believe they are imparting something of value. Thanks. We appreciate the gesture, but unfortunately the bank won’t take them. There is no little box on their lodgement slips saying St. Martin deHarley of the Motorbikes :: Grade A Blessed by a Pope/B Blessed by a Biker/C Unblessed [Delete as applicable] :: Quantity :: Value.

Old Irish coins really get me for two reasons. Firstly some of the damn things happily pass through this machine as genuine denomination and I have to fish them out and start over. (Hint to HQ: A good machine would catch them). Secondly, why in the name of the mother of the six sniffling infants are people carrying these around in their pockets?

Is that it? Do people purposely fill one pocket with junk specifically for collection boxes? Something metal that will make a coin-like clink? Right hand pocket: Mine for spending. Left hand pocket: Props for them.

Look! We don’t mind if you just decline. Honestly! All you have to say is “no thanks” or “not today”. Or just shake your head. Or stare at the ground. There is no need to be embarrassed. Maybe you can’t spare anything. Fine. Maybe your charity of choice is The Brewer’s Droop Research Fund and you’d prefer support (?) only it. We understand.

Your coins are welcome. Even the 1 and 2 cents. (They came to €19 this time – that will pay a carer for 2 hours. See? It all helps.) But don’t give junk just because you’re shy – it only creates work and inconvenience.

W101: I was 14 years old. Myself and Tom, the farmer’s 12 year old, had spent a long hot, itchy, back-breaking, finger-slicing (the baling twine) week bringing in the hay. The only adult help we had was from Tom’s grandfather and that was only in the haggard – we had to manage as best we could on our own in the fields.

The farmer’s wife thanked me and handed me a £1 note. I stood waiting for her to produce the rest. Nothing came. I handed back the note suggesting she buy sweets for her son with it and walked off.

That was my introduction to the world of wankers-to-work-for.

W666: Years later, as part of my degree, I found myself on work-placement with another farmer – this time near Ballybunion in Kerry. Arrangements had been made over the phone. £80 a week, which was average for students then, and full board.

Each morning I milked the cows before a hearty breakfast of cornflakes. Then I’d spend the day picking potatoes by hand in the company of a group of locals. Some were school kids, the rest were on the dole and constantly on guard for social welfare inspectors. A hearty lunch was delivered to the field by the farmer’s wife. Jam (yes, jam, not ham) sandwiches and lukewarm tea in a whiskey bottle.

Milk the cows again in the evening followed by a hearty dinner of sausages (2), rashers (1), fried egg (½) and baked beans (probably 27 or 28, but never more than 30). Each night, this Kildare man, was treated to lectures on how yee crowd up in Dublin get everything going – the best land and all the money – and we poor eejits down here are left to struggle with nothing.

At midday on the first Saturday I got paid. £40! £20 taken for the hearty meals and £20 for the use of a rickety bed.

I was on the train out of there that afternoon and on Monday his name was taken off the list of approved work-placement employers by the faculty. That bit caused a stir as his first cousin, who had recommended him, thereby bypassing the vetting process, was a professor.

As an aside, that same professor, as patron of a large charity, undertook a fact-finding (all expenses paid) mission to Ethiopia in the aftermath of the ‘84-’85 famine. An ex-flatmate of mine was working for that same charity and found the prof didn’t once leave his fancy hotel in Addis Ababa. Yet he was able to report the situation on the ground back to the Irish government and was on RTÉ for weeks telling us of the misery and suffering he had witnessed. I guess being a wanker is a genetic disorder. [May be classified as W666]

W666²: Luckily I had a good run from then on and worked for some of the best you could ask for. In fact, the other farmers I spent time with come top of the list. The sole glitch during those wonder-years was just after the turn of the century (I’ve always want to say that) when, after a series of meetings with the country manager of a large multinational in plush hotels and restaurants, I got offered a job with excellent salary and perks. I should have realised that it was too good to be true.

The Irish arm, or franchise, I learned had been formed to cater for a single multinational client under a global deal. The country manager owned it – his daddy had set it up for him. The office manager/accounts manager and order entry clerk were his little sisters. His wife was a consultant. His first cousin the sales manager. The ladies used maiden or married names as appropriate so as not to raise eyebrows at the US HQ.

There were five of us squashed into a tiny office downstairs. As last-man-in I had a stool. If someone was out, I could borrow their chair. In a larger space upstairs, sat the country manager and his sisters – the consultant was always out with a client apparently.

The techie in my estimation had trained in the Fisher-Price school of engineering. How he had survived in the job so long amazed me until I discovered a) the factory floor staff did the day-to-day work for him, b) when something went down he called a service company and c) he was the wife’s cousin.

The QA officer knew as much about quality as a Chinese toy maker. An ex-box-packer with a software distributor he had once been interviewed by an ISO auditor. Played key role in securing ISO accreditation read his CV – a twisting of the truth he was very proud of and joked about regularly. Also part of the extended family, his CV was merely conjured up to satisfy headquarters.

Why did they have a sales manager and a consultant when there was only one client?

The company was a mess. But I reckoned it ticked along because it had to. The client had a global agreement and couldn’t change service supplier.

The inefficiency was wrecking my head, not to mention the nepotism – I could end up being forced to marry the forklift driver to keep the job. She did weights. Big ones.

What was my job anyway? I was hired as an IT project manager but didn’t have any projects to manage. They were coming I was told. In the meantime, seeing as I knew a lot about the systems they were using, I could help out the techie – show him a few things. (I thought I’d start with keyboard skills). I had experience of the ISO so I could help out the QA with writing his procedures and manuals. (I figured lessons in English for native English speakers might be useful). The girls upstairs weren’t fully up to speed on the accounts package so I could talk them through it. (I could go hoarse).

There was to be a site visit at the long weekend by the IT manager from one of the UK offices and two of his engineers. New PCs and other stuff were to be commissioned. At last something IT projecty managey. What would I be doing with them? Ferrying them to and from their hotel and staying in the office with them in case they needed anything – like to be taken to lunch.

At lunch that Saturday the IT manager innocently asked what my plans were when the five month’s training was over. Had I another contract lined up? If I brought this operation into line and saved it being shut down, HQ might have something else for me. I should talk to them. I was gobsmacked and at the same time disgusted with myself for being so naïve.

I pried him for more and the pieces began to slot together. HQ had been warned by the client the global agreement was in jeopardy unless the Irish arm got its act together within six months.

If they hired me as a trainer I would have been suspicious seeing as the headcount was so low. Things change so quickly in IT that a role for a full-time project manager would be plausible. If they hired me as a trainer on a contract basis it would have cost more than double or treble – remember the money had to go to the family.

By hiring me as a full-time employee and throwing the odd IT project my way to keep me happy whilst utilising me as a trainer they would save money. Plus they could fire me within the six month’s standard probationary period claiming I was unsuitable with little or no comeback for me. I later learned that was the intention all along.

I walked out leaving a well fed but nappyless baby sitting over the fan. I felt guilty that I could be in part to blame for the factory floor staff losing their jobs, but the economy was booming and they’d find something else. They didn’t have to and the company is still running so I guess they either found another eejit to do my job or they learned their lesson and acted honestly the following time.

Next post up: Wankers who worked for me. I’m thinking of M-numbers but am open to suggestions. Stay tuned either way.

The way it works is unlike most charities. Rather than providing money for housing, the trust actually provides the housing itself. Each year, volunteers, mainly Irish men and women, travel to South Africa and over a period of 7 days, build houses. The volunteers must raise a minimum of €5,000 each to fund travel, accommodation, building materials, machine hire etc. While those with trades are more demand, volunteers from all walks are welcome either for their specialised skills, such as medical personnel, or simply as labourers.

Last year almost 1,400 travelled and built 203 houses. Last year one of those volunteers was a friend of mine. I admire him for taking it on, for swapping his suit for shorts and t-shirt, his laptop for a shovel and the boardroom for a building site. Unused to manual labour he naturally came home exhausted, with aches and pains and bruised and scratched. Exhausted, yes, but elated. Just off the plane he was planning for the 2008 trip.

A couple of months ago the same man returned to South Africa on holiday. One of those last minute package deals and he jumped at it. A week’s break for himself and his wife.

At the first opportunity they spilt from the tour group and made their way to the township he had worked in. Like a little boy who has just built a sandcastle he was full of excitement and couldn’t wait to show off his work to his wife. His special project had been a playground.

He didn’t recognise it at first. It was destroyed. He was destroyed. The climbing frames had been hacked down, probably for firewood. The chains on the swings were gone, probably sold for scrap. Everything was broken.

For the second time in 12 months he got off a plane from South Africa. But not elated this time. Deflated. All that work. All that time. All that money. Gone. The sacrifice of having left his wife and children, one a newborn baby, at home believing he was making a difference to the lives of those more deserving. And now, nothing to show for it. Some bully had kicked over his sandcastle. The cuts and bruises this time were to his soul. The aches and pains to his heart.

He learned a lesson that everyone involved in charity work learns. I’ve learned it myself. More than once. When asked, Niall Mellon, said it is theirs now. They can do with it as they wish. He is right, though that can be hard to accept. There is only so much you can do for someone. They have to do the rest themselves.

The day I wrote it I was setting out on a 2 hour drive to deliver fixtures and fittings to a respite home. A home funded by the Kildare branch of the charity at great expense. I’ve been there a few times since to put in a washing machine and dryer, assemble garden furniture and other odd jobs. And I must say I’m impressed. Located in a beautiful area of Wexford, it is fully wheelchair accessible and equipped with everything a body could need. Even cleaning materials and linen are provided. Visitors need only bring food, toiletries and clothing. A cleaner comes by a few times a week so no-one need worry about heavy chores like hoovering or washing floors. Even though not required, the cleaner runs errands and acts as local tour guide.

The rules for booking are simple. Up until the end of May only members of the local branch may put their names down for a week’s stay. Fair enough. After all, it was the local branch that paid for it. Thereafter, if there are free slots remaining, members from other branches can avail of them. No-one is charged a cent. All that is asked is that they move in after 3pm on the Saturday and vacate before noon the following one; that they replace anything they break; that they leave it as clean and tidy as their level of ability allows.

I happened to be there the day a lady arrived assisted by her sister, Mary. Susan hadn’t had a holiday for five years or so, more out of fear of being out of her environment although money played a part too. To see the joy on her face, her eyes light up and a tear appear made all those long drives worthwhile. She and I sat for an hour drinking tea and swapping dirty jokes while Mary busied herself about the place. It was only when I got home I was told that Sue’s sister Mary was also Sister Mary which explained why she excused herself to go dress the bed a number of times. There was me thinking she had OCD or something.

Most visitors were like Susan and ranted and raved about what an excellent facility is was and what a wonderful time they’d had. But just like the Tayto ad, there’s always one.

A woman from the Dublin branch booked the last week in July. She phoned later to change this to the first week in August. But that slot was already taken. But I have to go in August. I got a letter from Wexford County Council and my meeting with them about building a house is in August not July like I thought. She was insistent that the person booked for August swap. Fair play to the co-ordinator she didn’t give in. If someone was merely using the facility as free accommodation she would not jump through hoops for them.

When she moved in that Saturday in July (obviously having rescheduled her personal business with the council) the phone calls began. The garden seats are not where I’d like them and some idiot has chained them in place. The idiot (the one writing this) chained them to prevent them being stolen on the advice of the locals she was told. The cleaner has a key and can arrange to reposition them. Well ring her to come over. She’d better come now because I’m going out soon.

Two or three phone calls each day for the week. The kettle was too small. The place was too far from the beach and somewhere closer should have been bought instead. There was no washing line and she didn’t like using dryers. The local shop had a poor selection of foodstuffs and was expensive. Sunday mass was at 10 and she was used to going at 11.

The best was when she called to say she couldn’t fall asleep until dawn for fear of a break in. They all know around here that I’m disabled and I’m an easy target. People have come to the door. Explaining to her that in a small community everyone would know that a charity had bought the place, and that the locals were being kind by popping by to check that someone less able than themselves was okay, didn’t calm her.

A short while later it was noticed that a set of keys was missing. She had them. I held on to them for when I go back the end of August. The co-ordinator asked if was saying she’d like to book that week. I did book. It must have been with the other girl. There is no other girl. It was clear what her intention was. Given the bad summer, the place was idle a lot of weeks. We began to wonder if she’d been letting herself in when she was down for her council meetings. But we couldn’t tell for sure and the cleaner hadn’t noticed so she was allotted the week.

The cleaner called in a panic yesterday. The woman hadn’t left. In fact she had said her daughter and her kids were coming down and they’d be staying until Wednesday. But a man and his wife were arriving that afternoon. Repeated phone calls from the co-ordinator went unanswered. A call from my mobile (a number she would not have recognised) was answered immediately. But it’s September now. It’s out of season. I thought no-one else would be using it. But they are and you must vacate immediately she was told. Well I suppose I’ll have to then. My daughter will be here in a few minutes and just will have to turn around and take me straight back home. This is all very inconvenient. It is unacceptable and I will be making a complaint to head office about the way I’m being treated.

Now if there was ever a case for a good kick up the arse this is it. Even if it has to be administered through the seat of a wheelchair I’m volunteering. She didn’t return the keys this time either so I will be going down to change the locks this week. I’ll do the kicking on the way back. After a four hour drive on the N11, being pushed off the road by yellow reg’ed wankers, I will be so angry that I’ll have no fear of stubbing my toe on the bars of her chair.

Now lads, before you go getting hot under the collar, this Charity is a real charity, not a pretty lady. But as with pretty ladies, I always end up giving into their demands. So today I’m off to deliver fixtures and fittings to a respite home two hours from here. Two hours in my little jalopy, Harrison*, loaded to the hilt with everything from clothes hangers to tablecloths to knives and forks, is not my idea of fun. It is at times like this I wish I had Eolaí’s bicycle.

There is also a reserve supply of coat hangers etc. in storage. These are replacements for when items are stolen. What, you cry! People availing of a respite home would steal from it?

Short answer, yes. I am running the risk of getting flamed for saying this. In much the same way that suggesting global warming is part of the earth’s natural cycle, some things seem no longer open to debate.

It was many years ago that I first gave my time to this charity. Like most, I started out with great enthusiasm. Not in a change-the-world way – I’m too long in the tooth to believe that – but nevertheless believing I could make some tangible difference. And like most, I had this belief that people struck down with a debilitating disease and indeed, those closest to them, develop a different view on life and by virtue of having to rely on others, for things we take for granted, become better people. That belief was quickly shattered.

At the first function I attended I phoned a wheelchair cab to take a lady home. The driver refused when he saw who it was. She had an account with this company which was three months overdue. I called another firm. Her account with them was overdue six months. She had been using one until they began to insist on their money then switched to the other. With great difficulty I got this large, inebriated lady and her chair into my little car and took her home. With even more difficulty I pushed her up the sloping drive with constant warnings not to scratch her husband’s new car.

At another, a man and his wife volunteered to sell raffle tickets. Hours later I found them at the bar. Not a single ticket sold. They bought one each to appease me. The wife won the grand prize – a holiday. And it fell to me to smile for the camera while presenting it. My friend, the photographer, kept singing Beautiful South’s Little Blue to me the rest of the evening: When most think that you’re holding back, I know you’re holding bile.

Then there was the guy who temporarily moved into the area because he figured this branch had more funds in the kitty than that in his own area. He applied for a grant for a treatment known even then to be experimental, ineffective and unapproved throughout the whole EU. He was refused on those grounds and ran a fundraising drive of his own. The treatment didn’t work and the clinic providing it was later closed down by the authorities. His allusion to the charity’s name in his campaign confused the public and regular donors gave to him thinking they were supporting the charity.

I became disillusioned and considered giving up. So many seemed to expect to be let away with things the able-bodied would not. But I stuck with it and came to realise that there are bad eggs in all walks of life. There are just as many wheelchair-wankers as walking-wankers. But for every bad egg there are so many more good ones. So that’s why Harrison is straining on his axles and I’m away for the day.

* Harrison because it’s a Ford and was used in the movie, Man about Dog. It got paid more than I did for that one.