Cheating is allowed - you can vote as often as you like. Which means it’s not really cheating then I suppose.

For many years I worked with the same company. (Note the Freudian slip? with not for). Except for one unsavoury incident, I truly loved every minute of my time there. The work was interesting, but what made it was the people. HR did a great job of selecting new hires that would fit in - meaning you could be the greatest engineer in the world, but if you didn’t have a wild or witty streak, you could fcuk right off.

There was more laughter in that building than in the Foley department of the BBC sit-com studios.

It suited me fine. I seemed to get away with murder. Or at least, manslaughter. Or maybe mouse-slaughter. Well nearly anyway. I was in the office late one evening and ended up getting roped into loading a truck. A mouse ran across my path and was killed instantly by 4 tonnes of forklift and 70kg of Sneeze. The following day, a funeral was held and the scrapings off the floor laid to rest in the flowerbed. The GM officiated and, I was later told, said some very nice things about Michael and offered his condolences to his wife and their 153 children. As perpetrator of the crime I wasn’t present - I was locked in the warehouse cage for the duration. I was only released after a team from accounts reported they couldn’t say conclusively that the bum-prints on the forklift seat were mine. So much for forensic accountants.

Early one morning, in an effort to cheer up the receptionist, who had missed out on a promotion, I burst out from the mens’ shouting call the Guards! Call the Guards! We’ve got a floater. It worked and she literally fell off her seat laughing. Which would have been fine if she hadn’t been in the process of transferring a call from Germany to Sales and ended up putting it through to the canteen. The chef wasn’t having a great day either and screamed at the head of procurement in BASF: How many times do I have to tell you fekin eejits? I will not take orders from you at this hour of the day. I honestly can’t remember how that one was soothed over.

We had a manager temporarily transferred to us from California to lead a particular project. Erik Wenger insisted on a meet-and-greet breakfast for all the senior staff. I did up a nameplate for the janitor and invited him along. It read Crisis Avoidance Manager - well he kept the toilet roll dispensers topped up, didn’t he? No one was more deserving of a free meal. Erik-with-a-K, as he was to become known, introduced himself and told us how great he was for half an hour or more. It was the day before St. Paddy’s, which sort of counts as a Friday, so we were all pretty chilled and let him rabbit on. Enough about me. We squirmed - we’d all have to explain our roles and tell him how great we were. So tell me … we squirmed a bit more. What are you guys all doing for the holiday? We relaxed. Are you going to the mainland? Stunned fckuing silence. The janitor came to the rescue. Well we can’t because of all the heavy rain ya see. The Irish Sea’s too high and the boats aren’t allowed sail. It’s a health and safety thing. Really, said Erik-with-a-K, that’s unreal. Oh it’s not just here, went on our saviour, it’s all of Europe. Shur they had pictures of Venice on the telly last night and the place is under 20ft of water.

On the shop floor, most of the staff were young Dubliners. In the days before cheap air-travel, few had been past Newlands Cross, never mind seen exotic places like Kildare or Wicklow. To put that to rights, one of the company nights-out was held in Navan. It became obvious after a couple of hours that the pub we’d chosen was too small and with more still to arrive, something had to be done. The production manager volunteered to scout for a larger venue and took, Wayne with him. Settled in the new hostelry I asked the PM why he’d taken him. At each pub they went to, he had Wayne stand inside the door while he approached the counter. He’s explained to each barman that there were 40 in the group and pointed out Wayne as the drunkest. If you think you’ll have no problem with him, then the rest will be a piece of cake.

It was cold wet windy night. The forecast was for gales and flooding. The kind of night when sensible people lock their doors, pull the curtains and sit warming themselves in the glow of a flickering TV.

Not me. I had to go out. I’d arranged to meet someone at precisely some time between 7:15 and 8:00. But how? There would be drink involved so I couldn’t take the car. And I flatly refuse to use taxis since they tried convince us the national maximum fare was a minimum. I thought of my local publican.

Now Con has a reputation for being, shall we say, less than generous. It is said the crows flying over his house bring packed lunches. It is said he hates breathing out. It is said he owes himself money. It is said if he owned the Alps he wouldn’t give you a slide.

But I tried anyway. Good man, Con. Are you working tonight? I’m finishing at 7:00. Any chance you’d be able to pick me up after that and drop me to the pub? I have to meet a lad and it’s kind of important. He grumbled a bit but agreed.

The following morning, through the haze induced by the barrel of his beer still bubbling around in my belly, I seen him at the shop. Ah Con. Thanks for the lift last night. You were a lifesaver. He muttered something about the money he’d made out of me wouldn’t have covered the petrol he used. Ah me bollix, says I, if it weren’t for us making up the crowd the bar last night would’ve been as empty as Dáil Éireann outside of budget day.

Back home, the builders gave me a small can of petrol and I decanted a couple of hundred mil into an old medicine bottle. I knocked up a new label on the computer, put it in a box and wrapped it with left over Christmas paper. I dropped it off to him in the pub that afternoon saying that’s just a little thank-you for yesterday.

I left before he opened it but I have no doubt the contents are in his car by now, the bottle put away safely and the wrapping saved for next December. He may have managed to salvage some of the sellotape too.

At the bus-stop

Can you tell me where the Irish embassy is in Dublin? - Muriel, recently returned to Ireland after 40 years in the UK and now trying desperately to secure a passport for her 24 year old Tunisian boyfriend so he can join her.

In the shop

Not sure. Must be a sequel to an old movie - A young assistant when asked about the Brideshead Revisited DVD that came free with a newspaper.

In the pub

They’ll just ignore it. Shur they smoke on the LUAS over there - Gerry, doubting whether the French would comply with the smoking ban.

In college

You’ll need to flesh that out a wee bit - My supervisor’s advice on the acknowledgements page in my thesis: I would like to thank the dog, the cat and everyone who knows me. And of course the lady who held the door in Spar this morning.

I wasn’t much of a wine drinker back then. But that was all they had. They rummaged in the cellar but not a single bottle of beer was to be found. I survived a couple of hours but finally cracked. I persuaded one of the waiters to drive me down to an off-license.

We were met by two security guard types when we got back. Ah jayzez, have they stolen the crown jewels? This is no laughing matter, sir. A man’s gone missing. One of your party I suspect - a Mr. Sneeze. Fuck off! That’s me. Look, I’m not missing. I’m here. See me. I’ve been here all along. And, okay right, there, pointing down the hill, for a bit.

Pam read me the riot act. All sort of stuff about employee safety being her responsibility on this trip. My conduct would be reported to Dublin. Yackedy, yack, yack. What had I got to say for myself? I don’t suppose I can put the beer on expenses can I? Apparently I was not only irresponsible but I was cheeky too.

Back at the hotel the VP announced he was pulling rank. He threw a few hundred behind the bar. And no one was going to bed until they had sang at least one song and all the money was spent. I sang the first 114 verses of Báidín Fheilimí - as you do. Pam decided she was off the clock, had her first drink of the evening and chilled out a bit. Now was my chance.

Eh, Pam, me auld flower. Yes, Primal - what now? Well you know they way I kind of make a bollix of things? Like nearly loosing the £100 cash? Yes, I heard. And like nearly getting arrested trying to spend it? I heard that too. And like going missing? I noticed. What now? Well I left my feking cheque on the table up at the Castle. Damn it, Primal, you are incorrigible. That’s not good I take it? I suppose it’s lads like me give drink a bad name.

She made some calls. The cheque was found. In a bin. Where else? The bagpiper would be passing the hotel on his way home and drop it off. He duly did and the VP insisted he stay for one. He couldn’t - he had two of the dancers waiting in the car. I was dispatched to fetch them and the tartan octopus.

I don’t know what time we called it a night but Sunday was the Feast of Mother Mary Aching Head. You couldn’t class me as an absolutely brilliant anything. I could just about manage horizontal but vertical was out of the question so I stayed in bed until it was time to go to the airport. I double checked the bin and left.

It being pre 9/11 security was just a formality. Sick as I was I still had the responses off by heart. Did you pack your own bags, sir? Yeash. Has your luggage been out of your sight since then, sir? Noargh. Have you any new or unused electrical equipment? Noargh. Big mistake. The scanner picked up the radio and I got the “could you step in here for a moment, sir, thank you, sir” treatment. It may have been pre 9/11 but in the aftermath of Canary Wharf being Irish was a bit of a disadvantage in the UK.

The absolutely stunning girl was beside me on the plane again. How was the musical? Brilliant! Pity you threw away your ticket. Yeah, I regretted it after. Big time. Twice. So how was your company dinner? Oh, a few glitches but great overall. Do you reckon we’ll be in Dublin before 10? If I miss the last bus from town I’ll have to take a taxi. Well we’re running very late because of that security scare so I doubt it. Some idiot was trying to smuggle electronics. Yeah, I heard. Some people, eh?

I missed the bus. The taxi driver took the last of my sterling - pound for punt - no exchange rate. I’d have preferred to have left it in the bin than give it to the robbing bastard. I bought shares in the company with my cheque. Not long after, the President and the (by then, not so absolutely brilliant) VP were caught fiddling the books and the NASDAQ suspended trading. The shares plummeted the day the ban was lifted and I was left with next to nothing. I might as well have left the cheque in the bin. So much for being an absolutely brilliant employee.

I actually did go sightseeing that morning. Well I stood on Princes Street and looked up at the Castle for a minute or two. That’s nice. Now where’s that bar near the bookies? The girl on the plane was spot on with her suggestion. A big shiny Guinness sign in the window and a bookies right next door. Every customer was reading the racing pages. Dockets and pens set out along the counter. This was home from home. And better still, I had two crisp £50 notes to play with - my musical money.

The problem was the barman wouldn’t take them. He said they looked dodgy. Fifties obviously weren’t often seen in this pub. Where did I get them? I rescued them from a cleaning lady’s trolley. [Digging] No, I mean, they’re legit. I put them there myself. Sort of. [Deeper] Look, they were a gift from my job because they couldn’t get me a ticket to see some crap musical. [Throw me down a ladder] I should have just lied and said the bank gave them to me.

I tried the bookies. Hey, you’re the Irish bloke who was trying to offload fake notes next door. He reached for the phone. I assumed he was calling the cops and I legged it out the door.

Another bar laundered them without a whimper and I managed to back a few winners. Even with the few pints I had more in my pocket when I got back to the hotel than I went out with. This was going great.

The plan was that we’d all meet up in the hotel (in our business-casual attire though I still didn’t know what that meant), for drinks, then a coach would take us up to the Castle. The woman in the lift asked if I was Mr. Sneeze. Primal, yes, and you are? Pam Wolcott (Head of Human Resources, Europe) - I just knew one of you Irish would be first down to a free bar.

Well that stung big time. She was probably right, but it stung anyway. I bit my tongue.

The rest of the party arrived shortly after. I needn’t have worried about the dress code - the guy from Vienna wore a yellow jacket, green tie and red pants. The two from Rome must have shopped at the same circus-surplus store. I was positively normal.

I brought a tray of drinks back to our table but left a mineral water on the counter. The Irish weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the free bar and the queue was three deep. Eh, Pam, could you pass me out that Evian there like a good woman. She squeezed past one, under the arm of another, hitched up her skirt, knelled on a chair, leaned over a table and handed it to me. Well done. Obvious it’s not the first time you passed water in a crowded room.

Why they hired a coach is beyond me. It took longer to get on it and off it than the journey. The Castle entrance was just around the corner. We had to walk for miles after that. Uphill and over cobbles. I learned the phrase why the fek did I wear high heels in seven languages that night.

It was worth the pain though. The craic was mighty. A bagpiper led us into the hall. Later he was to recite/roar the Address to a Haggis and proceed to rip it to shreds with his scian. I began to wonder if Robert Burns actually hated the stuff. Maybe it was just our bagpiper. Hauling around a screeching octopus in a tartan knickers all day would put anyone in bad form.

The big fat cheques were presented by the Belfast born VP of Europe and the Middle East. Then band came on. The dancers in their innocence asked for volunteers. Four Paddys full of drink and high on trad, with four pretty girls in the same room is simply dangerous. Before the circus-clad crowd could get their jackets off we three absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland and the absolutely brilliant VP (he gave us the cheques remember) were swinging the girls around the floor ignoring their pleas for mercy. But it encouraged the others to loosen up and by the end of the night we had the whole Continental Céilí thing going on. Luckily no one was injured. Much.

Then there was the search party. Had he gotten lost looking for the loo? Had he slipped down some stairs and was lying in agony? Could he fallen over the wall to his death? I hadn’t done any of those things.