They gave me little in the way of joy or hope. They bored me much of the time. They did anger me in parts.

When I laughed, it was in amazement at how the delegates are totally disconnected with reality. Irish politics is a family affair. It is a job for life. One that most politicians are born into. It is not so much that they cannot see outside the box, it is that their whole lives have been lived within the box and they know nothing other than those cosy surrounds.

Of the speakers I watched live, only Breandán Fitzgerald displayed any modicum of awareness of the basic issues people are facing. He pointed out that most of the newly unemployed are unaware of their entitlements and called on the cabinet to adopt disseminating this information as part of social welfare policy.

At least he knew the newly unemployed currently discover these benefits by chatting with each other. There is a widely, and well-founded, belief that unless you ask, you won’t receive. That the Department of Social Welfare staff deliberatley keep it to themselves or couch it in terms that are unintelligible.

Speaking as Gaeilge, Mr. Fitzgerald was unintelligible to most of the delegates. What irony.

In her address, Mary Hanafin, whose department he had called upon, boasted at length about the retraining, upskilling and other supports the Fianna Fáil party had pioneered to aid the jobless. Back to work allowances; back to work (enterprise) allowance; back to education allowance.

As her party do not consider her speech worthy of inclusion on their web site I can only quote from memory: A man who has lost his job as a plumber can retrain, return to education or avail of numerous other supports.

What the minister seemed blissfully unaware of is that Seosamh an Pluiméir cannot receive the Back to Work Allowance or Back to Work (Enterprise) Allowance until he has been unemployed for 2 years. She implied they were available immediately. A search of her department’s, eh, eGovernment Award-Winning, web site isn’t going to make Seosamh any the wiser as to whether he can return to education: There have been much changes in this area in the past few months. You should get in touch directly with the Back to Education Allowance Section at the Department of Social and Family Affairs to check the current position.

An Taoiseach preached to the converted about the smart economy and how the Nation would become Innovation Ireland and went on to preach some more on back to education programmes. As Gavin puts it, watching many of the speakers, it felt like being at Mass.

Now imagine if you will, and it isn’t hard to in the current climate, that Seosamh is not a plumber – that he is a college graduate with an honours degree in microbiology; that he was recently made redundant after only a year in the job he took up on leaving college and hence has little, if any, savings; that he realises his only hope for employment in his field is gaining a masters or doctoral degree.

Minister Hanfin’s department will not entertain him. Or will they? See we don’t know – the award-winning web site doesn’t say. A peek back in time to February last year using the Wayback Machine tells us supports are available for higher diplomas and that other postgraduate qualifications are not recognised for BTEA purposes.

Now if An Taoiseach was serious about the smart economy and Innovation Ireland would he not be nurturing scientists such as Seosamh?

The belief would appear to be there are supports in place. Those that were implemented back in the 80’s. (Ms Hanafin alluded to those 1980’s structures as being our saviour in today’s situation in her speech – something I predicted she would believe back in July last year).

Their belief in themsleves and that they are handling the country well is so ingrained that they cannot see what is happening. Indeed, what has happened. An Taoiseach, in reference to the financial institutions, said what we need to do now is fix the damage they have caused. He, like the rest of Fianna Fáil, do not realise their culpability. It is not so long ago the ECB and others were pleading with Charlie McCreevy to watch his house – that the economy was overheating and he needed to takle interest rates. He ignored all advice.

Ignoring the public is something Irish politicians are excellent at. Fianna Fáil even more so. Listening to the grass roots is a phrase they bandy about. Perhaps one of those roots up the hole is what is called for. Let me put it another way:

Dear Fianna Fáil,

Cop. Fucking. On.

Yours etc,

The Public

The board of management of a primary school in the county has proposed bringing the opening time forward by half an hour from 9:20 to 8:50. 8:50 to 9:10 to be assembly time. At 9:10 formal instruction to commence. School to end a half an hour earlier at 2:30.

Why? Because a handful two handfuls of kids were being dropped off up to an hour before school-start. Far too long for small children to be left unsupervised in anybody’s book or in anybody’s school yard.

And so the uproar began. Pikes and bayonets were taken down from the rafters. The battle lines were drawn. And rightly so – after all, who wants to get up half an hour earlier than they have to? Who wants the kids coming home right smack in the middle of East Enders?

Assertions and questions were hastily prepared for throwing. Knees were limbered up for jerking. There were incidents and accidents. There were hints and allegations. A meeting was called and some roly-poly little bat-faced girl called Betty was pushed forward as an example.

Why, asked Al, her father, should Betty have to change her routine just because some parents are using the school as a play-pen? Somewhere to dump the kids on their way to work while they ducked back down the alley? The teachers are being used as babysitters.

An assembly time of 20 minutes? Al was aghast. So my Betty will lose 20 minutes out her daily education? Not good enough. You know, I don’t find this stuff amusing anymore.

It’s against the law to start school that early!

Now I don’t know much about Al. Maybe it’s his first time around. Maybe he’s got a short little span of attention. But what I do know, is that if you want to go jerking knees and throwing hints and allegations, then you do your research first. Sharpen your pike and bayonet.

If he’d bothered to ask Betty he’d know there has always been a 20 minute assembly time. Time to correct homework and so on.

If he’d bothered to check the department of eduction rules he’d know all schools are required to have a 20 minute assembly. That all pupils are expected to be in the school for the commencement of assembly time, not to ramble in any time during it. That the rules give the starting time as no later than 9.30 a.m. but do not specify a starting time.

He would know that the school’s responsibility of care applies only to school hours and a brief period before and after.

He would know the school insurance would not cover Betty if he were to drop her off too early or pick her up too late. He would know the management board have a duty to communicate this to parents engaging in the practice.

Al’s battle can be won. I for one would support him. The majority should not be imposed upon because a small minority are neglecting their offspring’s welfare. And let’s face it, leaving your child unaccompanied and unsupervised in a public place is neglect. If they were to do so in a supermarket or shopping mall for example, the children would be taken into care and the parents brought up on charges.

But Al, like Betty, needs to do his homework. Unsharpened bayonets don’t win wars. Jerking knees don’t win arguements.

Mags came by. We loved Mags. A complete and utter fruit cake. Plus she was four years older and working for a fruit importer which meant she always had money (and free fruit). She treated us all to a third one (welcome indeed) and better still her folks were away, she had her dad’s Escort Estate and would drive us home (even more welcome). The only snag was with so many of us someone would have to travel in the boot. Me!

Mags went a bit wide at a Y-junction and the car spun on the gravel sending it sideways across the road. It clipped a telephone pole and dropped tail first into a ditch. The door of the boot had shot open and I had been slung out.

Someone shouted to call an ambulance and two of us ran off in search of a phone. We scanned the wires overhead at each house until we found one that had a phone. This was 1983 and mobiles weren’t invented and many homes didn’t even have a landline.

The ambulance took Mags and one of the guys and the rest of us followed with the man whose phone we’d used.

She had knocked her head on the steering wheel an was bleeding badly and concussed. Two of the lads had broken an arm. The others had minor cuts and sprains. I was the last to be looked at. And what ails you? asked the doctor. I got stung by nettles and had a kiwi fruit squashed into my back. In his opinion I didn’t have need of his medical skills though he did take the time to enquire about kiwi fruit. This was 1983. Exotic fruits had just been invented and were even less common than landlines.

In the early hours of the following morning were allowed see Mags. She was fine but they would keep her under observation for a while longer. Could someone please, please, please get the car out of the ditch before the neighbours see it? She would face her parents when they got home. Guess who was volunteered? Me!

At 7 I set off with my neighbour in his tractor armed a strong chain. We came across a pile of boxes scattered over the road. Cartons of salt, cornflour, sugar, tea, polish, cleaning sprays, all manner of goods that had fallen of a truck heading for the nearby warehouse. We put everything into the front loader. This job would pay for itself.

I knocked on a door and explained to an elderly lady about the crash and asked could we tow the car into her yard. It’ll only be here for a week until the girl’s folks get home. They’ll take it away then. She wasn’t convinced. The last time a crashed car was put in here they never came back for it, she said pointing out a pile of rust in the garden. It was an IO reg – that’ll tell you how old it was.

Do you drink tea? Do you take sugar? Would you use some lavender polish? So we paid for parking with trucksam and left.

A few eyebrows were raised when the tractor drove in the monastery gates and up the avenue. Would you care to enlighten me as to your chosen mode of conveyance, Mr. Sneeze? You don’ want to know, Brother. I see. I should know better than to ask – you do get yourself into some strange situations. Well here are your results. Well done. Thanks, Boss. I mean, Brother. Hey, do ya want some cornflour? He didn’t.

At the hospital, Mags asked if I was there to bring her home. Jayzez, I can’t Mags, sorry. We’ve no room. The front loader’s full of salt and stuff.

That night we met at the hotel again. Casts were signed. Stitches counted and admired. I showed off the exact spot on my back that the kiwi had been squashed. As you’d expect, the results were mentioned. How did I do? I didn’t know. In all the excitement I never opened the envelope. It was at home, in a box, wedged between bottles of Jif.

That’s not totally correct – they were indeed counted. Counted and parsed by gender, age, education, you name it. They would have been parsed by sexual orientation if there were more than one in Ireland of the 80’s. The headlines every day gave numbers and percentages. A reduction in unemployment of 0.1% was good news. 50 jobs created was great news. A significant drop in the live register.

Of course the noughties are not the same as the eighties. Or so the Tánaiste, Mary Coughlan, tells us. She warns against using the policies of the 1980s to deal with the economic downturn. The economy is profoundly different now.

I remember some of those policies. After six months on the dole people were called into the social welfare office. Young women were offered secretarial courses. They would learn how to answer phones and type. Young men were offered FÁS (AnCO) courses. They would learn how to cut planks and tighten nuts. Refuse and the payments would be stopped.

While many benefited from these courses and secured work because of them, what was more important was they were no longer unemployed. They were in training. A significant drop in the live register.

Others found no one wanted their secretarial services or their planks cut. Some emigrated. Some stayed and were sent on further courses. A significant drop in the live register.

Ireland boasted the best young phone-answering nut-tightening (potential) workforce in the world.

But the situation is different now. Different measures are called for. Minister Mary Hanafin has declared young people on the dole are to be directed towards gaining additional skills and training following a sharp rise in youth unemployment. They will be pointed towards the “back to education allowance scheme”.

The BTEA scheme provides second and third level education supports. The second level encompasses the Junior Certificate, Leaving Certificate, Post Leaving Certificate (PLC), City and Guilds Certificate or a National Diploma plus third level Foundation or Access courses. i.e. FÁS courses for the noughties.

The third level supports cover university, and equivalent, degree programmes and postgraduate diplomas. I suppose this is how the policies and supports differ from the eighties – the third level option.

Or are they that different really? The minister’s tone is quite threatening. Officials at social welfare offices will spend the summer identifying young people who are eligible to enter education or training schemes in the autumn. It sounds to me they will be told they are being sent to learn the noughties’ equivalent of answering phones whether they like it or not.

What if a young woman, recently made redundant, would benefit from undertaking a university degree? What the Minister doesn’t say is that a) the application deadline for these has passed and b) that to be eligible for third level support one has to be unemployed for 12 months (not the 6 she mentions).

What if a young man, already with a degree, would benefit from a masters programme? Even if out of work for 12 months he can’t do one under this scheme as it only covers degrees and diplomas.

Will these young people be pushed into some City and Guilds course whether or not it will enhance their prospects? I have a sneaky feeling they will be. A significant drop in the live register.

That suitable third and fourth level education could boost these individuals’ careers and grow the knowledge economy the government preach about so much is not the policy here – knocking numbers off the live register is.

I’ve been enjoying it though. Being busy doing different and new things each day is far nicer than being busy doing the same crap day in day out.

Twice I’ve been out with my camera. A sports day and a graduation. Favours for friends for which payment was in sandwiches and dinner respectively.

My friends’ son did well at the sports day taking home a fair haul of medals. I got some great shots of him crossing the winning line and at full stretch in the long jump.

His graduation was a couple of days later. The usual lark – wearing a gown and mortarboard, proudly brandishing his scroll, posing alone, with classmates, with his parents.

Mam and dad were so happy and so proud on both occasions. And rightly so.

But I couldn’t help thinking it was all wrong. That thought niggled at me and refused to leave. I tried to bury it and share in the joy. But I couldn’t.

He is only 3½. He was graduating from Montessori. Graduating? Why? It was only Montessori for fek sake!

Granted the photos of him in the gown, looking cute and funny and hugable, will generate a endless outpouring of oohs and aahs from family and friends for years to come. And will embarrass the hell out of him when he’s older. That’s the purpose of childhood photographs.

But it’s still wrong. It’s overkill. It’s too organised an event for a child so young. The problem is that this will have to be bettered the next time. And the following time? And the following? Not for his sake – he didn’t understand what was going on* – but for his parents’.

*He knew something special was happening. Some sort of celebration. That’s why he asked if we were going on an outing to the forest park (his favourite place) to get icecream and find a stick. He has a tracker’s instincts and can find a stick in a forest no matter how big.

• I miss my home, my baroque princess bed, Romeo my iguana and, of course, my family.
• Tiffany’s has yet to open a branch in Co. Meath but Mum was kind enough to treat me to a full Irish in a posh café.
• Medicine seems like the trajectory for me, but if I don’t like it after a year, I can take my maximum points elsewhere.
• I found them on eBay; a divine pair of Christian Louboutim. At $900 (€575) they were practically giving them away.
• If you’re going to wear an Aran sweater, you’d better make sure the jeans scream ironic island chic. And the shoes need to be in agreement.
• … over muffins and builder’s blend (or mung beans and soy latte – I’m sure the Tesco brigade are as worried about the bikini season as I am), the good grocers …
• But they asked me about shopping on the Champs Élysées – and that’s where I spent mid-term! I simply had to tell all.
• Phew. Today is the turn of French, a pleasant and civilised aspect of the Leaving Cert that always puts me in a good mood. I’m having a croissant and a bowl of coffee for breakfast and wearing Yves St Laurent for good measure.

You’re thinking rich kid, right? Diamonds on the soles of her shoes type, yes? A straight backed, nose in the air sort. Or as we say around here, a stick stuck up the arse / thinks her shite doesn’t smell sort. If it weren’t for the Co. Meath reference you’d probably have assumed D4.

The last point is a give away – a stick stuck up the arse / thinks her shite doesn’t smell sort who was sitting the school-leaving exams.

This, ladies and gentlemen of the bloggery, was written by Ms. Laura Brady of Enfield, Co. Meath in the Exam Diary column of the Irish Times. (No link to the Times because of their damn paywall, but you can read Ms. Brady republished in full for free on skoool.ie)

I began reading her column on Tuesday last week which was then about halfway though. I was also about halfway though making my dinner and her mention of buying a €575 pair of shoes had my blood boiling hotter than my spuds. A student, a school goer, a non-earner being able to pay €287.50 each for shoes. And she figured they were practically giving them away.

Gobshite that I am, I followed her column from then on and my blood continued to boil. Big things like they way she looked down on the Tesco staff. Small, niggling things like saying she landed the last “punc” in her Irish exam. Ponc, ponc, ponc! Damn it, p-O-n-c! Unless of course she had somehow managed to fit in a quick shag with Sid Vicious between answers.

I asked myself what kind of little world does she live in. Did she not realise that the world she portrayed was alien to all bar a tiny few other Leaving Cert students? That other students could not identify with her? Did the Irish Times realise this? Did the Times not realise they were alienating future readers? Was it too late to drop the column? Could they? Was she selected as a favour to someone on the staff? So many questions. So much boiled blood I was leaving Clonakilty in the ha’penny place.

Only on finding the skoool.ie website did I begin to calm down. I went back through the column to the start and learned more of her.

Third time to sit the Leaving. Second time around she repeated both 5th and 6th years in a boarding school. This time in a points-farm on Leeson Street. Repeating not because of failing but because she needs much better grades to get into medicine.

I began to pity her. Pity her innocence. Her ignorance. What her cocooned upbringing had done to her. Her misplaced self-confidence. She will never hack med-school. It’s tough. Damn tough. Getting in is hard, but with four years studying for the same exam in the best schools of course you’ll get the required grades. Staying in is harder and taking twenty odd years to complete a 6-7 years course will not be an option.

Even if she does get through what a pitiful bedside manner she will have with her attitude to those of us who never mid-termed on the Champs Élysées, shop at Brown Thomas, wear Yves St Laurent?

I am still angry at her: Medicine seems like the trajectory for me, but if I don’t like it after a year, I can take my maximum points elsewhere. Go on then. Take up a place that someone else would die for! Waste it.

I am still angry, but I pity her more. This is all a game to her. It’s not real. Life is not real. She can play with a course in medicine. If she tires of it or finds she can’t win she can find a new toy. Her parents’ money will buy it.

Update (14/08/2008): More of this twaddle. The IT have her back again. And worse – they will have her writing about her college experiences in the autumn.

Update:

So you head down to a predominantly Muslim area of London with your clipboard and approach people on the street asking “if you had the choice, would you prefer to drink a) mineral water or b) beer?”

The results: When asked, a staggering 95% of the population said they prefer to drink water! [The remaining 5% were recorded as "don't know" - they may have said "tea"].

It’s wrong isn’t it? Pure wrong. It’s cheating. You wouldn’t take on such a commission would you? You wouldn’t lie like that.

The Catholic Church did. The Council for Research and Development of the Irish Bishops’ Conference yesterday released the results of a survey on the “Factors Determining School Choice” [in Ireland, north and south]. A survey carried out by their own researcher.

You can read about it on the Irish Independent website or, if you have money to spare, you can read a different slant on the Irish Times website. If the Catholic Communications Office got its act together you could probably read the full text of the press release on their website too. But they haven’t published it (yet).

Here are some of the “findings”:

- 98% said they were aware when applying to enrol their child that the school choice was a Catholic choice.

Insinuation: 98% of parents selected a Catholic school.

What the parents were really saying: More than 3,000 of the 3,200 primary schools in the country are Catholic. Of course we were aware.

- 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

Insinuation: 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the Church, as the school is Church run.

What the parents were really saying: Education is a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

- A clear majority believe that Holy Communion and Confirmation are best prepared for within the school.

Insinuation: Hey, look at us. Aren’t we great? Look at all we do for you? Look at the trust you place in us. Look at how much a part of your lives and the community we are.

What the parents were really saying: We couldn’t be bothered / don’t have time to do this ourselves. Shur we wouldn’t know the first thing about it, and anyway, we’re only going ahead with the Communion business to keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- 60% believe that the school’s teachers should promote the religious life of the school.

Insinuation: 60% truly prefer a Catholic education for their children.

What the parents we really saying: As above – you fire ahead with this religion business and keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- In the preamble (in the Irish Times) it said “three new State-run schools will soon open, but the question of faith formation in these schools has still to be resolved”.

Insinuation: Look at the results of our survey. Clearly you need to hand the management of these schools over to us. It’s what the parents want.

Del Trotter would love this researcher.

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.

My reply:

| Thanks for getting back to me so quickly, FC. I will work on this over the weekend.

| In the meantime, I beg to differ on a small point of grammar:

| That the word data is the plural of the singular datum – from the Latin meaning a given (thing).

| While the use of data as the singular form has become acceptable in general usage, in particular in US English, it is, nevertheless, incorrect and in my opinion, should never be used in scientific or academic texts.

| This is not to be confused with the incorrect usage of referenda as the plural of referendum. Referendum, as it is from the Latin meaning that which must be referred, is by its definition, a gerundive and therefore has no plural in Latin. Hence the correct English plural is, by default, referendums.

| Similar debates have been had for centuries as to whether the word trousers is singular or plural. No doubt this is fuelled by it’s being commonly prefixed by a pair of or two pairs of. It is my assertion that the word trousers is at once both singular and plural – singular at the top and plural at the bottom.

| Until such time as all nations have held referendums on trousers, can we agree to differ on data?

| Le gach deá-mhéin
| – Primal

His reply:

| You’re correct, Primal. I don’t know what I was thinking there.

| Lgd

| – Fat Controller

| ps. Permission to use the “trouser” one down the pub?

I really shouldn’t be slagging him – he’s one of the soundest lads you’d meet. As sound as a €1.27 and he’s been a great help. And one of the few I’ve crossed paths with in academia who understands that my day job, the one that puts beer on the counter, has to take precedence over writing 100 pages of bumph that only a small few will ever read.

The one thing I really hated about this was having to cite references throughout. You can’t say “the cat sat on the mat” unless you can back it up with a paper paper given by say, Catologist, Dr. F. E. Line, at the 5th International Carpet Conference in Caracas in 2005. On a Tuesday. About teatime.

The Fat Controller was brilliant at finding such wonderful bedtime reading as this in the labyrinth the university call a library.

Now the CEO of the railway, the course co-ordinator, was a different kettle of horses altogether. A fish of a different colour. About as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike. He caused more confusion than father’s day in Tallaght.

He asked us all to attend a workshop in July. “Who will be doing a work based thesis? A show of hands please.” All hands went up. “Who will be doing a research based thesis?” (Yes, he really did ask!) No hands obviously. He talked for two hours about research based theses.

Before the Feathers, I sent him the same email three times: “Your website states three hardbound copies of the thesis must be presented … Where do we present them? What are the specifications? Does the university have a preferred print supplier? [And so on]“. No replies. I phoned. No answer.

I went by his office the week before last. Not there. I dropped in next door to the Fat Controller. We bitched for a while. I suggested renumbering his office 665 – the neighbour of the beast. He opted not to, but promised to put my queries to the beast himself. In a neighbourly sort of way.

Just in the door and I get a mail from the CEO: “I am doing a survey. Can you tell me where you heard about the course?” I felt like telling him to go fcuk himself – that information was already provided on my application form if he’d bother his arse to look in his filing cabinet. But I didn’t. I was far more polite: “You answer my questions from before Christmas first. Then I’ll gladly answer any you have”. That was more polite, wasn’t it?

I did a survey of my own. Some of my fellow students were struggling to finish their work like me. Others were done and dusted. Three already had their theses bound (at up to €60 per copy) and were waiting to be told by the CEO where to submit them.

Last week, the Fat Controller called. “Good news, Primal. You only need to soft bind two copies – one for me and one for the external examiner. Once approved, you have until September to worry about hard binding the three copies for the exams office. Do not, for the life of you, hard bind now – the extern may suggest edits”.

Writing a thesis is hard enough without having to cope with plonkers like the CEO. Such incompetence wouldn’t be tolerated outside of academia. As a wise man once said, if you did that in Russia, you’d be fcuked in the Liffey.

But there was sunshine, or maybe moonshine, throughout all this too – You folks! Thankee all very many for the encouraging comments. Without them I would have been, I don’t know, sniffing boot polish or something. A particular hat-tip to Aonghus who unwittingly, or wittingly, I’m not sure, gave me the inspiration for the concept I was seeking that would bind the whole thesis together when he quoted Tony Hoare: Simplíocht an praghas atá le n-íoc ar iontaofacht. It pulled it all together. G’raibh maith agat. Mo ceol thú.