Eight years ago, at about teatime on a Tuesday, there were 1,700 post offices in Ireland. Today, there are 1,200.

According to the Irish Postmasters’ Union most were closed on the retirement or death of the postmaster and low wages meant no one stepped in to take their place. Most small rural post offices were dependent on dispensing social welfare payments for their survival, but since the boom of the 90s fewer and fewer people were unemployed and many of those that were, opted to receive their payments directly into their bank account.

It was no longer economical for An Post to keep them open. Things changed - An Post had to react to that. The bigger ones survived but not as they were.

The functions we once used the post office for became redundant. Forgive me father for I haven’t penned - it’s 10 years since I wrote my last letter. I filled in forms and posted them - does that count?

Like many around the country, my local post office now offers a wide range of services. (See Table for One) Most of them I have never used. It’s nice to know I can get a Top Up there, whatever that is.

Like many around the country, my local post office would once have been considered rural. With the large influx of new residents it no longer is. Yet it retains that rural ethos.

Mistress Jackie, as our postmaster is affectionately known, does far more than her employer asks of her. (See Table for Two) And no, she’s not some little old lady with her specs on the tip of her nose and cat hair on her geansaí - she’s a 20-something about-to-be-hitched cutie.

An Post (as Postbank) have just launched their Everyday Account (a current account). Once again the list in Table for One has grown. I admit it will be handy having such a service in small towns and villages like ours. The drawback is that as Table for One grows, Table for Two shrinks. Mistress Jackie gets busier and busier, though her own current account remains the same. I just hope she still has time to make that call the next time Mrs. Murphy doesn’t turn up for her pension.

You are commissioned by Mr. Del Trotter of Peckham Springs Ltd. to carry out a survey of the population’s like/dislike of mineral water. Mr. Trotter would like to discover people prefer his product, though he doesn’t say it outright.

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.

First off, forget agencies if at all possible. A recent survey conducted by Primal Sneeze Marketing Research of 14.5 lads (Mick spent half his time in the bookies’) in the pub showed that a staggering 93.2% viewed recruitment cuntsultants as wankers. 6.8% said fuking wankers. Furthermore, 14.8% of those questioned believed in the Easter Bunny and 54.7% did not believe the barman was really that busy when he said your pint is important to me, please hold.

Responding to an article published here last April on the subject of agencies, Mr. MacDara in the Leb pointed out that he always finds them as useful as the cardboard roll at the end of toilet paper. Sometimes you just have no choice but to use it. But if you do have to, always remember they do not wuuve you and you are not, despite their insistence, important to them - a recruitment cuntsultant’s promises are as genuine as a whore’s kiss or a barman’s welcome.

Right. Now that we have that sorted we’ll move on to how you do get work. It is all to do with knowing someone and being in the right place at the right time. An unscientific method and one not easily mastered. I call it PLUCK - People and Luck. Let’s look at a case study.

Last week Tommy the forklift importer dropped by to enquire if I would take on a project for him. I’d done something similar for his cousin’s company and he recommended me to Tommy. I know the cousin for years - we are from the same pub. Related through drink you might say. But, see? People.

We chatted for a while and his attention was caught by the tasty work Lar the painter was doing for me. Would Lar would be available to do a few rooms for him? I left the two of them to make a deal and went to see how the electrician, Stephen, was getting on. See? Luck - Lar was in the right place at the right time.

What I didn’t know was Lar had already been in luck - the electrician had already booked him to do his hall, stairs and landing. Tommy didn’t mind waiting a week or so as he needed to get an electrician to do a few bits before the painter could start. I introduced him to Stephen.

He would be free in a day or so. He had a job to do at Lar’s wife’s office first, part of which involved relocating network cables. By the way, could I help him with that for a few quid?

While this case study (all true, by the way) deals with the self-employed, the same applies to the employed. Don’t bother your bum with agencies (see above). Don’t bother answering newspaper ads - most companies won’t even acknowledge your application. Your online applications will be acknowledged instantly - by a machine. Machines, like agencies, couldn’t give a rat’s rectum about you. Machines, like agencies, forget about you instantly unless you keep pushing their buttons.

All worthwhile work comes through contacts - people you know or meet. Fact. 9 out of 10 cats agree.

The road had the odd pothole and the edges sloped toward the ditch in places. Overall it wasn’t a bad road but using it demanded care and attention - you had to drive not just steer; you had to watch out for holes not just pedal; you had to be ready to hop up on the bank on narrow stretches not just stroll.

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 clams. 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.

Thursday was bitter cold. Bitter as a 70-year-old virgin. The painter’s fingers quickly turned a Smurf blue as he put masking tape on the windows. I helped as best I could with coaching and encouragement - Another one down, Lar. You’re motoring now. I’m sure he appreciated my assistance though he never said. Must be the silent type I suppose.

~~~~~

He got something in his eye and spent Friday at the hospital. His wife came though. She owns a cleaning company and offered to have the place scrubbed down in lieu of a house-warming gift. That’s a bit of a misnomer seeing as it isn’t a new house, just an extension to an old one. So strictly speaking her services were in lieu of an extension-warming gift. But that sounds like something you’d buy on eBay and hope the postman wouldn’t (mis)read the customs label.

I checked on her at lunchtime. We’re flying, Primal. The windows were a curse though - took hours - them fekin builders never took the tape off them. I suggested she let Lar know that - he’d be very interested. I got a quizzical look. Ok. I was going to call anyway to see how he was getting on with the eye. I made a hasty exit.

~~~~~

The cat turned up on Saturday after a three week absence. He was barely able to walk. Puss (appropriately for a cat) was oozing from a wound on its throat. Obviously there had been a fight and he’d lost and had been lying in a ditch somewhere. Now I hate cats, but I felt sorry for it. Something had to be done.

I called the vet. White male - approximately 3 years old - gangland victim - heavy discharge from infected wound on neck - deep laceration to left foreleg - dehydrated - impaired mobility - possible euthanasia candidate. Okay, Mr. Sneeze. You’d better bring him in. What’s his name? Name? I don’t know. He’s a stray then? No. He was one of three white sibs - Disclaimer, Terms and Conditions. Two died from trafficitis. I could never tell one from the other. Trafficitis? Yeah. Severe trauma to the torso caused by pneumatic tyres on heavy goods vehicles. I see. So what name will I put in the computer? Anonycat. What? Well it’d be stupid to call it Anonymouse.

~~~~~

Nervy Neighbour wanted to have a chat. He was having trouble with Nasty Neighbour again. We could have a pint. Pints are great catalysts for sorting out the woes of the world.

The pub was buzzing but not a barhound in sight. We stood there playing spot-the-barman. One bustled in all hot and bothered. The soccer? The soccer is it? Room down the hall there. Eh, no we w… Oh, the rugby. On in the lounge. No, we ju… Yee’re grand then - the racing’s on here. NO! We just want two fekin pints, ya tool!

That Irish publicans are more interested in sport than drink was another woe we added to the world’s ever growing list.

We hadn’t even gotten to start on the list when Strange Fellow plopped himself down between us. Know anything about car seats, lads? Are you giving up the window cleaning business and going into car valeting? No I am not. I bought a car. An 06 Saab. Well fair play to ya. After years riding around on the bike it’ll be great comfort. So what’s wrong with the seats? I can’t fit me ladders in. I’ll have to take out the seats. Do yee know how ya do that?

~~~~~

I’ve been needing two RJ-45 connectors to finish networking the office. Two lousy pins. Do you think I could get them? Not a hope in Hades. The so-called geeks in PC World never heard of them. I didn’t mind the blank looks from the staff in the hardware stores, but in PC World - com’on lads, get your act together. A local electrical supplies shop, Wesco, had them. 50c each. I suggested the guy behind the counter perform a sexual act on his own person if he thought I would pay 50c for something worth about 15c. I am a man of principle after all. Bad language, but principle. Principally bad language.

I could get them from an Irish online supplier, Komplett. €2 for a 10 pack. Excellent. €13 postage. Shite. They could perform the same act.

Maplin in Blanchardstown had them at a reasonable price, but I would join the folks at Wesco and Komplett in their new pastime if I was driving all that way just for two pins.

Would I go to Argos on Sunday morning and collect stuff? Ok. Maplin is near there so I could get the RJ-45 connectors. Men are from Maplin, women are from Argos. Fact. The women in my life happily spend hours poring over the Argos catalogue - I get as excited as a hungry baby in a topless bar with the Maplin catalogue in front of me.

But letting me loose in an electronics store is as dangerous as letting a woman loose [double checks order of those words] in Macys at sales time. I came home with a cordless screwdriver, a network tester, a solar-powered battery charger, a watch case opener and a simcard reader. All of which I will probably never use. Unlike the RJ-45 pins which I will. Or would have used, if I hadn’t left them behind on the counter.

~~~~~

Today is the day we celebrate St. Patrick driving the snakes up ladders without passing go or something like that. Maybe it’s the time he went camping with Tara and he lit a fire to cook shamrock while she played with his crozier. I’m not really sure any more. Sometimes I get mixed up between the St. Patrick’s Day we have in Ireland and the St. Patty’s Day they celebrate in America.

All I know is that I am to drink pints today as required by law. They will be black ones as they always are. I will wear jeans. They will be blue ones as they always are. I will express my wish that a friend be happy. I will say happy birthday to her as I always do on March 17.

It’s a bank holiday. Our national day. No one else’s. What could possibly go wrong?

Irish funerals are a part of Irish life. To an outsider, I’m sure, they seem strange. I’ve written about them before and it is often said the only difference between a funeral and a wedding is one less drunk. Oh, and no cameras.

The very first I was brought to was of an old man whose family had recently moved here from the west. Days before he died, a keener* had been sent for from Mayo. The sight of a body at the age of four coupled with the keener’s performance frightened me off and I flatly refused to be taken to any more for years, which was much to my parents’ embarrassment - you see, mourning families may not remember who was at their loved one’s funeral, but they will never, ever, ever forget who wasn’t.

So important is it to make an appearance, to show one’s face, that we even offer two opportunities: funeral-lite the night before the burial and funeral-full that day. Funeral-lite is quick, with the minimum of ceremony. It suits people who can’t take time off work the following day and afterwards there is ample time for those gathered to form queues and shake hands with the bereaved. Howya, eh, eh, howya. Eh, sorry for your trouble is responded to with thanks for coming, eh, eh, thanks. Ad nauseum. That you can’t remember the family members’ names, nor they yours, is irrelevant - they will remember you if they didn’t see you.

Funeral-full is a much more lavish affair, though generally less well attended, which is lucky for the family as, while once they were expected to lay on soup and sandwiches, or soup-sandwiches, these days a full sit-down meal is the norm. The graveside also sees more howya, eh, eh, howya, eh, sorry for your trouble and thanks for coming, but not much, which again is lucky for the family who are either pissed off with it at that stage, or having neglected to remove their rings the night previously, are in need of surgery on crushed and swollen fingers.

While the tradition of keener has died out, some of the older families still hold a wake. The starter pack. A third opportunity to shake hands, although those who do attend usually partake of funeral-lite and funeral-full too - the professional funeral goers who have replaced the keeners. I can’t tell you anything more about wakes - the trauma inflicted on me as a four-year-old has led me to avoid them since.

In fact, I avoid most funerals. All breeds of them. Sugar-free. Full-fat. I hate the he was a great man crap. The don’t speak ill of the dead fear. Dying doesn’t change what a person was. The only different between a live bollix and a dead bollix is one is dead.

I hate shite from the priests who offer their brand of religion as support for the family. The family that doesn’t believe a word of it. I hate the professional funeral goers that knew the deceased well - they met them in the shop the odd morning.

I have buried both parents. Both with all the religious pomp. Because that’s what they wanted, not me. I merely did what they had asked of me. (I know of a young man who was recently cremated as he had asked. His parents buried his ashes at a second ceremony, not spread them at the Devil’s Bit as he asked. That galled me). I hated having to shake hands with people I didn’t know. I felt like standing up and saying anybody here who isn’t a good friend of the family please fuck off. I came close but was held back by the, more stable, sibling. I hated people asking if there was anything they could do - yeah, shag off, I don’t know you. I welcomed the support of close friends, more so before and after, the funerals but I hated the intrusion of strangers who felt they had to make an appearance.

I go to the funerals of people I was close to. People whose family I am also close to. If I was close to someone, but not their family, I stay away because otherwise I would be in the way - I would be just another stranger mouthing rubbish and showing my face.

For this, I am a continual source of amazement in the locality. I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal. I wasn’t there. Were ya sick? No. I just didn’t go - I don’t know the family. But you knew so-and-so himself. Shur ya used have a pint with him. I knew him. I may have chatted with him in the pub but we weren’t close. I’m talking to you now and we both have pints in our hands but I won’t be at your funeral either. For fek sake, you could’ve at least shown yer face.

A neighbour is being buried as I write. I can name two of his brothers but couldn’t tell one from the other. The other brothers and sisters I’ve never met. Obviously I’m not there. And for the next month or more all I will get is I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal.

* A professional mourner. From the Irish, caoin : to cry.