In the late ’80s I worked for a small family firm that ran two separate businesses. The foreman of one of these suspected someone was stealing diesel at the processing plant and reported this to the owners.

The Gardaí recommended the foreman discretely monitor the tank levels to find out how much was being taken and how often. After a couple of weeks it was clear that every two or three nights about 100l was going missing.

I was asked to stake out the place for a week. With the promise of overtime I naturally jumped at the chance. Plus I was given a mobile phone. A mobile phone! It was the ’80s remember and mobiles were big clunky contraptions with a handset wired to what looked like a car battery and just as heavy. Even car phones weren’t available in Ireland back then. It was all very exciting.

My first night as Primal PI I hid my van behind a stack of pallets at the side of the compound and waited. Christ the boredom! My watch crawled. Had it stopped? No. The clock on the dash read the same. I was only there an hour. How would I do seven nights of this?

I needn’t have worried. A car pulled up. The driver unlocked the gates to the compound and drove in. A small truck followed soon after and made it’s way toward the tanks. I made the call - my first ever mobile phone call. I got my instructions.

As the visitors were about to leave I started the van. At least I tried to. Panic set in. I’d forgotten to set the ignition to heat first and the engine just wouldn’t fire on cold diesel. Set to heat. Count. 1 … 2 … slowly damn it! … … 3 … … 4. It fired. But I’d been seen. Sweat. Cold sweat. Shaking hands. I gunned the engine as all good TV detectives do and sped around the corner. Gravel flying from the wheels. I parked right across the entrance, turned off the engine and jumped out.

Only now did it dawn on me what I’d let myself into. What was I to do now? My instructions were to block them in but I was told nothing more. What if they forced me to move the van? I locked the door and tossed the keys into a hedge. Fek, that was a mistake! What if they came to attack me? I would have no way to escape.

A figure approached. Ah Primal. It’s yerself. What are ya doing here? We never see you in this yard? It was the plant manager - the foreman had been wise to go straight to the owners.

Ah howya Pat, I croaked. I was driving by and seen the lights on.

Fair ball to ya, Primal. Eh, this man here ran out of diesel and I was giving him a drop to get him as far as a garage. Move that auld van there ’til we let him out.

By now I was shaking like a leaf. What was I to say? Do?

I was still stuttering incoherently when I realised we were now surrounded by a mass of blue flashing lights. One of the cops - a local one I knew - pulled me aside to calm me down. Who were the other people, I asked. Customs and Excise, he said grinning. They’re going to dip both [the manager's and his guest's] tanks. We reckon he [the manager] has been fuelling up half the knackers in the county. And helping himself to a drop too.

The following day I was still rattled. My legs went to jelly and my voice croaked again the day I had to stand up in court and testify against this man. A man I thought I knew. A man I’d drank with at company parties. A man whose house I’d been in once. A man whose son I’d been to school with.

I had listened as evidence of other charges was given. He had been fuelling his own car with red diesel - I had guessed that. He had been stealing red diesel and selling it - I was the key witness that. He had been burning the stolen diesel in his home heating system. He had been siphoning off company money by producing fake invoices. He had been found in possession of stolen goods. Goods that allegedly came via the same individuals he was selling diesel to. And some more that I forget.

One of the Gardaí remarked outside the court later that if they’re at one thing, you can be sure they’re up to a hundred others.

I was reminded of this story by the report this week that the Revenue’s customs section had seized 301 vehicles in 2007 on which VRT had not been paid. Of these, 49 were top of the range cars, on which €1.25m in taxes and penalties was recouped. What was of major interest though, was that many of these cases resulted in full tax audits which recovered a further €1m for the State’s coffers. Just like that Garda said all those years ago, if they were guilty of one offence, they are likely guilty of more. The revenue people realise that.

The same scenario applies elsewhere. Take a politician who is found to have accepted a bribe from a property developer to have land rezoned. Asking what else he has taken bribes for is a reasonable question. It is highly unlikely he is specialising in rezoning bribes.

Take the motorist that is fined for driving at 110km/h in a 100km/h zone, on a good road, in good conditions and with little traffic. Very unfair might be your immediate reaction. But isn’t this the same driver that will do 80km/h in a busy 60km/h? And 65km/h in a 50mk/h in the rain? And 40km/h in a 30km/h outside a school. Your reaction to his being fined for those offences isn’t that it is unfair. This driver hasn’t made a policy decision to speed in 100km/h zones only and that he’ll obey lower limits. And does he specialise in speeding offences? I would doubt it.

Take the builder that installs inferior windows that begin leaking a year later. It would be wise to find out what other poor work he has done. If he is cheating the home-owner, who else is he cheating? The taxman probably. His employees too. If I were to tell you the only thing is ever does wrong is using inferior windows you would laugh at me.

No one who flouts a particular law or ethic flouts only that. It makes a fair case for the so-called zero tolerance.

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.

A mail burst into my inbox on Tuesday bubbling over excitedly with the news that the County Kildare Community Network website, kildare.ie, run by Kildare County Council, won a LAMA award for “Best Use of External Communications”. You can read it here. Ah, don’t bother - I’ll give you the main points.

LAMA = Local Authority Members Association. Llama = a useful animal.

The award was presented by RTE presenter Sharon Ni Bheolain and John Gormley. For overseas readers, the former is just a teeny weeny bit less hot (about 1cal or 4.1868J) than Jolene Blalock, her name is actually Ní Bheoláin not Ni Bheolain and she works for RTÉ not RTE. The latter is a Green who sold his soul to Fianna Fáil for a ministerial post.

kildare.ie was recently redesigned. Adherence to web standards and improved accessibility & usability are an integral part of the new design. Ah yes, I remember them doing that. I couldn’t view a damn thing on the site for days unless I buried my pride and switched to Internet Explorer. Months later and their online planning system still only supports IE. If your browser of preference is Firefox or Safari you can use their LiteView version. So much for usability.

Here’s an interesting little exercise: Go to the World Wide Web Consortium’s markup validation service and plug in http://kildare.ie/. 23 errors! So much for adherence to web standards.

Go to the Council’s home page. Like the tiny text in light grey font with the white background? Pretty isn’t it? If your eyes aren’t the best it isn’t pretty at all. Oh, hold on, I apologise. I’m being far too harsh - on the right, toward the bottom there is a tiny link for Larger Font. Have you found it yet? Ok, I’ll give you another ten minutes.

*Puts kettle on. Makes nice mug of coffee*

Ok, you found it. Good. So now the font a readable size, even if it is light grey. See the Help/Accessibility link in the same section? Let’s go there and see what it says. Oh no! The font has gone back to the default size! Very accessible indeed.

Ok, well we’ll just have to struggle on. Let’s see what they have in the Publications section. Oh, look, the Development Plan for 2005-2011 is there. This will be interesting. I wonder what they have in store for my area? Now which is my area? I can’t tell because it’s all laid out in gobbledygook map references - I’ll just have to work my way through all the PDF files all until I find it. At least it’s usable.

Now I understand: They got the LAMA award, not for accessibility & usability, but for improved accessibility & usability. Believe me when I tell you most downloadable documents on the site used be in MS Word format - at least I can open PDF.

Personally I think the county would be better off with a few llamas.

A school in Co. Mayo has banned students without a full driving licence from bringing cars onto the school grounds. It makes sense when you consider that few, or more likely none, would be on their 2nd provisional licence - for a learner permit to drive a car in Ireland you have to be 17 - the age of the majority of senior cycle pupils. As stupid as the law may be, only learner drivers on their 2nd provisional, are permitted to drive unaccompanied. For 1st, 3rd and subsequent licenses you must be accompanied by a fully-licensed driver at all times.

Therefore, leaving aside the health and safety aspect, the school has a good nimby case in that students driving to school unaccompanied are breaking the law. The regulation was proposed by the Parents’ Association and was welcomed by Co. Mayo’s Road Safety Officer.

Yet the decision, as reported by the Irish Independent, “has been blasted by parents who claim the rule is ‘old fashioned’ in an age when both parents are usually working and the waiting time for full licences is in the region of 28 to 30 weeks”.

Oh, so I get it now: Mick and Mary Murphy can’t take Mick Junior to school because they are too busy. He can’t ride his bike or walk in case he gets wet - this is Mayo after all and it rains a lot. Or maybe it’s just too far - this is Mayo after all and it’s rural. Or is it? Claremorris is quite a big town and most students would hail from there. Perhaps there is no bus service. You see, I just don’t know, but in their eyes, the Murphy’s have some valid excuse to let Mick Junior break the law.

I’m puzzled as to how young Pat Murphy gets to school. Does he get driven by his big brother? Maybe Mick Junior won’t take him and he walks or cycles - he’s young and the rain and distance don’t bother him. They didn’t bother Mick Junior at that age either. And there’s always the bus if it rains or he’s running late. No, there can’t be a bus or they’d both be using it instead of breaking the law.

And anyway, cry the Murphys, he wouldn’t have to break the law if the waiting time for driving tests were shorter. 28 to 30 weeks is scandalous. If our Mick got his test in the morning he’d pass with flying colours.

Now I’m getting a better handle on this: It’s the government’s fault for your son being forced to break the law. Well fret no longer - the Road Safety Authority have announced a number of privately run test centres for the country to reduce the backlog. Mick Junior won’t have to wait longer than 10 weeks, he’ll pass his test, get a full license and be a law abiding, proficient and safe driver.

Minister Noel Dempsey assures us of this: Road safety is a top priority for this Government. Today’s announcement by the RSA of this significant cut in waiting times for driving tests is very welcome news … I want to see safer drivers on safer roads and fewer tragic road collisions.

Now can Mr. Dempsey, the Murphys or anyone, please, please, please explain to me, in the name of the lord lanterning jayzez, the horse he rode in on, the mother of the six sniffling infants and any other minor deities you wish to call upon, how the fuck does reducing the waiting times make Mick Junior a safer driver and reduce tragic road collisions? Passing an outmoded test doesn’t mean Mick Junior won’t abide by the rules of the road and the law. Enforcement ensures that. That’s why we have the Gardaí. But as they seemingly can’t do that job, I say kudos to St Colman’s College, Claremorris, Co Mayo for enforcing at least one law.

ps. Posting has been sporadic of late - I’ve been moonlighting over at ShiteDrivers.com. Except for the wankers, in the absence of a totally clear commenting policy as yet, posting comments as if it was a kiddies’ message board, it’s an interesting site. Check it out.

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.

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.