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?

The wind howled from the south-East. Trees and bushes ducking from the rain it lashed at them. Not cold. But uncomfortably wet. Especially for those wearing wool.

The sheep were purposely making their way toward my hedge and the only shelter in the wide open field. Pausing for a nibble. Remembering their task and moving on.

Then I saw a small white dot. Too small to be a sheep. Not the time of year you expect a lamb.

But it was. An unplanned pregnancy. Between 7 and 10 days old I judged. Not in the least unsteady, even in the gusting wind, but without the stamina that age brings.

“Oi! Leave it”, I shouted as a ewe pucked it. “Warning you!”, as she pucked again. I caught myself. It is only natural for a ewe to rebuff another’s lamb when it attempts to suckle her. The mother always comes to the rescue.

Another puck. Where was the mother? What was keeping her? Could she not hear her own lamb bleat?

Then I realised it was her lamb. She wasn’t pucking it. She was nudging it. Nuzzling it toward the hedge and the shelter it was too young to know it needed.

How wise and woolly Mother Nature can be.

Were the authorities overreacting when they ordered that all pig meat be taken off shop shelves, out of cold-stores and domestic fridges and destroyed? Probably. If the same traceability systems used for beef and mutton were in place it may not have been necessary.

On beef, is product labeled “Irish” actually Irish? No. Buy sides from Argentina, slash a knife through them and viola, they miraculously become Irish beef. Processed here, you see.

Galtee, the largest manufacturer of “Irish” sausage, rashers and hams assured everyone their Christmas hampers contain no Irish product and in fact, they never did.

Why did the Food Safety Authority initially instruct people to destroy the meat they had instead of suggesting it be returned to the vendor where possible?

Why did a TD on the Sunday Supplement say “the government are looking into whether the consumer can return the products” when, by existing law, the onus is on the seller to provide replacement, repair or refund where product is defective?

Why did organic product too have to be destroyed even though it could not possibly contain the dioxins? Do the authorities not believe, or not verify, that organic food is actually organic?

Why did product containing little or no fat (fat being where dioxins accumulate) have to be destroyed?

Why did our government embarrass the entire populace by asking the EU for aid to correct our own country’s fuck up? Why did a TD on The Last Word this evening state “we knew we wouldn’t get any aid but we asked anyway”?

I could go on. And on. And on.

But just one more …

On two radio shows today I heard the same conversation played out. I’m sure it was on many others.

A caller expressing disgust at the waste of good food when so many are starving. (Fine – good point. The European Food Safety Authority have said the levels of dioxins would cause no adverse health effects).

Both callers went on to suggest the meat be shipped to the hungry of Africa. One host pointed out that 40% of Africans are Muslim and would not eat it and furthermore most of the pig products were fresh and would not make the journey.

At least the second host asked the obvious of the caller – what did they do with their stocks – they did bin them; feed them to the dog; return them to the shop; what.

Caller: “Had to go in the bin. Couldn’t find the receipts. And shur the missis loves that dog. She’d be heartbroken if got poisoned”.

Host: “But your wife has no problem poisoning the people of Africa?”

My question is, why for the love of Babe don’t the authorities take people like these callers off the face of the Earth and destroy them? Surely they are a greater poison to the nation.

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

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

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

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

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

A lot. A heck of a lot in fact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is the safety aspect that is puzzling me:

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

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

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

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

We’re great pals. Sort of. Well I’m nice to him so doesn’t get nasty with me. That sort of way. The last time he got nasty a wall was knocked and I needed a change of underwear.

For the agriculturally-knowledgeable reading this, yes, I know he should be sporting a second ear-tag. The farmer and I tried to persuade him to accept the extra jewellery about this time last year. A wall was knocked and I needed a change of underwear. [Image © PrimalSneeze.com by the way. Update: Image © Seán Tarbh. Happy now, ya big bully?]

He’s happy in his new surroundings. And why wouldn’t he be with a herd of females to pander to his needs? I hope they stay with him. He gets quite upset when separated from his lady friends. The last time that happened a wall was knocked and I needed a change of underwear.

By now, you’ve come to realise there is no point to this post. Seán just wanted his picture on the Internet and what Seán wants, he gets.

Right so. That’s me done. Let the “bull” gags commence.

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.

In ways they were unwittingly shooting themselves in the foot. The hedgerows acted as natural barriers to insects and fungal pathogens. The artificial drainage systems, no matter how well engineered, seldom worked as well as the natural. Sheep farmers complained of foxes taking more lambs that usual. With the ditches and banks gone, so too were the rabbit burrows and the foxes had to find alternative food.

They were also destroying the habitat of so many animal, bird and insect species. Insects! you say. To hell with them. Horrible little annoying things that get in my hair while I’m out walking. Ever stopped to think what the pretty little birdies you so admire on your walks eat? I haven’t seen figures yet, but I can guess that many fledglings hatched this year died before leaving the nest, or shortly after, because their parents, or they themselves, couldn’t source enough food during the cold wet summer.

But were the farmers wrong? Not when you consider they were being advised by the experts and encouraged by the authorities- the EU. Were those experts and authorities wrong? Not when you consider that was the accepted wisdom of the day. There were an abundance of alternative habitats pre-Celtic Tiger when the population was lower and very few roads, commercial premises and houses were being built. The farmers were ill advised and the experts mistaken.

Once those errors were realised, actually a long time after they were, steps were taken to reverse the damage. The non-farming community were aghast that farmers would be paid to leave land idle under the set-aside scheme. It took a few years, but a lot of species recovered. I could see this myself. The REPS (Rural Environmental Protection Scheme) came later and went unnoticed by the general population. Substantial payments are be made for ensuring the preservation of wildlife habitats including hedgerows. This had an even greater effect.

Now I’m not a farmer, but the place here is bordered by hedges planted by my grandfather in the 1930’s. The roadside section is barren – the volume of traffic keeps all wildlife away from it. But the back, a stretch of about 180m, is high and wide. Some would say overgrown, but I say natural. Hawthorn flowers white as if weighed down by a blanket of snow. From my window I see branches drooping under a heavy load of red berries. Both wonderful sights, the second for birds too.

[Did you get this far, by the way? Or did all the talk of farming send you away?]

My problem is the Council are on my case to trim the front one. They have a legal right to insist, but it wouldn’t be an issue if they hadn’t resurfaced and widened the road, without consultation and all done for the Ryder Cup, but with the knock-on effect of trebling traffic volumes. It’s strange they are quoting the law now, yet encouraged land owners to trim their hedges before the legal September 1 date last year so as to have them looking pretty for the golf tourists.

But I can give in on this – it’s barren anyway as I say. My greater issue is the back hedgerow. Some of it has to be cut down to about 1m because of the house extension. I can relent on this too. But I am coming under pressure from my perfectionist builder who is insisting that the remainder will look bad if the rest is trimmed. Some of the neighbours have commented too, in their own subtle way – what are you going to do with that overgrown pile of shite, Primal? I have fobbed them off as politely as possible until now – mind your own business, ya interfering auld bollix.

They are right though. It will be an eyesore. If I am to cut it then January or February would be best. The birds would not go without their winter food supply and it would thicken up enough in time for nesting. But that would mean getting the hedge cutter in twice which is more costly – he’d have to re-trim the front to match. Plus the land is dry now and could be a swam come January.

Cut it now and be damned, you say. There are plenty of other hedges out there for the birds. There are wildlife reserves for them. But isn’t that passing the buck? Saying it’s not my fault, I had to do it – a common trait of late in Ireland. BSE as one of the papers called it yesterday – blame somebody else.

And if you’d ever taken a stroll with me at dawn when all is quiet you’d smile to see the birds feeding or nest building where they were meant to. For me, that is a far greater joy than watching them use an artificial birdhouse or feeder.

Harry was being extra pally. Normally I just get a grunt over the hedge. I had intended cadging the tractor. Now it was being offered. This was great.

Then it dawned on me and I got that sinking feeling. The one you get when you press basement. That sudden panic you get having made it to the jacks just in time for a world record flash-dump only to realise there’s no bog roll.

The feker was looking for something.

You wouldn’t be free for a few hours on Thursday? It’s just that, with Tom off sick and the young lads away in Spain, I’ve no-one to give me a hand sorting a few sheep.

The golden rule of the countryside is stay in with the farmer with the best tractor. The silver rule is keep out of his way until you need to borrow it. I think they should be the other way around.

Now those of you, who like me, are desk jockeys and spend your days massaging lumps out of your chair with your arse, may think sheep are lovely fluffy white things that you’d love to have roaming around your lawn. Let me tell you they’re not. They are stubborn fekers that will lull you into a false sense of security when being herded through a gap and change direction suddenly, for no apparent reason, and run like greyhounds to the far end of the field and laugh at you. Their wool is not soft and downy – it’s got more grease in it than the fifth wheel on an artic. When penned they won’t shy away in a corner – if they think you’re blocking the exit they’ll jump at you and knock you senseless if you don’t hit them with an American football blocking tackle.

When Harry said sort a few sheep he meant a little more than that: Select lambs for market; select more for next fortnight’s market; dose lambs to be kept; dagg them if dirty; spray them with dip; check the teeth and elders of the ewes; pare hooves if needed.*

There were 350 ewes and 500 lambs. I came home as exhausted as a hooker from the rugby world cup. Either type of hooker.

Scrubbed and scrubbed in the shower and I could still smell them such is the way their scent permeates the skin. Lynx or any other smell-well doesn’t mask it.

And worst of all, not being used to manual labour, I woke up this morning with aches and pains in places where I never had places. Even worser than worser the builder has organised a truck so I don’t need the fekin tractor after all.

I’ve seen Snakes on a Plane and it didn’t scare me. Goats on a Boat didn’t either. But one movie I know I couldn’t watch would be Sheep on a Ship.

*If you don’t know what some or all of this entails, believe me you don’t want to know.