In the town where I was born, bred and buttered, you were nobody unless you had a nickname. Lack of a nickname meant you didn’t stand out from the crowd in any way. Nicknames derived from your job, your hobby, your appearance, your family background, something totally stupid you did at some stage, an infirmity. Nothing was sacred.

When Pat Smullen lost the hearing in one ear he became known as Look Left. You work out which ear.
Larry the Leg was so called because he had a wooden one. He never seemed to mind. The name, not the leg.

Others hated theirs. Peter was a short stocky soldier with a big beer belly. Being called The Flab was bad enough but when he discovered it meant Fat Little Army Bollix he flipped altogether.

Pat Kavanagh was a big man too. Full of drink, he fell asleep buck naked on a beach in Spain one time and got seriously sunburned on the back. Bra in The Bra Kavanagh stood for Big Red Arse.

Seán Hayes was a martyr for the whiskey and had a bright red nose as a result. Over the years this turned blue and then darker. He ignored his doctor’s warnings until folks began referring to him as The Purple Hayes.

In a time when parents didn’t call their children after celebrities or brands of perfume there was an abundance of Pats, Micks, Joes and so on. There could even be five or six Pat Murphys in the same town. Our problem was the number of Joes.

We had Joe the Egg who kept hens. His son was Joey the Yolk. There was Joe the Dog who hated cats. His cousin Domino Joe, undoubtedly the best dots player around.

There was Tony Two Lines who loved to sing with a few pints on board but always trailed off quickly. Mick Million Papers would insist on consulting everyone else’s racing pages before picking his horse.

Some families even had nicknames. The Bibles because they named their kids Noah, Moses and Eve. None of us had much time for the Power-Smyths and their greater-than-thou attitude. Hence The Sour-Shits.

Some inanimate objects had nicknames too. The Toss-Bank Bike named after the source of the money that paid for it. The Roadstone Ranch was built after a farmer sold land to a quarrying company. A company whose employees were known as Roadstone Cowboys after the song of a different name, if you know what I mean. A quiet side road used by the local ladies for their morning walks was Big Arse Boulevard.

This seemed to be dying out as the village succumbed to the influx of Dubs who brought their own brand of nicknames with them. To get a Dub’s nickname just add an O to their name. Go on. Try it. Johno. Liamo. See. It’s easy. Try some harder ones. Petero doesn’t work, but Pedro does. If you get stuck with the first name, try the surname. Kavo for Kavanagh. Try some more. Have fun. Or die of boredom.

Then yesterday I noticed a small resurgence. Vladimir, a Russian working in the local shop, is being called Vlad the Retailer. Now that’s class! It has to be one of the best of all time, unless you have better.

The new County Council office for Kildare, Áras Cill Dara, opened a couple of years ago. You can see pictures of it here. Hailed as a monument to environmentalism, it has solar roof-panels to heat the water for the kitchen and washrooms. The air conditioning is by means of computer controlled louvres on the widows that control the flow of air throughout. The fact that neither the heating nor cooling system work properly is inconsequential as the building had already been awarded the Best Public Building award before this was discovered.

A close relation, Conor, worked there. As a wheelchair user, he was very impressed with the building. Large wide doors, shallow ramps leading from floor to floor instead of stairs, accessible lifts. There was even a staff entrance right where the disabled parking spaces were located. This was what he like most. Or rather, what his wife, Denise, liked most. She could get him from the car to the chair, up the lift and down the hall to his desk in minutes.

One morning they were running late and his wife was annoyed to see a large black car parked right across the disabled spaces. She found a regular space and with great difficulty, as anyone who ever assisted a wheelchair user in a confined space will appreciate, got her husband in the chair. Only when coming back across the carpark did they notice the Irish flag on the offending vehicle and a number of gardaí patrolling around. Oh, I forgot what day it is, announced Conor. It’s the official opening by President McAleese.

They were denied entry via the staff door by a garda. It’s locked for security reasons, he explained. She had to push him around to the other side of the building and up the long ramp to the public entrance. Quite a distance and uphill the whole way. They were met by a security guard who told them all staff must make their way to the Council Chamber to listen to the President’s speech. Now very late for work, his wife reluctantly agreed to take him. Too late for the speech also. The President was leaving the Chamber flanked by Council officials, local dignitaries, gardaí and photographers. Quick as she could, Denise slew the wheelchair around and backed into the side.

Not quickly enough. They had been spotted by the President of Ireland. All politicians, including presidents, are eagle eyed when it comes to photo-ops. She diverted from her entourage and strode over. This is Conor who works in Roads, said the County Manager. Great to meet you Conor, beamed the President. How do you like the new building?

The cameras were flashing. It’s grand, Mary. So what are you doing here anyway?

Eh, I’m opening the new offices, mumbled a bewildered looking president.

Oh great! Listen, while you have the keys on you, would you mind tipping down and opening the side door. My wife’s wrecked after pushing me around the long way. And while you’re down there, shur you might ask yer man in the big Merc to get the fek out of the disabled area.

I hate them. Estate agents. I never had to use them but I still hate them. They are right up there with slimy politicians, slimy politicians and slimy politicians. I hate the way they are allowed hoodwink the customer and only get a gentle slap on the wrist when caught out by the Advertising Standards Authority.

A neighbour, make that ex-neighbour, recently sold up. The agent put the house on the market at €370,000. The highest offer was €350,000 and the sellers were willing to accept. But the agent had a problem with this - if it sold for €350k the rest of the houses in the development would be valued the same. He struck a deal with the buyers - they would pay €370k and he would give them €20k towards the cost of their relocation expenses. Now that’s just plain cheating.

But they are all at it. Virtually every new house is for sale with some perk thrown in. The first year’s mortgage paid. Childcare expenses covered. Conveyancing charges reimbursed. Gym membership. Holiday vouchers. Agents will offer anything rather than drop the brochure price.

Matt Dunne & Associates really take the biscuit. All the biscuits. The whole fekin tin. They are offering buyers of properties in Portharlington and Portlaoise free transport to and from work for one year. Wow, you say, that’s the mutt’s marbles. That’d do me rightly.

If something sounds too good to be true then it isn’t. Think about it. There has to be a snag. There always is. Childcare for a year - for one or all your children? Is there an alternative if you are childless or a stay at home parent? You can be guaranteed the answers are one and no.

What are the snags with Matt Dunne’s offer? Well transport will be to a central point in county Kildare. So if you work in Dublin, Laois, Carlow or indeed from home, it is of no benefit. Which central point exactly? Apparently that depends on where the largest number of buyers work. Work it out. Say 40 houses. 10 owners work in Newbridge. The remainder in 5 or 6 other locations - no more than 10 in any one. So 30 of the 40 do not get free transport. What form will the transport take? He hasn’t said, but bus would be the obvious mode. So everyone would have to be travelling at the same times.

When pressed by the local media he said three families who work in a meat processing plant in Kildare town had purchased. If 10 more employees of that company bought houses then he would provide transport for them.

So it is a case of free transport to and from work, but with enough terms and conditions to make an insurance salesman scream. He may as well be offering 10% off all haircuts, provided you avail of them on Tuesday mornings, before 10:15, you are a pensioner, your first name begins with an X, Pluto is in Uranus (painful, I’m sure) and you are bald.

Why are estate agents allowed get away with this?

The county of Kildare, sometimes referred to as the land of the three S’s (sheep shite and soldiers) is more widely known as the short grass, due to the grazing of sheep on The Curragh plain. Her residents are known as Lilywhites. Or at least we were. The Central Statistics Office has just reported that only 4 out of 10 living here are from the county.

I knew that. I didn’t need to see census figures. Most of my neighbours have Dublin accents. In my local shop I’m served by Russians and Pakistanis. The filling station is staffed by Indians and Chinese. Strolling the length of the main street in Naas I will hear 20 languages. There are signs over shops in Hindi and one finance provider advertises 100% mortgages in Polish. Does this make me an ethnic minority? I’d find that kind of cool, but then I hear the pay is not great.

Is Naas suffering an identity crisis because of this? I think so, though it manifests in subtle ways. The council have funded signage and pathways for walking tours in the guise of tourism initiatives. Are they really telling the newcomers to go get to know their new home town? Submissions were requested from interested parties on the provision of places of worship for heretofore uncommon religions. But not before a big shiny new GAA complex was built - GAA being the true religion of the Gael.

The latest débâcle is reminiscent of the Dingle-An Daingean-Daingean Uí Chúis saga mentioned recently by Conor and previously by Eolaí. No, there is no attempt being made to adopt the Irish name for the town. Rather the issue is one of deciding what the town’s Irish name actually is. An Nás appears over the court house. The county council offices show An Nais. The sign on the post office reads Nás na Ríogh. On other signs the accent is omitted from Ríogh and some don’t have it in Nás either - Nas na Riogh. Even Nás na Rí pops up in places.

Councillor Seamie Moore is calling for a plebiscite to settle this once and for all - “People recently moved to the town refer to it as An Nass, they don’t see the fada, and we don’t want to have an association with an ass”. Seamie may have his head buried up his Nass because this is something I’ve never heard. Many of the newcomers are more used to accented vowels than we Irish are. Why some have even cracked the accented consonant thing. Seamie might better serve the community feeding the gondolas.

Even if a vote happens and a name is selected I have my doubts we’ll see conformity in signage. After all, this is the council who named a new road after Theobald Wolfe Tone and then erected a sign reading Wolftone Street.