It is just over a year now since Ireland hosted the Ryder Cup at the K Club. And oh what a total load of utter bollix it was. But oh (again) what wonderful memories I have of those few short days. Or should I say, few long years, as the whole population of the island, not just we residents of the area, were subjected to hype about it from all quarters since the year 2000.

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.

A woman over the road from me inherited the house when her folks passed away years ago. With the kids getting bigger, she and her husband decided it might be a good time to build on the room or two they were dithering over.

They, or rather she, as the property is in her name, had only minor difficulties getting planning permission. Just the usual move the boundary in 2 metres to facilitate road widening lark, which as we all know means, if you want permission then donate your land now so we don’t have to pay you for it later if we ever decide to upgrade the road.

Getting a loan wouldn’t be a problem either. Her mortgage broker assured her that given their combined salaries it would be plain sailing. They later rang to say it had been approved and would come through soon.

A builder was hired and work began. After all, the mortgage money would arrive any day.

After a couple of weeks she became a bit concerned and called the broker.
- Oh, we’re just waiting on you to send us the letter from your current or last mortgage provider, that’s all.
- Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were waiting on me to do something?
- Ah shur, it’s standard practice. Everyone knows it. So just get us the letter and we’re flying.
- I can’t get a letter. I never had a mortgage before.
- Well can you get a letter from them to say that?
- From whom?
- From your last mortgage provider, of course.
- Listen to me closely: I never, ever, ever had a mortgage before.
- That’s very strange. Are you sure? You are 38 according to the computer. You must have had one. Are you making a mistake?
- Look, I never had one. I inherited this house.
- Oh, I see. Hold on. I’ll have to check with my boss. … … … He says you have to get a letter from a solicitor or commissioner for oaths to say you never had a mortgage.
- Is it really necessary? Solicitors are expensive.
- Oh, you have to do it because the mortgage crowd think you had a mortgage before.
- Why would they think that?
- Because I ticked the form to say you had. You are 38 after all.

It went on. And on. And on. And she had to go to a solicitor. The builder pulled plant when he learned his first payment wasn’t coming. She’s up the walls. Though not of the new part of the house. They aren’t built yet. Winter’s coming and they may not be built this side of Christmas. And there was she thinking that dealing with the civil service would be the hard part.

Well I’m impressed, Primal. The extension is coming along very well. I love the gun turret. Great idea. It’ll be right handy come the council elections. Listen, if you need to borrow the tractor and trailer to take away that pile of rubble just let me know. I’ll have it hitched up, filled with diesel and I’ll leave the key in it. No rush bringing it back.

Harry was being extra pally. Normally I just get a grunt over the hedge. I had intended cadging the tractor. Now it was being offered. This was great.

Then it dawned on me and I got that sinking feeling. The one you get when you press basement. That sudden panic you get having made it to the jacks just in time for a world record flash-dump only to realise there’s no bog roll.

The feker was looking for something.

You wouldn’t be free for a few hours on Thursday? It’s just that, with Tom off sick and the young lads away in Spain, I’ve no-one to give me a hand sorting a few sheep.

The golden rule of the countryside is stay in with the farmer with the best tractor. The silver rule is keep out of his way until you need to borrow it. I think they should be the other way around.

Now those of you, who like me, are desk jockeys and spend your days massaging lumps out of your chair with your arse, may think sheep are lovely fluffy white things that you’d love to have roaming around your lawn. Let me tell you they’re not. They are stubborn fekers that will lull you into a false sense of security when being herded through a gap and change direction suddenly, for no apparent reason, and run like greyhounds to the far end of the field and laugh at you. Their wool is not soft and downy - it’s got more grease in it than the fifth wheel on an artic. When penned they won’t shy away in a corner - if they think you’re blocking the exit they’ll jump at you and knock you senseless if you don’t hit them with an American football blocking tackle.

When Harry said sort a few sheep he meant a little more than that: Select lambs for market; select more for next fortnight’s market; dose lambs to be kept; dagg them if dirty; spray them with dip; check the teeth and elders of the ewes; pare hooves if needed.*

There were 350 ewes and 500 lambs. I came home as exhausted as a hooker from the rugby world cup. Either type of hooker.

Scrubbed and scrubbed in the shower and I could still smell them such is the way their scent permeates the skin. Lynx or any other smell-well doesn’t mask it.

And worst of all, not being used to manual labour, I woke up this morning with aches and pains in places where I never had places. Even worser than worser the builder has organised a truck so I don’t need the fekin tractor after all.

I’ve seen Snakes on a Plane and it didn’t scare me. Goats on a Boat didn’t either. But one movie I know I couldn’t watch would be Sheep on a Ship.

*If you don’t know what some or all of this entails, believe me you don’t want to know.

I’ve posted some pieces about my neighbours previously but I’ve just realised I never mentioned my favourite. He’s Irish but has a very uncommon name. One of those, no seriously, what’s your name? ones. His daughter has recently discovered Google so let’s call him Constantin Opel for now. That makes him sound either Turkish or a car but it suits - he’s a delight on the road.

Constantin doesn’t drink. He can’t really. He needs to stay sober with a wife and daughter who are walking advertisements for the Darwin Awards. Retired a few years back, he works part-time to meet the bills for damages.

Let me say at this point that while Mrs. and Ms. Opel may be accident prone and not the brightest stars in the firmament, they too are wonderful neighbours. Kind and generous.

Ms. Opel was unwittingly generous to my builders on one on the few sunny days we’ve had. I was wondering why all 7 lads, including the machine driver and the guy marking out the footpaths, were needed on the scaffolding when I heard her father roar for fek sake, girl. Would ya put something on. A knickers at least. Them lads can see ya. Ah daddy, don’t be stupid. No-one can see me with the hedge.

He handed her her glasses and pointed to the high scaffolding. Surprisingly they didn’t crack with the shriek. She hasn’t been seen out since. I might buy her a burka for the laugh.

Ms. Opel’s little boy is the apple of his granny’s eye. He loves nothing more than going places with nana. Mrs. Opel left him in the car with her keys to play with last week while she popped back into the house to fetch something. Never give a child the key fob when you have central locking. Front door pulled behind her, car locked and alarmed, Mrs. Opel came to me for aid. I broke a fly window and got the car open.

I’m sure it happens to many people. But just once. This was the 5th time it happened to Mrs. Opel.

Last winter a handyman pointed out a new stone was needed for the sitting room fireplace. In his innocence of Mrs. Opel’s innocence he neglected to tell her it had to be a fire-stone. One she took from the rockery fitted just fine and that evening as she dozed by the flames the stone gave. A piece shot out and bounced off the TV cracking the screen and burned a hole in the carpet.

Constantin is very much a family man but there is one thing he will never forego - his Sunday morning golf. Mrs. Opel goes to mass then. Never a really religious woman, one morning out driving she came upon a beautiful old church and enjoyed the mass so much she took to going there every Sunday without fail for months. She raved to all the neighbours about her find. We were sick hearing of it, as was her husband.

One Sunday, when golf was cancelled due to the rain, he reluctantly agreed to join her. Mass had just started when he nudged her. You know the way we’re Catholics? Of course I do. You’re getting stupid in your old age. Maybe I am, but not so stupid that I can’t tell when I’m at a Church of Ireland service not a mass.

Only recently moved into the area he didn’t realise who he was dealing with. With a lopsided grin he remarked on old Bill Drennan’s ample beer gut - If that belly was on a woman you’d think she was pregnant.

It was. And she is.

Of all the characters I’ve known, Bill is the most colourful. Not because he is widely travelled, well read, a linguist. He is none of these. But he is the quickest wit. He is in his early nineties now and confined to bed in a nursing home but he can still cut you down to size with his quips.

He was a legend in the locality. Before he had to go to the home he knew every man, woman and child by name. And they knew him. No-one would pass him on the street without stopping for a chat. As he grew old, everyone looked out for him.

He was a martyr for the drink so he needed more looking after than most. His next door neighbour would cook his meals and stand over him to make sure he ate. She would patrol like a customs officer, confiscating any alcohol we tried to smuggle down the laneway past what he called the dry line. Some of us hated seeing him going without his drop and concocted various schemes. A half-bottle of Power’s Gold Label concealed in a Pringles container worked for me until the customs officer developed a taste for sour cream & onion.

As with most characters, Bill was at his best in the pub. That is where his victims were most relaxed and let their guard down. A barmaid, a large girl to put it mildly, introduced him to her new boyfriend, an equally heavy individual. Well the handicapper got it right for once. On another occasion the same barmaid was leaning over the counter blathering away to an unhappy customer - unhappy, as while normally a welcome sight, her ample bosom was obscuring his racing page. He asked if she would remove her bouncy castles off his paper. Bouncy castles me arse. Fekin hanging baskets them.

Great with his hands, Bill was seldom stuck for work. When he was young the main employers were farmers and he spent many years with one of the bigger landowners in the area, Dan Coughlan. At meal times, Mrs. Coughlan would dish out enormous quantities of potatoes and turnips to the men. The meat would then be served - one slice for each worker but the farmer’s plate would be piled high. On his (unintended) last day in the job, Bill couldn’t hold back when Dan made the same remark he made every mealtime - Oh ho lads, ya can hear the bull roaring in that. Well it’s not for the want of fekin jayzez turnips he’s roaring.

Later the main employers were builders. Repairs were being made to the sewerage system up at the big house. Bill was dispatched to speak to her Ladyship. Cap in hand he relayed the message. We’re starting work on the pipes now, ma’am. We’d be grateful if you’d refrain from using the facilities until further notice. We apologise for the disturbance, but it is quite necessary. We hope you understand, ma’am. The pipe from the top floor was being dismantled when it became obvious her Ladyship had ignored the request. Two men were being hosed down while Bill was dispatched again. I thought I told ya not to shite, ma’am. Do it again and I’ll ram this shovel so far up your arse ye’ll craping crooked for a month.

I know it’s not true, but I always like to think the character Fr. Jack Hackett in the Father Ted series was based on our Bill.

A cold shower is never pleasant, especially on a November morning. But thanks to a powercut and the imminent arrival of Tara, to take me clothes shopping, it had to be done.

Hearing her footsteps on the gravel, I shivered my way into the hallway and unlocked the door. Com’on in. It’s open. As I turned I noticed the post on the mat. Bending over to scoop it up the towel dropped to the floor. Realising she was now being treated to a view of my cold hairy arse - a blue moon - I burst out laughing.

Tara wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t laughing because she wasn’t there. It was my elderly spinster neighbour, Nora - a 75 year old known as Nora the Explorer due to her penchant for snooping around other people’s houses. The intrepid Nora was holding a religious magazine and intensely exploring my floor and her shoes. Your father’s Pioneer, Primal. I’ll just leave here on the table. You can give it to him the next time you visit him.

I’ve never been on a nudist beach, but I’m told that once you overcome the initial apprehension it becomes liberating, enjoyable and perfectly normal. Like a first parachute jump, once you manage to coax yourself out of the plane you love it. Having taken that plunge and bared all, I was feeling brave. I had nothing to lose. By the end of 10am mass the whole village would know what had happened. Nora would see to that.

So I greeted Tara wearing nothing but a string around my hips with my wallet hanging from it strategically covering the twins. But shur we’re shopping for clothes aren’t we? And I need everything - shirts, jeans, shoes, socks, jocks, the lot. It’ll be handier in the changing rooms.

She called my bluff. Good thinking, Primey. Right. Put your keys in my bag and we’re off. The bravery was waning rapidly as I made my way to her car. I knew she wouldn’t go through with it. Or would she? Panic stations. How the fek would I get out of this? Plus I was freezing. Then I heard a familiar voice.

Better bring an umbrella, Primal. Rain on the way. The postman - standing on the road chatting with Nora and her sister. Tara locked herself into her car with my door keys, laughing convulsively while I hunkered down behind it for what felt like hours. The postman obviously spread the word about the performance art show as a half dozen other neighbours came around to borrow things, ask after my father or just to say hello.

That was six years ago. It took long time but I got my own back on each one. I have picked them off like a sniper. Just yesterday I got the last of them. But more about that later.