It went well. By my standards anyway. I hid the car around the back, locked the front door, turned off the lights, phone and radio, and settled down to work. It’s surprising how much you can get done without distractions. I left word with the dog to tell any neighbours who called to invite me for Christmas morning drinks that I was indisposed. That’s a big word for a small dog and he may have told them I was gone or away or both.

I made one brief foray into the outside world that day. Just to see Seán open his presents. There was a power cut right then and the wee man, having experienced as many power cuts in his short life as I have noses, knew what to do - he fetched candles. It didn’t matter that it was daytime - you don’t ever miss a chance to play with fire when you’re nearly 3.

Some of the wrapping was proving difficult to open but he knew what to - he fetched a scissors. It didn’t matter that there were three adults there to help - you don’t ever miss a chance to play with sharp objects when you’re nearly 3.

The Bob the Builder socks were well received as was the Gruffalo book set. The Buntús Foclóra created a whole new game - within minutes he had figured out the rules: When you have this book in your hands, dog is not doggie it’s madra; bike is not bike it’s rothar. His daddy scowled and kept muttering on about wasting time and money but I knew what to do - I sniggered and got Seán started on the numbers - you don’t ever miss a chance to piss off monoglots when you’re nearly 43.

Well that was it then. That was the highlight of the festive season. The following days are what I normally look forward to - the post-Christmas racing at Leopardstown. This year’s festival has been a disaster for me. Every single damn horse I backed fell. Every last one of them. I’m afraid to back again in case I am the cause of some poor jockey getting killed.

But in typical Irish fashion I have to look for someone worse off than me. If you’ve never used the expression ah shur, it could be worse then you are not Irish. When they bring in the language test for citizenship I bet that will be question one.

Luckily I found someone. A mickey-relation* of mine went to get out of car at work on Christmas Eve. She had just leaned back in to grab something off the passenger seat when there was an all-merciful clatter. A truck had taken the door clean off the hinges. Ah shur, it could have been worse - it could have taken me with it.

The insurance company were wonderful. They organised a garage to take the car and what was left of the door away. And they even gave her the loan of a car until her own is repaired. On Christmas morning her brother reversed his tractor into the side of it and made shite of the driver’s door. But she knew what to do - she rang the insurance and explained - ah shur, it could have been worse - it could have been me own car - you’d don’t ever miss a chance to defy logic when you’re nearly 23.

*For US readers: Related through marriage, not by blood.

I had to do it. What choice was there? If I didn’t buy my adopted nephews and nieces presents they’d never talk to/try to talk to/gurgle at/dribble on me again. So I hit the shops.

An Irish rugby jersey for Oisín. By the time the season kicks off he’ll fit into it. And a tee that says “Am I cute or what?”. An Irish language pictionary for his big brother - with a Gaeilge-phobic dad that’ll cause a stir. Oh, and of course the obligatory Robert the Construction Operative socks - complete with spanner shaped rubber grips on the soles. A book of Roald Dahl poems for another ‘nephew’. A really girlie pinky flowery thingy for making your own party invitations for his sister - her birthday’s in January. And so on until each would have something to wear or read and something to play with. Sort of Kinder Surprise without the chocolate and poorly dubbed voices.

The whole operation only took an hour and a half and that was in three different shopping centres. Not bad going. The only shop I had to queue for service was Eason, which says something about our nation’s love of reading. But what does it say about the economy?

I don’t know. I’m no economist. But I do know that 1½ hours is the quickest I’ve ever done the prezzie-run. Is it that there are so many shopping centres now that the buyers are spread out among them? Or are consumers cutting back this year? Are they short of money or just sick of buying crap non-stop the whole year long?

The ESRI would know, so I had a look at their website. Big mistake! Christmas is depressing enough without reading ESRI reports. “Growth to slow in 2008″. “Unemployment to rise”. And damn difficult to understand too: “Factory gates” and “gross national product”. Well if the products are that gross then I suppose the factory would have to be behind big gates.

Then I noticed something I would understand - the Consumer Sentiment report. Wrong again! It’s all figures. “The forward-looking sub-index weakened to 49.2 in November, from 58.4 in October”. What the hell is that about? I checked the archives and still more figures. If I was writing these I’d tell it like it is: “Mid February showed consumer sentiment to be soppy”. “In the heat of July consumers were horny”. “At Hallow’een consumers were scared”.

A jeweller I met tells me she’s having the slowest Christmas ever. Yesterday should have been mad busy in my local with most people finishing work for the holidays, but the manager had to send one of the staff home. My builder had a team of 16 working on 4 sites last June. As of yesterday he has just 4 and he’s trying to find things for them to do on the single site remaining.

I think the real test will be to ring around on Christmas morning and ask the kids what Santy brought. If the reindeer were tired this year and couldn’t carry much then we’ll know the true state of the economy.

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.

UPDATE: Sex: Male. Weight: 3.9kg. Name: Oisín. Rank: Brigadier General. Serial Number: 17082007KE

I’m in Kathy’s. They phoned me to come over at 4:00. And they were on the road to the baby-factory at 4:30. So the waiting is either over or just beginning depending on what way you look at it.

Either way, Kathy is smiling through it. She nearly cried when the specialist mentioned inducing the baby. She won’t have to go through that now. And there’s no worry about traffic. This time of the morning is what the estate agents go by when advertising property - Only 40 minutes from Dublin. Easy access to the M50. All true at 4:00 in the morning.

I’ll update you during the day when I get news. Well, there’ll be one update with sex, weight, name, rank and serial number. This is not a Twitter type thing.

The only part of the plan going awry is the mural project. Seán lost patience and started on his own last weekend. So the materials have been confiscated.

We’ll just have to think of something else.

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.

It was 1989. The year two walls came down - the big one in Berlin and the small one Pat Gleeson built for his mother. I wasn’t around to see Mrs. Gleeson’s collapse but I was in Germany for the other one. I will never forget that day as long as I live.

On the afternoon of November the 9th we were hitching a machine to the tractor when my unable assistant removed the safety stays too soon and my hand got jammed. Nothing broken, but one finger was split wide open.

It was obvious I needed a half dozen stitches or so. The boss’ wife, Maria, would drive me. Now Maria, a Californian of immigrant parents, was a stunning woman. A incredibly beautiful Latina. She was also incredibly fluffy-headed. She didn’t smoke dope - she didn’t need to. Her body somehow produced it naturally, and in large quantities. She lived in a world of her own and was oblivious to what was happening around her. In summer she would wear a bikini while supervising the Turkish staff. This would cause an immediate strike. She’d cover up for a few days then forget and don swimwear again. (I admit we looked forward to Streiktag). Her morale boosting idea of beginning and ending each work day with hugs didn’t fly with the 60 Muslim women either, although we 4 horny Irish lads were willing to give it a go. Once she booked a flight home for one of us. He noticed the ticket showed Frankfurt-Heathrow. Can’t you take a bus from there? So you appreciate I was apprehensive that I would be in her care.

In the car I asked for her thoughts on the developments in Berlin but she switched the conversation to her theories about when a woman is most ready for sex and how a man can tell. If I didn’t know her better I would have taken it as a come-on.

We pulled up outside an office with Frauenarzt over the door. Do you have an appointment with the gynaecologist, I asked. No. You need a letter from a doctor to be seen at the hospital. Thursday is their half-day and this is the only one open in the town. Oh, right so. Hey, Primey. Maybe you can practice detecting women’s cycles. There’ll be a lot of women here.

Naturally the chattering ceased abruptly when I entered the waiting room. The ever helpful Maria announced it’s okay, girls. He doesn’t speak much German so you can talk away. He’d like to look at you though. He’s learning about women.

After 20 of the most embarrassing minutes ever we left with the letter and headed to the hospital. Sniggers from the receptionist when she seen who penned the letter. Maria wouldn’t let up as we waited. What about the receptionist? I reckon not. Right on, Primey. You’re getting the hang of this. A nurse was coming in and out of the surgery. What about her then? Eh, a yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. She’s a definite. She needs a man right this minute. I can sense her need. It’s so strong.

I was called in. 5 stitches and the doctor left the nurse to finish up. She was trying to explain something I knew was important as she administered the anti-tetanus but I didn’t understand and suggested she ask Maria to translate. As I was pulling up my trousers Maria walked in. She clapped and jumped up and down and squealed in delight. See, Primey. I told you. I knew it. She was sooo in need of a man. Aren’t you the lucky one. Then she gave the bewildered nurse directions to the farm and promised her I would be allowed time off work the next time she was in need. Rather than have to face going back there I took the stitches out myself.