Many moons ago, my parents’ house was renovated by the County Council. As with all public authority works, it was put out to tender. The builder awarded the contract had worked as an accountant in the Council for many years. Whether he knew the ins and outs of the system, or simply knew people, is irrelevant - what he didn’t know was building.

Doors would be hung that wouldn’t close. They’d be rehung. The wind would whistle through the gaps. They’d be rehung. The Council’s clerk of works would come to inspect them and find substandard hinges. They’d be replaced.

Paint would have to be stripped off, a sealer applied and then repainted. Cracks would appear in the walls and be hastily blocked with fillers. They’d appear again, be refilled and reappear until eventually they didn’t show. And so on until finally everything were as per the specification laid down - or near enough - having been patched up so often, nothing could never be perfect without demolishing and starting from scratch.

He became known, even to Council engineers, as Frankie-four-times.

The Council continued to give him contracts even when he built a wheelchair ramp at their own offices - packed with dusty rubble instead of the hardcore requested, it collapsed within weeks. He redone it and moved on to his next job.

Next up, my generation - I’ve had builders in for months now^Δ. Like all good boys and girls I listened to my parents - didn’t take lifts with strangers; carried a clean hankie; polished the heels of my shoes; didn’t make faces in case the wind left me like that; said please and thank you and didn’t hire Frankie-four-times. He’s probably too busy with local authority work anyway.

The Hymac driver, Ritchie-right hired to dig the foundations, was more expensive than most. But no one had to lift a shovel to tidy the edges when he’d done. The sub-floor was laid and the service lines marked out meticulously with yellow paint. That took time, but the plumbers came the next day and laid the pipes in hours, not days.

The bricklayer too was a little expensive. But he left the gaps the plumbers and electricians would need in exactly the right places and the plasterers worked fast because the walls were plumb and square. A child could have put in the doors and windows thanks to the bricklayer’s skill - the installers didn’t have to take out a chisel.

Floor plans were drawn up in advance and the cabinetmaker didn’t have to cut a skirting board or have a power point moved to put in the fitted presses - the carpenters and electricians had everything laid out for him. The latter ran co-axial, phone and ethernet cable throughout despite my protestations that I don’t watch TV, use a mobile and have a wireless network - you might change your mind in the future and it’s cheaper to do it now. If that happens, it will all be there ready for you, the builder told me.

The tilers found everything level and a dream to work on. The painters had little filling to do, thanks to the work of the plasterers, carpenters and tilers.

Every evening, all rubble was gathered up and placed in a skip. Tools were cleaned and machines refuelled. Floors were swept. Wet work clothes were hung in a room with low heat. The following morning they’d arrive at 8:00 and be working at 8:01.

I have to admit there were occasions I was frustrated with the time it was taking and how much things were costing. Often I tried persuade the builder that something would do, it was fine, there was no need to be that particular, only to be met with a lecture about getting things right the first time. His belief was, if you start right, you’ll finish right. And he was right. I see that now. I should have seen it before - I knew that in 25 years as a builder, he has not once been called back to a single job. 25 years of happy clients. In 25 years he has never had to advertise or tout for work.

Such a contrast to the State-run work done for my parents. But then, that’s the way of things.

Years ago, the State built two trams lines into the capital. They didn’t meet! Now they are to be connected and will cost billions. A businessman offered to foot the bill to extend one line to Citywest and his offer was refused. Now the line is being extended and will cost billions. Why not spend an extra couple of billion now and extend it even further and build a park-and-ride facility 10 times the size that’s needed? Why not at least purchase the strip of land now that would be needed for this? Like the co-axial cable in my house it will be there if we change our minds.

Most civil engineering firms tendering for the M50 design contract proposed a spaghetti junction of flyovers and underpasses for the Red Cow exit, the busiest on the route, but no, a bridge with a roundabout, and later, with traffic lights, was built. The flyovers and underpasses are now under construction and costing billions. Why not build flyovers and underpasses on all roads now being built - just in case we need them in the future?

It’s not just in construction this patching up goes on. Our health service is a shambles costing billions and achieving little. Recently some hospitals stopped performing elective surgery for a period of months to cut costs. Surely bearing the cost of a patient undergoing a small operation and a short stay in hospital now is far less than that which will be incurred later should their condition worsen and they need to avail of A&E and/or a major operation and/or an extended stay.

Our road users are a joke, though not a very funny one. Hundreds die each year. Minor collisions happen every minute of every day, but we don’t know just how many or what the cost is. The State launches anti drink driving campaigns. The State brings in a penalty points system. The State adds more offences to the points list every year. The Gardaí can’t enforce them and even if they do catch a driver guilty of a number of infringements only the one with the highest point rating goes on their record. You can sit a driving test without prior instruction. You can fail that test, get back in a car and drive away. Now here are some mad ideas: Why not train learner drivers properly? Why not reduce policing on major roads and concentrate on the minor ones where most accidents occur? Why not clamp down on the driver who speeds in a 50km/h zone and doesn’t use indicators at roundabouts? The driver who obeys these simple rules is not the one who gets in the car full of drink and kills themselves - it is the one who is continually flouting the law.

I could go on. I could tell you about how, on the second year we had car-free day, everyone drove, including those who normally take a bus or train, because the previous year the public transport system couldn’t take the strain and people were stranded. I could tell you how a debit-card system is proposed whereby under 25s can only purchase a limited amount of alcohol over a given period. It is hard enough to judge a person is under 18 but how do you know a 25 year old? We have no national ID card system. What will be the cost of installing card readers in every outlet? Will the retailers bother to use them? I could tell you how approval was given to An Garda Síochána for a secure digital radio system in 1999. It may come into use in 2010, but until then, the one they have will do even though criminals can listen in.

I could go on ad infinitum. But I’m tired. I’m tired of the whole thing. I’m tired of the State failing to do things right first time. I’m tired of the State continually patching up problems but never fixing them properly. I’m tired of the State digging the foundations and letting sections collapse because it will do. It can be difficult to see so far ahead or make the connection, but if the foundations are right the painters will have no problems.

It may never happen, it will never happen, but I dream of the day when Ritchie-right is running my country and Frankie-four-times has been banished for ever.

»» In the list of top 20 programmes favoured by 20 to 44-year-olds, audiences are increasingly turning to Today FM. Half of the top 20 shows are Today FM shows – the Ray D’Arcy Show is number two with this younger audience after Gerry Ryan, who takes the top slot, with 248,000 and 327,000 listeners respectively. [Source: BCI-JNLR survey - November, 2007]

»» Ryan and D’Arcy are two of the biggest gobshites ever to blow spit into a microphone - There are 575,000 gobshites listening to spittle in Ireland in the 20 to 44-year-old age group. [Source: Primal Sneeze - February, 2008]

Ryan, I could never take seriously since the lamb episode. Of all the voices on the national airwaves, only Joe Duffy’s grates more on my ears, and his Oprahesque treatment of topics is the only reason I can see for his show running 3 hours instead of one. One minute. The man uses more unnecessary adjectives than you’d read in a schoolgirl’s essay.

D’Arcy. His show’s a bit like Viz - Not as good as it used to be. At least Viz coined the slogan and they pride themselves in it.

I admit to being a mad fan years back when Martin Maguire was the producer. I’m no longer a fan. Just mad. And everyone involved with the show seems to be a producer these days. Maybe it’s a case of too many cooks or maybe Martin was a strong leader and made D’Arcy toe the line. I don’t know. All I know is that I seldom turn on the radio in the mornings.

I did tune in briefly on Friday while in the car. D’Arcy was disgusted that anyone would use a towel a second time. That didn’t surprise me - he’s a girl when it comes to hygiene. Actually he is a girl, so I just giggled like a girl back at the radio. I make myself laugh sometimes.

The next earth shattering topic was the Irish for gloves. A listener, a tradesman, was working outdoors in a Gaeltacht village and needed to buy some urgently. Someone suggested lámhainní via text. Someone else suggested miotóga. Neither D’Arcy, who worked briefly with Radió na Gaeltachta, nor co-presenter Jenny Kelly, who was winner of TG4’s Ní Gaelgóir Mé, could pronounce them. Well they actually could, but feigned inability. D’Arcy has become more Gaelophobic over the years. Maybe he thinks it’s hip and cool, and is what his listeners want. But my blood boiled when they positively bubbled with mutual appreciation of their failing. Christ on a bike, it’s not that difficult! Law-v-knee. Mi(t)-toe-ga. There. Now you have them in pronounceable body parts.

For me, the camel’s back was well and truly bollixed long before Friday. His increasingly I’m-open-minded, as-long-as-you-believe-what-I-do attitude led to the dromedary’s demise. Christ on another bike, get a blog if you want to be like that, man!

I cried as the poor camel breathed its last in August when he interviewed fellow blogger, Niall O’Keeffe, about Shitedrivers.com. A radio presenter himself, and well used to speaking, Niall couldn’t get a word in. D’Arcy was convinced Shitedrivers.com would glorify joyriders and boyracers and that was it. Adolescents would upload videos of themselves doing doughnuts and such. Niall tried to explain the registration and moderation processes. No! D’Arcy knew all about the Internet (like John Waters does) and there would be an endless stream of kids lining up to do crazy antics for the camera. And how will the site help reduce road deaths? Niall tried explain that wasn’t its aim. No, no, no. D’Arcy knew it wouldn’t do any good - there’d just be videos of car stunts. How Niall didn’t rip the big bobble head off the midget I don’t know.

Niall wasn’t the first, nor was he the last, to be subjected to D’Arcy’s pontifications. If he wants to play pope and issue Papal Bulls, then fine, let him. Waters does it all the time. But the funny thing is D’Arcy genuinely believes he is a fair interviewer. He tells the listeners he is often enough. I think I gave so-and-so his chance. I just asked him the questions you, the listeners, wanted answered. How many times have I heard this? Why the bull to accompany the Bull? If he needs explain himself, then surely something is wrong.

As for the 327,000 gobshites listening to the other eejit, well, they’re a lost cause altogether - lambs to Gerry Ryan’s slaughter so to speak. More worrying, is that 248,000 247,999 of 20 to 44-year-olds in Ireland don’t seem to see anything wrong with Pope D’Arcy the First either.

Back in March I wrote about some of my experiences volunteering with a charity and how some recipients of aid expect, and take, more than their fair share to the detriment of the genuine. Without fear, I called them wheelchair-wankers. Go read that post if you don’t remember it.

The day I wrote it I was setting out on a 2 hour drive to deliver fixtures and fittings to a respite home. A home funded by the Kildare branch of the charity at great expense. I’ve been there a few times since to put in a washing machine and dryer, assemble garden furniture and other odd jobs. And I must say I’m impressed. Located in a beautiful area of Wexford, it is fully wheelchair accessible and equipped with everything a body could need. Even cleaning materials and linen are provided. Visitors need only bring food, toiletries and clothing. A cleaner comes by a few times a week so no-one need worry about heavy chores like hoovering or washing floors. Even though not required, the cleaner runs errands and acts as local tour guide.

The rules for booking are simple. Up until the end of May only members of the local branch may put their names down for a week’s stay. Fair enough. After all, it was the local branch that paid for it. Thereafter, if there are free slots remaining, members from other branches can avail of them. No-one is charged a cent. All that is asked is that they move in after 3pm on the Saturday and vacate before noon the following one; that they replace anything they break; that they leave it as clean and tidy as their level of ability allows.

I happened to be there the day a lady arrived assisted by her sister, Mary. Susan hadn’t had a holiday for five years or so, more out of fear of being out of her environment although money played a part too. To see the joy on her face, her eyes light up and a tear appear made all those long drives worthwhile. She and I sat for an hour drinking tea and swapping dirty jokes while Mary busied herself about the place. It was only when I got home I was told that Sue’s sister Mary was also Sister Mary which explained why she excused herself to go dress the bed a number of times. There was me thinking she had OCD or something.

Most visitors were like Susan and ranted and raved about what an excellent facility is was and what a wonderful time they’d had. But just like the Tayto ad, there’s always one.

A woman from the Dublin branch booked the last week in July. She phoned later to change this to the first week in August. But that slot was already taken. But I have to go in August. I got a letter from Wexford County Council and my meeting with them about building a house is in August not July like I thought. She was insistent that the person booked for August swap. Fair play to the co-ordinator she didn’t give in. If someone was merely using the facility as free accommodation she would not jump through hoops for them.

When she moved in that Saturday in July (obviously having rescheduled her personal business with the council) the phone calls began. The garden seats are not where I’d like them and some idiot has chained them in place. The idiot (the one writing this) chained them to prevent them being stolen on the advice of the locals she was told. The cleaner has a key and can arrange to reposition them. Well ring her to come over. She’d better come now because I’m going out soon.

Two or three phone calls each day for the week. The kettle was too small. The place was too far from the beach and somewhere closer should have been bought instead. There was no washing line and she didn’t like using dryers. The local shop had a poor selection of foodstuffs and was expensive. Sunday mass was at 10 and she was used to going at 11.

The best was when she called to say she couldn’t fall asleep until dawn for fear of a break in. They all know around here that I’m disabled and I’m an easy target. People have come to the door. Explaining to her that in a small community everyone would know that a charity had bought the place, and that the locals were being kind by popping by to check that someone less able than themselves was okay, didn’t calm her.

A short while later it was noticed that a set of keys was missing. She had them. I held on to them for when I go back the end of August. The co-ordinator asked if was saying she’d like to book that week. I did book. It must have been with the other girl. There is no other girl. It was clear what her intention was. Given the bad summer, the place was idle a lot of weeks. We began to wonder if she’d been letting herself in when she was down for her council meetings. But we couldn’t tell for sure and the cleaner hadn’t noticed so she was allotted the week.

The cleaner called in a panic yesterday. The woman hadn’t left. In fact she had said her daughter and her kids were coming down and they’d be staying until Wednesday. But a man and his wife were arriving that afternoon. Repeated phone calls from the co-ordinator went unanswered. A call from my mobile (a number she would not have recognised) was answered immediately. But it’s September now. It’s out of season. I thought no-one else would be using it. But they are and you must vacate immediately she was told. Well I suppose I’ll have to then. My daughter will be here in a few minutes and just will have to turn around and take me straight back home. This is all very inconvenient. It is unacceptable and I will be making a complaint to head office about the way I’m being treated.

Now if there was ever a case for a good kick up the arse this is it. Even if it has to be administered through the seat of a wheelchair I’m volunteering. She didn’t return the keys this time either so I will be going down to change the locks this week. I’ll do the kicking on the way back. After a four hour drive on the N11, being pushed off the road by yellow reg’ed wankers, I will be so angry that I’ll have no fear of stubbing my toe on the bars of her chair.

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.

Now some crowd called the Metropolitan Police Sikh Association (MPSA) in London have gotten into the should Gardaí be permitted wear turbans debate. They say the uniform policy was 40 years behind the United Kingdom and accused the Gardaí of racial discrimination.

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.

Dear Van Drivers Listen here, wankers! Yeah, you. You in the Celtic/Mar U/Da Pool jersey. You with the Star/Mirror/Mail wedged on the dashboard between the paper coffee cups and left-over breakfast-rolls. Know who you are now?

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!