The road had the odd pothole and the edges sloped toward the ditch in places. Overall it wasn’t a bad road but using it demanded care and attention - you had to drive not just steer; you had to watch out for holes not just pedal; you had to be ready to hop up on the bank on narrow stretches not just stroll.

Then came the Ryder Cup circus. I’ve written about that farce before and told you of the infrastructure upgrades that were hastily made at great expense. The road I mention was one of those upgraded.

When I say upgraded, I mean resurfaced, widened marginally and lined. It wasn’t upgraded to a higher route type. It remains a local link road not a regional or national route.

The Council engineers I chatted with at the time gave me the see what great things we are doing for you look. I gave them the you are destroying my neighbourhood look back. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t see the long term consequences.

Where once there was a grass bank a walker could take refuge on, now there was nothing but an impenetrable hedge. Where once there were narrow stretches that compelled motorists to slow down, now there was no natural traffic calming. Where once there were humps and hollows and a few potholes, now there was a smooth flat surface. But the bends remained. The budget didn’t stretch to straightening works. Nor did it stretch to providing footpaths or cycle lanes. Why would they do that anyway? It was still a local/link route.

It had become a traffic-friendly road if there is such a thing. Cyclists and pedestrians beware. Of course, this is what the National Roads Authority intended all along - a route (a rat-run, albeit a long one) that would connect two motorways, the M7 and M4, and alleviate congestion on the M50.

And of course, the NRA didn’t say this publicly. They couldn’t be seen to condone the use of route unsuitable for that purpose. But they wouldn’t have to. The truckers would cotton on to it very quickly and they did. The HGV traffic quadrupled within weeks. The car drivers took a little longer to cop on. The white van drivers, the least bright of the bunch, followed.

The volumes and speeds shot through the roof. Residents who once had recessed entrances had had them shaved off by the widening. Their visibility when driving out their gateways was reduced, and in many cases, non-existent. The bends were still there and within seconds of driving onto a clear road they would have traffic on their tail blowing horns while they tried to pick up speed. The Gardaí could do nothing. Proving that someone was speeding is one thing, but proving they were driving at an inappropriate speed is all but impossible.

On one stretch of just 1km there were 20 houses. The residents complained bitterly about the situation. But as is commonplace in Ireland the bitter complaining is done over garden walls, in pubs and outside shops.

When the County Council advertised it was accepting submissions from the public as part of a review of county-wide speed limits only one of these residents responded. Me.

Within weeks the 1km stretch was designated a 60km/h zone and the signs erected. The traffic speed didn’t reduce. Irish drivers ignore them. Many never see them. Of the residents of the 20 houses, some have not yet seen these signs. A full year later and having told them where to look more than once they still claim not to have seen them. Yet the bitter complaining continues over garden walls, in pubs and outside shops.

With eyes wide shut, the only way to alert drivers to these speed limits is to have the Gardaí enforce them. They were always too busy. Until this week that is. I suppose that after 7 near fatal accidents caused by speeding within 12 months in 60km/h zone they realised something was wrong.

They had a squad car stationed on and off over a few days. They had an unmarked one other times though it was obvious what it was with a Garda in uniform beside it. These were the warnings to motorists. We are watching you. Slow down or we’ll get nasty. And they did. Get nasty, not slow down.

A battered white van pulled in at my entrance and Officer Dibble got out. A gatso van. Did I mind if he parked there for random periods over the next few weeks? Of course I didn’t. None of the residents would object to him using their entrances. We would all welcome it. It was about time something was being done. Once the word gets out about a speed-trap the traffic clams. For a few months anyway. A few months respite.

I was wrong about one thing.

- Fuk you, Sneeze! You are some bollix, screamed my neighbour - one of the 20 residents. Why’d ya let them bloody guards stop at your gate?

- Why wouldn’t I, Ian. Shur I was delighted to see them. I’m pissed off with wankers blowing me off the road when I’m trying to get in or out. You were giving out about the same yourself the other day. Maybe they’ll slow down now.

- You’re a fekin informer that’s what ya are. Licking up to the guards. I’m trying to do a days work. I can’t be crawling along all the time in the lorry or I’d never turn a shilling.

- Jayzez, Ian, you were glad of the guards the night your young lad heard men downstairs and yourself and herself were out in the pub.

- That’s different. They should be out catching fellas robbing and selling drugs and not giving out speeding fines to a decent man trying to feed his family.

In the late ’80s I worked for a small family firm that ran two separate businesses. The foreman of one of these suspected someone was stealing diesel at the processing plant and reported this to the owners.

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.

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.

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.

A school in Co. Mayo has banned students without a full driving licence from bringing cars onto the school grounds. It makes sense when you consider that few, or more likely none, would be on their 2nd provisional licence - for a learner permit to drive a car in Ireland you have to be 17 - the age of the majority of senior cycle pupils. As stupid as the law may be, only learner drivers on their 2nd provisional, are permitted to drive unaccompanied. For 1st, 3rd and subsequent licenses you must be accompanied by a fully-licensed driver at all times.

Therefore, leaving aside the health and safety aspect, the school has a good nimby case in that students driving to school unaccompanied are breaking the law. The regulation was proposed by the Parents’ Association and was welcomed by Co. Mayo’s Road Safety Officer.

Yet the decision, as reported by the Irish Independent, “has been blasted by parents who claim the rule is ‘old fashioned’ in an age when both parents are usually working and the waiting time for full licences is in the region of 28 to 30 weeks”.

Oh, so I get it now: Mick and Mary Murphy can’t take Mick Junior to school because they are too busy. He can’t ride his bike or walk in case he gets wet - this is Mayo after all and it rains a lot. Or maybe it’s just too far - this is Mayo after all and it’s rural. Or is it? Claremorris is quite a big town and most students would hail from there. Perhaps there is no bus service. You see, I just don’t know, but in their eyes, the Murphy’s have some valid excuse to let Mick Junior break the law.

I’m puzzled as to how young Pat Murphy gets to school. Does he get driven by his big brother? Maybe Mick Junior won’t take him and he walks or cycles - he’s young and the rain and distance don’t bother him. They didn’t bother Mick Junior at that age either. And there’s always the bus if it rains or he’s running late. No, there can’t be a bus or they’d both be using it instead of breaking the law.

And anyway, cry the Murphys, he wouldn’t have to break the law if the waiting time for driving tests were shorter. 28 to 30 weeks is scandalous. If our Mick got his test in the morning he’d pass with flying colours.

Now I’m getting a better handle on this: It’s the government’s fault for your son being forced to break the law. Well fret no longer - the Road Safety Authority have announced a number of privately run test centres for the country to reduce the backlog. Mick Junior won’t have to wait longer than 10 weeks, he’ll pass his test, get a full license and be a law abiding, proficient and safe driver.

Minister Noel Dempsey assures us of this: Road safety is a top priority for this Government. Today’s announcement by the RSA of this significant cut in waiting times for driving tests is very welcome news … I want to see safer drivers on safer roads and fewer tragic road collisions.

Now can Mr. Dempsey, the Murphys or anyone, please, please, please explain to me, in the name of the lord lanterning jayzez, the horse he rode in on, the mother of the six sniffling infants and any other minor deities you wish to call upon, how the fuck does reducing the waiting times make Mick Junior a safer driver and reduce tragic road collisions? Passing an outmoded test doesn’t mean Mick Junior won’t abide by the rules of the road and the law. Enforcement ensures that. That’s why we have the Gardaí. But as they seemingly can’t do that job, I say kudos to St Colman’s College, Claremorris, Co Mayo for enforcing at least one law.

ps. Posting has been sporadic of late - I’ve been moonlighting over at ShiteDrivers.com. Except for the wankers, in the absence of a totally clear commenting policy as yet, posting comments as if it was a kiddies’ message board, it’s an interesting site. Check it out.

Yesterday took me to a town south of here I hadn’t been to in a long time. A pleasant drive. Fine weather. Good roads. I seen very few idiots, which means I have no new stuff to post on ShiteDrivers.com. But that’s a good thing.

I just had to pick up a cheque. Collecting cheques is my second favourite activity, beaten only by lodging them. I had an address: the name of a road.

The snag was this road is actually a new business park. It is not signposted and everyone I asked was new to the town and hadn’t a clue. But I figured I had reached it when I seen a sign for Rosslare. Don’t laugh - this is Ireland. Interpreting our road signs is a black art you develop over time.

Now to find the office in this jungle. Golden rule: Never phone ahead for directions. Never. Doing this causes cheque books to fall into some parallel universe never to be found again. The element of surprise is key. You have to sneak up on them.

I stopped at the first office I came to and got directions and an erection from the (sizzlingly hot) receptionist. As I left, I heard my name: Primal, be the jayzez! If it isn’t the Sneeze himself. What are you doing here? I had a pain in me arse trying to find a place, came in here to ask, and now I’ve a pain in the front of me trousers from yer one at the desk. What are you doing here? Oh yeah, she’s a stunner right enough. She does it for me too. Anyway, this is my office. This what I’m at now. Com’on in and we’ll have a coffee.

It is about 15 years since I met Dan face to face. We were in college together. Mostly in the college bar. He took me to the canteen, pausing to introduce me to his wife - who was filling in for the receptionist. The temporary blood displacement switched to my face.

I’d been keeping tabs on him in the papers over the years and knew a bit about his company. So once the kids? ages? ever hear from so-and-so? questions and the remember the time stories were out of the way we got talking shop.

I read you’re doing well in Canada and Italy. The Post said actively pursuing overseas opportunities. Very snazzy. The last time you pursued an overseas opportunity it was that German girl who shared a house with Noelle Garvey. A strange combination - the countries, not the girls. How the fek did that come about?

Well my ex-boss, Gerry, was in Toronto on holidays and met a guy on a golf course who was bitching about pumping money down the drain trying to solve a problem. Gerry gave him my email and three months later we had the golfer’s business and six other sites in Ontario. You didn’t tell the papers that? Fek, no. That wouldn’t look right on the business pages. We down-played the golf course bit and played up the subsequent ‘wins’, as they call them.

Italy was a different story. A lad flying from Dublin read a piece about us in the in-flight magazine and called us the minute he hit the tarmac in Rome. I flew out the following morning and we had the site up and running a week later. Must have been a bitch of a job finding Italian speakers to support it from here in just five days. How’d you get around that? It was summer time and we offered a few school teachers mega bucks for a couple of weeks to get us up and running. Not for the papers either. Nope. We told them we had a pool of foreign language speakers to draw from. Which was true in a way - one of them is our young lad’s swimming instructor.

I left Dan an hour later with plans for pints made, collected the cheque and headed home thinking about all I’d learned.

· The old adage about the impossibility of getting lost in Ireland with a tongue in your head no longer applies.
· There’s always a catch with hot and chatty receptionists. If something’s too good to be true, then it isn’t.
· Never believe what you read in the papers.
· No matter how big or how small, business is all about contacts, luck and coping with the unexpected.
· Tesco now do a 3l drum of milk. Oh, I forgot to mention that bit didn’t I.