They’ll make a lovely couple. Good humoured, witty, hard-working and almost mentally stable.

The stag was last weekend. There’s not much to tell. A vow of omertà was taken I’m told.

There was a pre-hen party too. The chicken as the ladies called it.

Planned as a dry run for the real thing, with dry being the keyword. A nice meal, maybe one or two drinks, just maybe mind, a stay overnight at the bride-to-be’s sister’s and a good long old chat.

All went well until the waiter deposited free passes to a newly opened nightclub on the table. Well what were the girls to do? They couldn’t exactly turn down such a generous offer. It would have been plain rude.

They politely accepted the free cocktail too. And shur it was only right to buy a second as a thank you to the club owner. And a third as a thank you very much. And …

… they left at 3am, the main-miss doing so by sliding head first down the stairs, ending between the legs of a doorman and whacking him hard in the groin with her head as she stood up.

Back at the house, well there had to be a wee nightcap, didn’t there? And the nightcap became a night-nightcap. And a night-night-nightcap.

Charades. Charades are always a great idea when you have a half-gallon of assorted spirits swirling around in your belly.

“A movie – one word – the whole thing” and the main-miss stripped down to her thong stretching the elasticated ties over her shoulders.

If that was just the chicken I can’t imagine what the hen will be like. If any reader sees a female Borat impersonator on the streets of Liverpool next weekend let me know.

“Session on for the Young Lad’s 40th in one of the sheds on the farm. Don’t tell him – it’s a surprise. Dress cood [sic] western style. And don’t bring drink – there’ll be loads.”

Grand, says I. I’ll go to that. It’ll make feel old what with the Young Lad hitting 40 and all, but shur it’ll be a guaranteed great craic.

Now, the dress cood [sic again]. What’ll I wear?

Got it! An Aran jumper, a báinín cap, turned-down wellies and in my arms a Barbie doll in a short skirt as a Galway Hooker. Can’t get more western than that, can you?

I suggested my mate Peadar not bother dressing up – after all, his son’s name is Aaron so he could just go as “the old man of Aaron”. He could go around and around and mime playing pool and point at a hole in the ground if anyone wanted a hint. He liked the idea.

Pat’s father’s anniversary was the same weekend so he’d be up from Cork. I rang him.

Well, says he, the father’s isn’t ’til next weekend. But, look – it’s the Young Lad’s 40th so I’ll come up. It won’t kill me to come up two weekends in a row. Now what’ll I wear?

Go mad, says I, do something out of the ordinary – blue jeans, Stetson, check shirt and boots.

The three of us met up at the pub. Early. Very early. We stayed a bit too long.

The whole place was in darkness when we arrived.

Christ!, said Peadar, he must be about to arrive. They’ve killed the lights. We’d better sneak in the back way so we’re there when he comes. Don’t want to tip him off and spoil it.

Now sneaking into a farm yard the back way involves climbing barbedwire fences and crossing muddy fields, but we did it.  A few scratches and mucky boots never hurt anyone. After all, there was loads of drink going according to the “documentation” as Peadar pointed out.

Either everyone was wearing black and being totally silent and motionless or we were alone.

We were alone. Not a sinner there.

I rang the Young Lad’s sister. No. Right. Grand. Just wondering.

Bollix, lads. Right date. Wrong month. It’s on in April. We’re three months early.

So we headed on back toward the pub.

Passing the church we met the Young Lad going in. Where are ye pair of eejits going in them rigouts?  And the three of yiz half cut. The state of yiz. Jayzez, Pat you’re not coming into your Daddy’s mass like that, are ya? The rest of them are in there already – they’ll murder ya if they see ya like that.

A master of malapropism and maladroit with words generally, he has always been good for a giggle. On slow days we’d purposely prod him.

Jake, one of the main protagonists, commented, you know, Republican, you’re as glabrous as I am hirsute.

I’m what?

With my bushy beard and your rapidly receding hairline, we are polar-opposites.

Oh yez are all great lads. Slagging me … me … me erstwhile hair. Well mocking is catching and you’ll wake up one these mornings with appalachia. You’ll be as garrulous as I am. Who’ll be laughing then?

Now there’s an interesting fact: Gallarous Oratory is where the monks first invented the tonsure. That must be where the word comes from.

And Jake left it at that. The Republican would be bursting to astound customers with his new-found gem of knowledge. We could sit back and listen. It was guaranteed to keep us amused for a long time.

And so we waited for the next slow day. Hey, Republican, I said, you’re a man who knows his stuff. Which is grammatically correct: There “is soles on my shoes”, or there “are soles on my shoes”.

“Are”. Shoes is plural.

You sure? I mean, like there’s only one sole on one shoe. That’d make it singular. I’d say there is soles.

No! “Are”. Has to be “are”. Two soles on two shoes.

Ah now, interjected, Jake. I think Sneezy’s right. You say “a pair of shoes”. That’s singular. And anyway, you can’t have two soles on a shoe.

It wasn’t long before the Republican was red-faced and slamming the counter screaming “Are Soles, Are Soles, Are Soles”.

We feigned disgust and walked away, pints in hand, to look out the window.

To break the tension and change the subject mar dhea I said, you have to hand it to those steeplejacks working on the church spire. Brave men to be going up that high.

Steeplejills actually, pointed out Jake.

Really? Women? The two of them?

Oh yes. And very sought after steeplejills they are to. They get called in on jobs all over the world. On big money those girls I tell you. Big money.

Now here, you pair, butted in the Republican, whether they’re men or women they’re still steeplejacks. There’s no such thing as a steeplejill.

Don’t let those lassies hear you say that. They’d be very upset. Very proud of being steeplejills they are.

I’ll prove it, said the Republican, spying a big blue covered tome on the shelf … Hey! What sort of a dictionary is this? It doesn’t even have steeplejack in it.

Eh, said Jake, that’s a thesaurus. The lads left it there for when they’re doing the crossword.

And what exactly would a thesaurus be?

It’d be where the country buses stop in Dublin … and we ran.

Best of all were the folks I worked with. Okay, there were some right gobshites but they were gently eased out the door, or failing that, stood up against a wall in the middle of a field – bang! bang! – one shot to the back of the head. Metaphorically of course. Metaphoric weapons are far more effective.

But yeah, some great friendships were forged in the dungeons of Uncle Sam’s overseas sweatshop. Friendships that are just as strong today as they were then. Friendships that have survived despite geographic separation and no longer meeting face to face.

One such, and one of the strongest, was with a French girl. Stéphanie was hired to speak French. She was damn good at it I tell you. I suppose the years of practice stood to her.

Having worked as an au pair in Ireland years previously her English was excellent too. During her first time here she developed a love of céilí dancing and was, as they say, mad for trad. Very quickly we were go mór le chéile.

[This is a bit scary, but just this second a mail from her popped into my inbox. The first in weeks and all the more welcome because of it.]

What I remember most is the laughing. Non-stop laughing. One time the country manager walked into my office to find Stéph and I lying on the floor, hoarse from laughing and with tears flowing down our faces. Neither of us could compose ourselves long enough to speak to him. We had just read these.

Another evening we were heading to a gig. She had just finished work and was hungry so we stopped off at a garage where she bought a sandwich to eat in the car. “Oh god! It’s half ate”, she cried. “Don’t worry”, I said, “we’ll get another at the next garage”. “No ya spanner – I said it’s half eight – the concert’s already started”.

She burned a meal (her first attempt) for a group of us one afternoon. She got smashed on soupe (French slag for punch). I was driving, but got high on hilarity. There is a framed photo on my wall from that day. The two of us wearing motorbike helmets sitting astride a chair doing 90 around the kitchen while the others sat placidly shaking their heads. That bit made it funnier. Well, we thought it was funny.

Then the time came for her to return home. She had no choice. She was needed there.

There were hugs and tears and a going-away party. Promises made. Most of them kept. A lot of chocolate. All of it ate [see a bit above]. Boxes to be shipped. A nest of bunkbeds [see above a bit more].

Stéphanie gave me a set of Sheaffer pens as a staying-at-home gift. A ballpoint and a mechanical pencil in a presentation case. Chrome with rubberised grips, I loved them. Six years and many refills later I still use the ballpoint everyday.

Until yesterday that is. A terrible thing happened – I lost it. I turned the house upside down (sorry, I didn’t take pictures) and couldn’t find it anywhere. It was lost and so was I. I tried using another pen but it didn’t sit right in my hand – too heavy. Another was too light. The grip was too rough on another. I was like Goldilocks trying to find what was just right, but couldn’t.

This morning a terrible thing unhappened. It fell out of a coat where it had been caught up in the lining. It was 5am and the dog was the only one I could share my news with. “Feck the bears – the porridge is just right and all’s well with the world again”. He didn’t seem to care.

I never thought of myself as possession-person but it dawned on me that it was that pen that mattered. Buying another the exact same would have been no good, because it wouldn’t have been the same pen. It wouldn’t have the curious dint and the two scratches. More importantly it wouldn’t have been the pen Stéph gave me. It wouldn’t have been the link to happy memories.

So I spent the rest of the morning gathering up the bits and pieces that were given to me by true friends over the years. Mugs; beermats with simley faces; keyrings; books signed by the giver. All reminders of good times and great people.

Here on Roundworld, many companies have learned the true value of old fashioned post over new technologies. Not only can it achieve things that tech can’t (try emailing an elephant), but its components have value in their own right. In Ankh-Morpork a small number of stamps produced with an intentional flaw saw their face value of 1 Ankh-Morpork penny rise to many dollars as a collector’s item. While businesses may not engage in stamp collecting they do harness the value of the postal system in other ways.

A friend of mine buys trinkets from a home-based jewellery maker in Hong Kong. Never is a single piece valued at more than €1. These she used give as token gifts to not-so-best-girlfriends and colleagues. (It’s a woman thing. Men buy each other pints). Some of these not-so-best-girlfriends and colleagues got to like the pieces so much that they ask her for more. She obliges. At €5 a pop.

So where does Lucy Lu in Hong Kong make her cut? In postage. A 100g packet to Ireland costs HK$5.60 surface of HK$11.10 air. Lucy charges €4 and €7.50 respectively. The exchange rate runs at around HK$10 to the euro so you can see the mark-up.

It’s a win-win for both my friend and Ms Lu. Both make a decent margin.

Recently I began playing around with VistaPrint, the online print service. But I was never 100% happy with the layouts I created and invariably clicked the “save for later” button. I’d return a few days later, dislike them even more, delete them and make new ones. Still not happy.

Then VistPrint began emailing me offers. Business cards now 25% off. Personalised Christmas cards – 10 for free. Monogrammed Koala bears now only €2.99. That kind of thing.

As time went on, the offers got better. The latest offered just about everything for free or near enough. The world. Oysters. You name it. I guess they knew I was interested, just needing a push and I’d be hooked, but how in the name of the mother of the six sniffling infants were they to make money giving me a planet, exotic bears and seafood for free?

I capitulated and ordered something small. In the interests of checking the quality of their work I told myself. In the interests of getting stuff for only €1.99 I didn’t tell myself.

I got out pen and paper Open Office Calc and did some Calcing. Having worked in digital print I know €1.99 is a fair price for the item ordered and quantity given the customer was providing the artwork. Last week I posted a DVD in a Jiffy bag (about the same weight as the item and the packaging I expect it to be delivered in) for 55c.

The postage being charged by VistaPrint? €5.69. And that’s not HK$5.69, it’s real money.

The bottom line is that blogging will be slight over the next few weeks while I get my mailorder business off the ground.

It had slipped off my radar until I learned that three people I know would be attending. Two had been given free tickets at a similar event some months prior. The other had booked a complementary ticket via Mr. Howard’s own website.

So here was an event with an attendence in the hundreds, at €1,200 per person, being offered for free. Say just 200 people signed up – that would be almost a quarter of a million euro down the swanee. I thought that strange. Wouldn’t you?

Where was the catch?

Three long days. From early morning to late evening. People would opt to stay in the hotel rather than travel to and from. Could Mr. Howard be getting a kickback on accommodation?

Merchandise perhaps. Would there be all manner of expensive goodies on offer? Books, CDs and DVDs.

Neither would come near softening the blow of dropping a quarter of a million.

Krishna De wrote on her blog that a previous client of hers had attended the event and immediately “signed up for the US$30,000 programme”. Krishna, with feet firmly on the ground, went on to warn “if you do not want to invest at that level, keep your credit card at home!”.

So that was it. Here kid try this. A gift. From me. For free. There now, see how good that makes you feel. And little Johnnie ends up doing horse at €500 a day.

The only difference is the drug being pushed by Mr. Howard is knowledge not heroin. But as a self-confessed knowledge junkie, I know that craving, that thirst, comes from within. Though it can be nurtured, it cannot be forced.

Some religions do force their teachings upon the masses in the guise of knowledge and enlightenment.

Take a look at Mr. Howard’s US website. What do you see? I see Jim Jones. I see the faithful with arms aloft in adoration of their saviour. Long days being preached to and little rest is one of the tools of brainwashing.

Take a look at the menu. CH Crew and Community. I read priests and followers.

Take a look at the UK website. Far more subdued. But then religion is a more subdued affair in Europe than in the US. The same message just tailored to suit the demographic.

Of the three I know, two attended. One has booked another course. At an asking price of £5,000, but for a special lower rate offered to previous attendees.

Their argument: Another outfit is running the same course and they’re not as good and they’re a lot dearer.

My argument: €100k for a car is expensive. €80k for the same is less so, but still damned dear.

Their argument: This is a masters programme.

My argument: It is not like an M.A. or M.Sc. Mr. Howard is abusing the word “masters”.

Their argument: It’s a level II course. I can go on to the highest then – a level III.

My argument: At £7,000 for level III that makes the car far too expensive.

Their argument: Once I have it under my belt I can give courses myself and make a lot of money.

My argument: A pyramid scheme. You progress from follower, to postulant, to novice, to knight or whatever, then bring more followers onboard and the cycle begins again.

I admit a bias in that I have as much faith in NPL gurus as I do SEO experts, but the whole hype and marketing strategy behind Mr. Howard’s programmes just reeks. Splashing buddy-buddy pics of Richard Branson about doesn’t convince me of anything. Even Jim Jones had followers in the upper levels of the establishment.

A name. She would need a name. We took to the high stool, leaving the puppy to explore the bar, to think about it.

Dee-Oh-G was a runner. Maybe Keh-mere. Barker? Maybe, but what if she turned out to be a whiner instead? We called another round – these deliberations could take time.

Ah for fuck sake, screamed the barman. Look what that bastardin’ dog of yours is after doing!

Unnamed puppy, exhausted from exploring, had climbed on a bench, fallen fast asleep and peed all over it. Awakened by the commotion, she was visibly embarrassed.

The barman tossed a out toilet roll. Here, he roared red-faced, you wipe that up. I’m not going near it.

Pat tore off two small sheets, walked over, gently raised the dog’s tail and dabbed at her butt.

Things were tough but what kept them going was the certainty of a wage at the end of the week. And the TV was much better than back home. UK Gold was being broadcast live remember.

One of the most memorable ads aired on UK TV at that time was for the AA. Two old dears sat in their car, one declaring “he’s a very nice man”, the other bettering her with “he’s a very, very nice man”, only for the first to come back with “he’s a very, very, very nice man”. And so on as the camera panned out to show an AA mechanic working feverishly to repair the car in the pouring rain.

But even timeless classics like that didn’t make up for the anti-Irish bias encountered daily. A bias caused, or intensified, depending on your view, by the activities of the IRA. All Paddies were suspect and that was that.

On one trip home, Pat was taken out of the queue at Heathrow and told to raise his arms, place his hands against the wall and spread his legs. He was frisked from the top down.

The other passengers filed slowly by and Pat nodded back over his shoulder. “He’s a very nice man. He’s a very, very nice man.” When the officer’s hands ran up inside his legs he squealed “oooh, eeew, he’s a very, very veeeery nice man”.

Her Majesty’s finest slunk away red-faced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I see. And the remuneration?

Huh?

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

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

Why is that? you may ask. Well, I may tell you, we grew up together and have been playing practical jokes on each other since we could walk and slagging each other since we could talk.

I was invited to his wedding. A blacktie affair the invitation said. Well it was for me and no one else. I stood out like a right dick in my monkey suit. I got him back for that the week he came home from the honeymoon – he came out one morning to find “Just Married” sprayed on the post van in shaving foam and a clatter of tins cans tied to the back. He was half way through his round when someone pointed out the banner trailing from the aerial – “I got my first ride”.

For months now he’s been at me to put a postbox at the entrance. For months now I’ve been putting it off just to bug him.

I relented last week and bought one. But I couldn’t hang it on my own, so I figured who better to help me than the man who would use it most. On Friday he held it while I bolted it on. He even got to pick the spot it went. I thanked him most profusely: That’s grand. You won’t be coming into the yard annoying me now.

Yesterday I seen him pass by the window. A knock on the door. I ignored it. He came to the window.

Open the door, ya bollix ya.

How do I know it’s you?

You can see me, for feck sake.

Not good enough. Have you ID? And anyway, the postman always knocks twice.

He knocked on the door again and I opened it.

Would ya not use that grand postbox I bought ya?

I have a parcel. Won’t fit. Why didn’t ya get a decent size one?

Me? Me? You’re blaming me? Shur it was you put it up.

I did not. You did.

No I didn’t. As sure as the dog’s me witness, I seen ya. I was standing there right beside ya on when you put it up. Not my fault you put up a box that’s too small.

I noticed something protruding for the box later. He’d gone and stuffed it full of advertising leaflets.

I left them in it. We’ll see what happens today.