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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was wrong about one thing.

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

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

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

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

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

The Gardaí recommended the foreman discretely monitor the tank levels to find out how much was being taken and how often. After a couple of weeks it was clear that every two or three nights about 100l was going missing.

I was asked to stake out the place for a week. With the promise of overtime I naturally jumped at the chance. Plus I was given a mobile phone. A mobile phone! It was the ’80s remember and mobiles were big clunky contraptions with a handset wired to what looked like a car battery and just as heavy. Even car phones weren’t available in Ireland back then. It was all very exciting.

My first night as Primal PI I hid my van behind a stack of pallets at the side of the compound and waited. Christ the boredom! My watch crawled. Had it stopped? No. The clock on the dash read the same. I was only there an hour. How would I do seven nights of this?

I needn’t have worried. A car pulled up. The driver unlocked the gates to the compound and drove in. A small truck followed soon after and made it’s way toward the tanks. I made the call – my first ever mobile phone call. I got my instructions.

As the visitors were about to leave I started the van. At least I tried to. Panic set in. I’d forgotten to set the ignition to heat first and the engine just wouldn’t fire on cold diesel. Set to heat. Count. 1 … 2 … slowly damn it! … … 3 … … 4. It fired. But I’d been seen. Sweat. Cold sweat. Shaking hands. I gunned the engine as all good TV detectives do and sped around the corner. Gravel flying from the wheels. I parked right across the entrance, turned off the engine and jumped out.

Only now did it dawn on me what I’d let myself into. What was I to do now? My instructions were to block them in but I was told nothing more. What if they forced me to move the van? I locked the door and tossed the keys into a hedge. Fek, that was a mistake! What if they came to attack me? I would have no way to escape.

A figure approached. Ah Primal. It’s yerself. What are ya doing here? We never see you in this yard? It was the plant manager – the foreman had been wise to go straight to the owners.

Ah howya Pat, I croaked. I was driving by and seen the lights on.

Fair ball to ya, Primal. Eh, this man here ran out of diesel and I was giving him a drop to get him as far as a garage. Move that auld van there ’til we let him out.

By now I was shaking like a leaf. What was I to say? Do?

I was still stuttering incoherently when I realised we were now surrounded by a mass of blue flashing lights. One of the cops – a local one I knew – pulled me aside to calm me down. Who were the other people, I asked. Customs and Excise, he said grinning. They’re going to dip both [the manager's and his guest's] tanks. We reckon he [the manager] has been fuelling up half the knackers in the county. And helping himself to a drop too.

The following day I was still rattled. My legs went to jelly and my voice croaked again the day I had to stand up in court and testify against this man. A man I thought I knew. A man I’d drank with at company parties. A man whose house I’d been in once. A man whose son I’d been to school with.

I had listened as evidence of other charges was given. He had been fuelling his own car with red diesel – I had guessed that. He had been stealing red diesel and selling it – I was the key witness that. He had been burning the stolen diesel in his home heating system. He had been siphoning off company money by producing fake invoices. He had been found in possession of stolen goods. Goods that allegedly came via the same individuals he was selling diesel to. And some more that I forget.

One of the Gardaí remarked outside the court later that if they’re at one thing, you can be sure they’re up to a hundred others.

I was reminded of this story by the report this week that the Revenue’s customs section had seized 301 vehicles in 2007 on which VRT had not been paid. Of these, 49 were top of the range cars, on which €1.25m in taxes and penalties was recouped. What was of major interest though, was that many of these cases resulted in full tax audits which recovered a further €1m for the State’s coffers. Just like that Garda said all those years ago, if they were guilty of one offence, they are likely guilty of more. The revenue people realise that.

The same scenario applies elsewhere. Take a politician who is found to have accepted a bribe from a property developer to have land rezoned. Asking what else he has taken bribes for is a reasonable question. It is highly unlikely he is specialising in rezoning bribes.

Take the motorist that is fined for driving at 110km/h in a 100km/h zone, on a good road, in good conditions and with little traffic. Very unfair might be your immediate reaction. But isn’t this the same driver that will do 80km/h in a busy 60km/h? And 65km/h in a 50mk/h in the rain? And 40km/h in a 30km/h outside a school. Your reaction to his being fined for those offences isn’t that it is unfair. This driver hasn’t made a policy decision to speed in 100km/h zones only and that he’ll obey lower limits. And does he specialise in speeding offences? I would doubt it.

Take the builder that installs inferior windows that begin leaking a year later. It would be wise to find out what other poor work he has done. If he is cheating the home-owner, who else is he cheating? The taxman probably. His employees too. If I were to tell you the only thing is ever does wrong is using inferior windows you would laugh at me.

No one who flouts a particular law or ethic flouts only that. It makes a fair case for the so-called zero tolerance.

For those who aren’t familiar with the Ryder Cup let me direct you to Google, Yahoo or SearchMash. Golf bores me. For now, all you need to know is that Europe play the US every two years. Every second time the teams meet it is in Europe. They should have met in 2001 but yer man bin Laden mucked about with airplanes and the Americans couldn’t/wouldn’t/didn’t travel. So that game was deferred until 2002 which gave Ireland an extra year to prepare. Not that we needed it – everything is done at the last minute here anyway. Except for the talking that is.

Bertie told us about the money that would flow in from golf tourism. Fáilte Ireland said this’ll be great lads. Just wait and see. Or words to that effect.

Greedy individuals the country over would rent out their homes for the week at exorbitant rates to rich Americans. Yeah, right. Like Chuck and Darlene Azzamilewhide were going to fall for that when they could live it up in fancy hotels at a fraction of the prices being asked by Ernie and Bernie MacInerney.

But oh the memories. I remember driving up from Cork and being greeted in north Tipperary by a big sign saying Welcome to the Ryder Cup Region. How the feck they figured that out I don’t know. Perhaps geography isn’t a strong point with Tipperary County Councils. I emailed Donegal, Kerry and Galway County Councils, CCing North Tipp, suggesting they erect signs too.

There was a special committee set up to liaise with the K Club on road improvements, traffic management and so on. They met many times over a year or more before the K Club realised they weren’t dealing with a County Council delegation but rather a self-appointed group of local residents. Oh how we laughed. The K Club should have smelled a rodent – the authorities never get involved until the last minute.

Ah yes, the road improvements. They were class altogether. The N7 upgrade was suddenly a priority. We couldn’t have the visitors being shuttled along a road built in the early sixties. The good silverware had to be brought out. However, unlike your mother would have, they couldn’t put it back in the box in this case, so commuters got a decent road out of it.

The minor roads got great treatment too. Actually, they got the full range from the beauty parlour – manicures, pedicures, elbowicures, choctherapy, vinotherapy, tarmacotherapy, the works. The depilation was my favourite sight. As shown below, all low hanging branches were removed from the roadsides by men with slash-hooks aboard open-top double decker buses.

So the stage was set. Then pelting rain for days. Then came the storm. And a power cut right before the tournament would begin. The crews worked like Trojans through the night and restored it just in time. Restored it to the K-Club that is. The rest of us were left without for another 48 hours. The crews needed rest I was told. In an area devoid of mains water where private pumps are the norm, we sat in the dark, drinking souring milk and getting progressively smellier while the crews slept. But at least the Ryder Cup wasn’t affected an that’s what counted, isn’t it?

The residents of Straffan were well looked after. Well, sort of. They had the privilege of purchasing tickets. No freebies going from Ryder Cup Inc. And they couldn’t flog them on either – applications had to be accompanied by passport numbers and so on. A few got around this, but not many.

Those living outside the village of Straffan, semi-residents, would be ferried by shuttle bus. A strict cordon would be in place around the village and absolutely no private vehicles or pedestrians could pass through. My neighbour (who hates golf) and his 6 year old (golf fanatic) son strolled down to the junction on the Saturday morning and asked the Garda on duty what time the bus would arrive. It wouldn’t. There wasn’t one. He could go to another junction and meet it there. But that’s a 7km detour, he protested. Kind of stupid when the K-Club is less than 1km away. The cop agreed and my neighbour drove his manky builder’s van right into the village and parked up at the shop. Oh how he laughed.

If there was a ring of steel around Straffan, then there was a ring of copper further out, and one of wood outside that. We who weren’t eligible for resident stickers for our cars had often to convince grumpy Gardaí at the outer checkpoints that we actually did need to pass through. I chatted with a cute young Garda stationed near my house. How long was her day? 5am to 8pm. No relief? Only for loo breaks. I call on my mobile for someone to come. Don’t tell anyone – I’m not supposed to have my mobile with me. What about food? I have sambos but I can’t be seen eating them. She demonstrated how, from a distance, eating a ham & cheese could look like using a walkie-talkie. What exactly was her function? To guard this fecking tree as far as I can make out. Oh how she laughed.

We kept a tally on the number of golf-tourists visiting the local pub. (The owner had bought bunting and American flags to attract them and had stocked up on Bud and Coors). 7 in total. 7 over the whole week. 4 pints and 3 glasses. Oh how he laughed.

So who benefited from the Ryder Cup? Well the guys who set up the websites advertising properties for rent were paid handsomely by greedy home owners. Many of these owners paid for holidays or home improvements on the strength of income that never came. But that’s their tough and at least the tour operators and builders turned a shilling.

The village of Straffan got landscaped and streetscaped for free. They won in the Tidy Towns competition this year without hardly raising a finger.

Straffan and surrounds got upgraded roads. But that needed to be done anyway. And it isn’t the benefit we all thought it would be, for now the volume and speed of traffic has increased and residents take their lives in their hands getting out their own gateways.

Foot-shooting was the order of the day it would seem. The K-Club expected American golfers to come baying at their gates. But America lost so they’ve little interest. Plus their green fees are crazy. And up until Monday this week non-members could only play Mondays and Tuesdays.

Neighbouring golf clubs charged mega-bucks during the tournament. If I were an American golfer who played there would I even bother coming back after being screwed? I think not.

I could go on, but this is really about my memories of that great sporting spectacle. And what fond memories they are. Like all Paddys I thrive on being inconvenienced and witnessing bureaucracy mess up.

Well lads, do you know what you can do? You just go fuck off! It’s none of your business telling a police force in another state what they should, or shouldn’t, be doing. That kind of shite is best left to despots like Bush and Putin.

Why are they spouting on anyway? Probably because some Irish journalist passed the story on to them and asked for a comment.

Why do our journalists and politicians always insist on using Britain as a role model? Ireland brought in ASBOs because Britain had them. Dublin is considering congestion charges because London as them. Ireland implemented a penalty points system for driving offences because Britain had them.

Where will it end? Will we revert to measuring things in inches, ounces and acres because Britain do it? Will we pull out of the euro just to be like Britain? Quick lads, Britain has had a foot and mouth outbreak – we’d better have one. How about a monarchy?

Do our law makers only read the Guardian or the Times and only watch the BBC? There are more countries in Europe, never mind the world, than Britain. Hey, Bertie, go get yourself today’s Frankfurter Allgemeine, El Pais, La Stampa. Oh, I forgot you don’t speak foreignish – well sit down and look at Euronews or France24 for an hour.

Britain may be our closest neighbour geographically and, in some ways, culturally. But she is not our twin. Ireland’s issues of multi-racialism, multi-culturalism and integration are not clones of hers. Too often we forget that Britain went out into the world and created an empire. Ireland didn’t *. Britain retains strong links with former colonies. The Commonwealth of Nations. Former protectorates. The people of many of these territories are legally British citizens or entitled to be.

Often we hear it quoted come into my house, respect my rules or when in Rome, do as the Romans do. In Britain’s case, most of her immigrants are Romans. It is their house.

I am not saying that Ireland can therefore ignore the issues or be heavy handed in imposing Irish culture and values on newcomers. What I am saying to our law makers and commentators is to seek out another role model. Stop slavishly following Britain’s lead.

* Okay we did a bit of it around Britain’s west and north west coasts, the Kingdom of the Isles and all that, but we took weekends off and after invasions we always said sorry about that, lads, but shur it could’ve been worse.

The discomfort of having had a size nine rammed up his arse dissipated quickly, and the dog was delighted with all the excitement and rummaged about with me. But our torch-light search proved fruitless. Fruitless like the butcher’s.

Obviously he had continued looking long after I had given up and the next morning I found them in his kennel. Chewed to bits. Nothing but a few shards of glass and mangled metal remained. Another size nine up the arse, then I rang the optician. No problem, Primal, come in immediately. You’re nearly due for a check-up anyway and shur your PRSI will cover some of the cost. I was glad of the last bit as money was tight.

The optician took pictures of what was left of my glasses to show her friends. No messing. She reckoned an 18-wheeler wouldn’t have caused such damage. I made a mental note to buy a pair of pointed size nines.

I got new specs a couple of days later and was told to expect the refund cheque from the social insurance in one week.

As I said, money was tight, and six days later I withdrew cash for emergency supplies. I don’t remember for what. Probably some beer, a book and some beer. No problem I reckoned. I’d have the cheque the next day and lodge it before the direct debit for my phone bill hit.

No cheque arrived. I called the optician. My cheque had gone up in flames when a post office truck caught fire. How unlucky is that? If I fell into a barrel of tits I’d come out sucking my thumb. They told me not to worry – a new cheque had already been sent. But I was worried – the phone bill. I checked my account and found I was shy just €4.90.

I jumped in the car and rushed to the bank. It was drizzling and I pulled a baseball cap down to keep my new glasses dry. These were never to be damaged. Despite being wet and grumpy I managed to be polite and held the door open for the guy coming in behind me. We chatted about the weather and how busy the bank was while in the queue. At the counter I produced a €5 note and my card. The teller was jumpy and fidgety. Obviously having a bad day and I was making it worse wasting his time with a measly fiver.

But I held my composure and even held the door for someone on the way out. I was really polite. The dog was even spared another bout of size nine when I got home.

That afternoon there was a loud knock on the door. I looked out the window and there was a cop car at the gate. I opened the door to Mark, one of the local Gardaí. Howya, Primal. Bit of excitement today, eh. You weren’t scared were ya? Excitement me arse. A pure hoor of a day. What are ya on about?

The guy I held the door for at the bank and chatted to in the queue had moved to the foreign exchange counter while I was being served. He produced a replica gun and was handed over €4,000. The teller I dealt with had seen him and hit the panic button. Hence, his edginess.

Leaving the bank, apparently I held the door for the robber again and left with him. We had even crossed the street together where I got into my car and he stole another.

The Gardaí ran the CCTV footage and you can imagine what they concluded: Two guys enter the bank together. One with his collar pulled up and a baseball cap down over his eyes. The other with sunglasses. Both join the queue and chat away to each other. One leaves that queue and produces a weapon. The other does a token transaction. Then both leave together.

I was the accomplice in their mind. That I’d done a transaction on my own account didn’t mean anything. I could have used a stolen card. So I had been the subject of a manhunt.

Mark was able to tell me I’d stopped on the way home to buy a paper and that I’d pulled in another time to talk with a woman. There were two plain-clothes lads following me but hadn’t approached in case I too was armed. They planned to stop me on a quiet stretch of road. Luckily I was ruled out of the investigation before that happened.

I had a great laugh about it with Mark while making my statement. I couldn’t wait to tell all my mates. But that I wouldn’t have to do. The TV stations showed the video footage on every fekin bulletin that day. Without my face blanked out. Crimecall did the same for two weeks in a row. I couldn’t walk into a house, shop or pub for weeks after without everyone putting their hands up. The dog took to keeping his arse to the wall.

Why can’t you shower of langers be like your big cousins, the truck drivers, and have some respect for other road users? We all know you want to be truckers when if you grow up. Some of you think you are truckers. But you’re not. Face it lads – you drive a scuttery Hiace/Transit/Ducato. Cars on steroids. That’s all. You aren’t in a big 18-wheel Scania.

You don’t scare me. Find that hard to believe? Well it’s true. It is pointless driving right up behind me. I’m not breaking the speed limit just because you’re up my ass like Freddy Mercury. I honestly don’t give a shit if you really must get to the next Centra/Spar/Mace for an emergency breakfast roll.

I know you don’t give a shit either. The van is not yours. You can drive it into the ground. Not your money. The boss is paying for the extra fuel you burn by overtaking above the speed limit. Not you. The boss will pay for tyres and engines worn out before their time. The boss will pay for the clipped mirrors and scraped paintwork. The boss will pay when you whack the van into a ditch.

There’s a phone number printed on your van. I’d call it and complain but I’d probably get you on the other end. You’d take the call too, while driving. Because you know van drivers are exempt from using mobile phones while driving. After all, you are on the way to the next Centra/Spar/Mace for an emergency breakfast roll.

What you don’t know is that there is another number on your van. It’s called a registration number. You wouldn’t know that being a Mirror reading, Mar U supporter. The three of you who have gotten visits from the cops this month and the one of you who will be in court on the 2nd of August will know my name. That one of you will have the pleasure of meeting me face-to-face then. (Pity really – I would have liked to meet you two other guys too. But then we’ll meet soon, I’m sure). I wonder if your boss will pay your fine? I wonder if your boss will pay the extra insurance? I wonder if you will have a job?

Yours sincerely

Just cop on!