I wasn’t much of a wine drinker back then. But that was all they had. They rummaged in the cellar but not a single bottle of beer was to be found. I survived a couple of hours but finally cracked. I persuaded one of the waiters to drive me down to an off-license.

We were met by two security guard types when we got back. Ah jayzez, have they stolen the crown jewels? This is no laughing matter, sir. A man’s gone missing. One of your party I suspect - a Mr. Sneeze. Fuck off! That’s me. Look, I’m not missing. I’m here. See me. I’ve been here all along. And, okay right, there, pointing down the hill, for a bit.

Pam read me the riot act. All sort of stuff about employee safety being her responsibility on this trip. My conduct would be reported to Dublin. Yackedy, yack, yack. What had I got to say for myself? I don’t suppose I can put the beer on expenses can I? Apparently I was not only irresponsible but I was cheeky too.

Back at the hotel the VP announced he was pulling rank. He threw a few hundred behind the bar. And no one was going to bed until they had sang at least one song and all the money was spent. I sang the first 114 verses of Báidín Fheilimí - as you do. Pam decided she was off the clock, had her first drink of the evening and chilled out a bit. Now was my chance.

Eh, Pam, me auld flower. Yes, Primal - what now? Well you know they way I kind of make a bollix of things? Like nearly loosing the £100 cash? Yes, I heard. And like nearly getting arrested trying to spend it? I heard that too. And like going missing? I noticed. What now? Well I left my feking cheque on the table up at the Castle. Damn it, Primal, you are incorrigible. That’s not good I take it? I suppose it’s lads like me give drink a bad name.

She made some calls. The cheque was found. In a bin. Where else? The bagpiper would be passing the hotel on his way home and drop it off. He duly did and the VP insisted he stay for one. He couldn’t - he had two of the dancers waiting in the car. I was dispatched to fetch them and the tartan octopus.

I don’t know what time we called it a night but Sunday was the Feast of Mother Mary Aching Head. You couldn’t class me as an absolutely brilliant anything. I could just about manage horizontal but vertical was out of the question so I stayed in bed until it was time to go to the airport. I double checked the bin and left.

It being pre 9/11 security was just a formality. Sick as I was I still had the responses off by heart. Did you pack your own bags, sir? Yeash. Has your luggage been out of your sight since then, sir? Noargh. Have you any new or unused electrical equipment? Noargh. Big mistake. The scanner picked up the radio and I got the “could you step in here for a moment, sir, thank you, sir” treatment. It may have been pre 9/11 but in the aftermath of Canary Wharf being Irish was a bit of a disadvantage in the UK.

The absolutely stunning girl was beside me on the plane again. How was the musical? Brilliant! Pity you threw away your ticket. Yeah, I regretted it after. Big time. Twice. So how was your company dinner? Oh, a few glitches but great overall. Do you reckon we’ll be in Dublin before 10? If I miss the last bus from town I’ll have to take a taxi. Well we’re running very late because of that security scare so I doubt it. Some idiot was trying to smuggle electronics. Yeah, I heard. Some people, eh?

I missed the bus. The taxi driver took the last of my sterling - pound for punt - no exchange rate. I’d have preferred to have left it in the bin than give it to the robbing bastard. I bought shares in the company with my cheque. Not long after, the President and the (by then, not so absolutely brilliant) VP were caught fiddling the books and the NASDAQ suspended trading. The shares plummeted the day the ban was lifted and I was left with next to nothing. I might as well have left the cheque in the bin. So much for being an absolutely brilliant employee.

I actually did go sightseeing that morning. Well I stood on Princes Street and looked up at the Castle for a minute or two. That’s nice. Now where’s that bar near the bookies? The girl on the plane was spot on with her suggestion. A big shiny Guinness sign in the window and a bookies right next door. Every customer was reading the racing pages. Dockets and pens set out along the counter. This was home from home. And better still, I had two crisp £50 notes to play with - my musical money.

The problem was the barman wouldn’t take them. He said they looked dodgy. Fifties obviously weren’t often seen in this pub. Where did I get them? I rescued them from a cleaning lady’s trolley. [Digging] No, I mean, they’re legit. I put them there myself. Sort of. [Deeper] Look, they were a gift from my job because they couldn’t get me a ticket to see some crap musical. [Throw me down a ladder] I should have just lied and said the bank gave them to me.

I tried the bookies. Hey, you’re the Irish bloke who was trying to offload fake notes next door. He reached for the phone. I assumed he was calling the cops and I legged it out the door.

Another bar laundered them without a whimper and I managed to back a few winners. Even with the few pints I had more in my pocket when I got back to the hotel than I went out with. This was going great.

The plan was that we’d all meet up in the hotel (in our business-casual attire though I still didn’t know what that meant), for drinks, then a coach would take us up to the Castle. The woman in the lift asked if I was Mr. Sneeze. Primal, yes, and you are? Pam Wolcott (Head of Human Resources, Europe) - I just knew one of you Irish would be first down to a free bar.

Well that stung big time. She was probably right, but it stung anyway. I bit my tongue.

The rest of the party arrived shortly after. I needn’t have worried about the dress code - the guy from Vienna wore a yellow jacket, green tie and red pants. The two from Rome must have shopped at the same circus-surplus store. I was positively normal.

I brought a tray of drinks back to our table but left a mineral water on the counter. The Irish weren’t the only ones taking advantage of the free bar and the queue was three deep. Eh, Pam, could you pass me out that Evian there like a good woman. She squeezed past one, under the arm of another, hitched up her skirt, knelled on a chair, leaned over a table and handed it to me. Well done. Obvious it’s not the first time you passed water in a crowded room.

Why they hired a coach is beyond me. It took longer to get on it and off it than the journey. The Castle entrance was just around the corner. We had to walk for miles after that. Uphill and over cobbles. I learned the phrase why the fek did I wear high heels in seven languages that night.

It was worth the pain though. The craic was mighty. A bagpiper led us into the hall. Later he was to recite/roar the Address to a Haggis and proceed to rip it to shreds with his scian. I began to wonder if Robert Burns actually hated the stuff. Maybe it was just our bagpiper. Hauling around a screeching octopus in a tartan knickers all day would put anyone in bad form.

The big fat cheques were presented by the Belfast born VP of Europe and the Middle East. Then band came on. The dancers in their innocence asked for volunteers. Four Paddys full of drink and high on trad, with four pretty girls in the same room is simply dangerous. Before the circus-clad crowd could get their jackets off we three absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland and the absolutely brilliant VP (he gave us the cheques remember) were swinging the girls around the floor ignoring their pleas for mercy. But it encouraged the others to loosen up and by the end of the night we had the whole Continental Céilí thing going on. Luckily no one was injured. Much.

Then there was the search party. Had he gotten lost looking for the loo? Had he slipped down some stairs and was lying in agony? Could he fallen over the wall to his death? I hadn’t done any of those things.

It was the mid-nineties and I was working for large multinational. I had won a prize for being absolutely brilliant or something. Being the heady days of the dot com boom, the prize was equally heady. Myself and the other absolutely brilliant employees from all around Europe and the Middle East were to be brought to London for a weekend where we would be presented with our awards and collect nice fat cheques.

Then the IRA went and blew up Canary Wharf. The company decided London was too dangerous and the venue was switched to Edinburgh. It would be bad press to have your absolutely brilliant employees killed and wouldn’t make a lot of economic sense either. Edinburgh suited me much better anyway - the beer would be drinkable.

The itinerary went like this:

Friday afternoon: Fly to Edinburgh. Limo from airport to fancy hotel. [Grand. Friday off work and paid]

Friday evening: Wine & cheese reception. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday morning: Shopping trip. [I'd find a bar]

Saturday afternoon: The matinée of a musical. [I'd find a bar near a bookies]

Saturday evening: Gala dinner. Business-casual dress. [What was that about? I'd find the bar]

Sunday morning: Sightseeing tour. [I'd find a bar. Get a cure]

Sunday afternoon: Limo to airport. Fly back home. [Bollix! I'd have to work Monday]

I hadn’t even left Ireland before I made the first cock-up. I queued for 45mins at the Aer Lingus check-in only to be told that I needn’t have bothered - I had a first class ticket. I’d never had a first class ticket before. Not even on a train. This was going to be great.

I was ushered onto the plane first. This was going to be great. They gave me a newspaper. Offered pillows and sweets and stuff. An absolutely stunning girl was next to board and sat beside me. I introduced myself: I’m an absolutely brilliant employee. You’re an absolutely stunning girl. She laughed. Not surprising - women always laugh when they see me first. We got chatting and she told me she went to Edinburgh nearly every weekend to visit her sister. I got the whole story on the best restaurants. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She told me what shows were playing. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She listed all the must-see attractions. Do you know a pub near a bookies? She didn’t but would find out.

A chauffeur greeted me at the airport with a sign saying Mr. P. Sneeze. Peaked cap, black gloves, the works. He insisted on carrying my bag and opening doors for me and calling me sir. This was going to be great.

The hotel was amazing. The room was more of a suite. On the desk there was a note from the company welcoming me and an envelope with my ticket for the musical. I tossed that in the bin. On the bed was a gift from the company - a picnic hamper. But not a Yogi Bear one. This had a really soft tartan woollen rug, a radio that could even pick up aircraft frequencies, a bottle of champagne, Waterford Crystal glasses, binoculars and I can’t remember what else. I suppose it was intended for those who like to picnic at exclusive airports.

It was nearly time for the cheese and wine do in the lobby. I rang down to reception and asked them to tell the bosses I wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t attend. And then I asked if the hotel had a back door. I found a bar.

The next morning there was a message for me at reception. I called the number. It was the girl from the plane with directions to a pub near a bookies. Highly recommended by the locals. Would she be there? No, she was going to the big musical. Ah fek, I could’ve given you a ticket - I had a free one and threw it away.

I met up with another two absolutely brilliant employees from Ireland at breakfast. Was I feeling better? Was I going shopping with them? Yes, much better (except for a hangover). And no, all my shopping was done. I had a lovely rug for the mother. A radio for the father. Waterford Crystal for the sibling. Champagne for the Sneeze’s squeeze. Binoculars for her dad. Ya cheap bastard, Primal. Would you not have given your mum the whole basket and bought more stuff for the others? The ma doesn’t like airports, I explained. And anyway I was skint and my budget only ran to alcohol.

So what was I doing for the afternoon now that we weren’t being taken to the show? We’re not? Why? The last minute switch from London meant it was too late for them to buy us tickets. That’s why they put £100 cash in the envelope instead of tickets. They fekin’ what? Oh, Christ! This wasn’t going to be great.

I raced back up to the room. The bin was empty. I ran down the hallway, around the corner and slammed straight into a rather portly lady in a blue pinny. Was it yourself cleaned room 404? (I should have known that number would bring bad luck). It was her. You did a great job. Now just bear with me for a minute. This is an emergency. I upended her trolley and rummaged through the pile for my envelope. I planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek and danced back down the hall waving the cash in the air and whooping like, like a thing that whoops. All I could hear behind me was bloody Irish. They’re all mad.

Maybe this was going to be great after all.