How’s she cutting, Sneezy? Haven’t seen ya in ages.

Ah grand, Toe. How’s things going with the band? Any pick up? If you’ll excuse the pun.

The what?

Doesn’t matter. Are yez busy at all these days.

No. Fek all happening. Played last night. Wedding. Good gig. Wild crowd.

It all helps.

Yeah. Hey, guess what? I was talking to this Romanian lad at it and you’ll never guess, but he told me Transylvania is a real place. Isn’t that mad stuff?

Well not really, Toe. Transylvania’s been in existence for a couple of thousand years.

Has it? Well anyway, this lad told me that’s the place with the castle in Dracula and now get this – the idea for Dracula came from another lad years ago who used ram spikes into lads.

You mean Vlad the Impaler.

Could be. Think that’s what the Romanian lad called him. Sounded like Lad the Something. But listen, this gets better. The lad who wrote the film was from Dublin. From somewhere just outside the Phoenix Park.

Bram Stoker, Toe. Stoker wrote the book. I can’t remember where exactly he was from but I’m certain it wasn’t near the Park.

It was. The lad at the wedding told me. Begins with C. Like Coill Dubh. He might have said Coill Dubh.

Coill Dubh is a long way from the Phoenix Park. And it’s in Kildare, not Dublin. I think we can safely say Bram Stoker wasn’t from Coill Dubh.

Hold on! I have it – Clontarf. He was from Clontarf.

Ah here, Toe. Clontarf is way, way, way outside the Park.

Yeah. But not as far away as Coill Dubh so I was right.

10:00 KFM radio crediting the Leinster Leader as the original source, not Donal Corcoran.

10:35 Update from Donal in comments here.

12:55 Full tabulated figures on Donal’s blog http://donalcorcoran1.wordpress.com/2010/01/15/kildare-junkets-2009-amended-list/

______________________________

On January 7, Donal Corcoran, a former councillor, published a list of publicly-funded attendance by Kildare County Councillors at events in 2009. Junkets!

A full week later and it is a hot topic on local radio and in the local newspaper. (No comment on the timeliness of the MSM). Surprise, surprise the four top recipients of these perks were Fianna Fáil councillors. Update: In order of expenses incurred: M Miley; G Conway; F O’Loughlin; L Doyle.

On first reading Donal’s piece I was shocked to see a monetary value beside event listings that no one attended and assumed those monies had been paid out. I have since been assured by a sitting councillor that this is not the case – the value is merely what the cost would have been had the event been attended. Some small saving grace.

However, there are other disturbing facts.

Firstly let’s look at some of those same unattended events: Understanding Public Private Partnerships; Ireland, It’s People 2010-2015; Including People with a Disability in Local Government Structures, Services; Environmental Management: The Challenges for Councillors.

Hmmm. Wouldn’t you think educating our councillors about disability and environmental issues worthwhile? I would.

Incidentally the Environmental Management: The Challenges for Councillors seminar was held in the Killashee House Hotel in Naas. A useful seminar right on their own doorstep. Perhaps there is no attraction when an overnight stay at a plush hotel is involved.

Now a less well attended: Information, Communication Technologies for Councillors. Personally I would have made this one compulsory. That’s not just the geek in me speaking. ICT is not the preserve of the geek – it is part and parcel of daily life. Yet politicians seem to think ignoring it will make it go away. Often I pose a question based on a fact, or on something they said in a meeting, to a councillor and get a shocked look – How do you know that? Where did you hear that? My answer is usually I read it on the council website. More shocked looks – the no-way-should-the-public-be-allowed-know-that look.

One of the better attended was in Galway city for the Merriman Winter School in February. For those who aren’t aware, the winter school, unlike the summer one, is conducted entirely through Irish. I guess any councillor whose command of the language let them down could otherwise amuse themselves in the luxurious spa of the Hotel Meyrick. By the way, the cheapest rate I can find for the weekend of this year’s school is €145 per night. I think I’ll pass.

Finally, let’s take a look at some of the truly bizarre events attended by Kildare County Councillors in 2009. Bizarre in that they were funded out of Council coffers that is.

• Maximising Your Vote Seminar
• Get Elected! You, the Media

What?

It was freezing as I left home. The roads had not been treated from what I could see. Not surprising as many counties have run out of funds and/or materials to carry out these works. But the roads weren’t overly bad and I arrived in plenty of time.

Kids wiped, changed and regaled with tales of a giraffe who can’t dance and a fox in socks I settled in on Twitter to watch the rest of the world get involved with alcohol, singing and hugging strangers.

Interspersed with count downs to midnight and reading Tweets about the weather I watched Google’s New Year Easter egg unfold, monitored the (lack of) breaking news and generally arsed about on the Web.

At midnight, as I slipped outside to see the fireworks, the snow began to fall. Light fluffy flakes that sparkled in the flickering Christmas lights hung above the doorway. All going well a crisp white blanket would soon be draped across the landscape. Magical, I thought, until I realised I had to drive home in it and no salting/gritting had been done.

1:15 came and the revellers returned. I brushed the snow off the car taking care to clear the roof in case that crisp white blanket came sliding down on the windscreen as I drove. And I made sure the lights were unobstructed. All the stuff you’re supposed to do.

I set out promising to return immediately if I thought the roads too dangerous. My own two eyes, previous experience and what I’d gleaned off Twitter meant I had a pretty good idea what I was facing – rough but doable.

Getting out of the estate and down the lane to the main road was easy as it hadn’t been driven on, though I could feel the car shimmy when it encountered ice where the snow was less deep.

The main road was somewhat different. The snow had been packed hard by traffic. A car in front of me and a truck behind, all three keeping our distance. Top gear, a light foot on the throttle and we all tipped along at 60km/h or so without much worry.

Approaching Naas things changed. First off was the small roundabout on the ring road. A damn nuisance in these conditions. No matter what you do, sudden sharp steering is unavoidable. Not good in snow.

Next up were the boyracers in their butt-mobiles practising their handbrake turns. They clearly had no comprehension that on hard-packed snow, with virtually no traction, that can quickly go wrong. And it did. One car spun, mounted the path and smacked off a litter bin. What if that was another car, or worse, a pedestrian?

My own fear was one would come to rest sideways on the road and I wouldn’t have enough distance in which to stop. That didn’t happen.

Though it nearly did. At the first red light, the car in front braked hard and slid down the slope. It came to a sudden stop as it hit the one and only clear spot in the whole town. I tapped and tapped on the brakes but couldn’t seem to slow and the cold sweats began. I considered flashing in the hope the other driver would realise what was happening and break the red. With nothing oncoming I thought of crossing onto the other side of the road. That’s what I’d do if it came to it, so I indicated as a warning. The car behind had already begun to edge over. Two Gardaí in the same predicament I noticed.

The lights turned green and, while relieved, I hoped I was going slowly enough to take the chicane at Murtagh’s Corner without slamming into the three expensive-looking 4×4s to my left.

There was worse than that ahead. The pubs had vomited out hundreds of drunken party-goers onto the street and it was obvious virtually all taxi drivers had stopped working because of the conditions. I expected this. It always happens. Great service our taxi folks provide, eh?

Main Street was like glass. Solid ice. With taxis like hens’ teeth and so many customers it was mayhem. People rushed and stumbled uncaring of their safety from one side of the street to the other at the sight of an approaching cab. Still on an incline, neither the car in front, the cops behind nor I could have stopped. Only by keeping moving were we maintaining any control.

The passenger in the Garda car had his head out the window screaming at people to stay on the f**king footpaths.

As the road rose up to the deserted main taxi rank stopping was both doable and done. This is where the snowball fight was on. One missile, clearly intended for my car, struck the passenger window. I watched in the rear view mirror and giggled as the cop hopped out and bundled my attacker in the back. (They let him out further down the town. Presumably the intention was to give all the snowballers a warning).

No snowball fights at the second, and equally deserted, taxi rank, but an unending stream of people staggering across the street. And standing on it which forced me to a standstill at the narrowest point. The boys in blue behind me flashed their blue lights and unleashed a litany of blue language. The way cleared.

From there to the M7/N7 was fine. Relatively. Back to the top gear and low revs trick and I tipped along. There were only a few cars on the carriageway. I nudged out to the centre of the three lanes thinking if I did lose control I would have more room to correct. Lucky move. As I passed under the J8 bridge I hit pure ice and the car fishtailed, sending me far into the left lane.

Except for a bit of bother trying to come to a halt on the slope down to my gate the rest of the journey home was uneventful. It took an hour in all.

While the thrill of my mini-adventure began to sink in something else slowly dawned on me: As I was about to set out, my sole source of accurate real-time information of what conditions were like was Twitter.

The most recent AA Roadwatch bulletin was from long before midnight. The black ice it mentioned on the M7 was hard-packed white snow when I reached it. Metcheck.com gave 0.0mm precipitation throughout the night. Local radio played music. Met Éireann gave vague warnings for wide geographical areas and their current weather was 30minutes after the fact, as was their precipitation map. Sites like the Irish Times, Irish Independent, BreakingNews.ie and RTÉ were either shut down for the night or were reflecting conditions from hours back.

AcuWeather.com came closest to the reality it must be said. And the National Roads Authority weather station info, while updated only hourly and with few monitoring stations, gave information on road and air temperatures from which conditions could be deduced.

But it was Twitter, with, I admit, a little help from the Met Éireann rainfall radar, best prepared me for what was ahead. The animated map gave me the general path the snow was taking. Tweets and some Twitpics, Qiks etc. from people I follow let me know in real-time in what parts of Dublin city and county it had begun and how much (deep) it was. Similar Tweets then came from further north in Kildare so I knew it was getting close.

Some searches on Twitter informed me of the state of the roads. The odd, very odd, Tweet from someone drunk in Naas; someone just home cursing the ice at a certain spot; someone watching cars skid outside their house. If it hadn’t been the aftermath of New Year’s Eve I’m certain the volume would have been far greater, but there were enough to prepare me.

In all, I enjoyed my wee adventure. And thanks to Twitter, and not the MSM, I knew I could make the trip safely. Without Twitter I could have had a restless night on a couch and have been wiping kids’ noses, changing nappies and reading more stories on New Year’s morning.

I was visiting a client, a farmer, in one of those areas the other day. Small talk is the foreplay of business and on this occasion we chatted about how the Irish Farmers Association (IFA) had acted so quickly, organising truck loads of donated fodder be sent to aid farmers in the west whose winter feeding stocks had been ruined. What Tom told me left me quite shocked.

Yes, the majority had acted as asked and gave whatever they could spare. Others, however had been quite unscrupulous and took the chance to rid themselves of their rubbish – 3 or 4 year-old stock with little or no feed value; rotten bales of silage; dust ridden hay and straw. Disposing of such rubbish is a costly exercise and the flooding provided a golden opportunity.

Think of the cost to the IFA of shipping this. Think of the cost of weeding out the dross and disposing of it. Think of the farmer in the west whose livelihood is all but ruined seeing a glimmer of hope but opening a bale only to discover it is unusable.

As I was leaving, Tom suggested I swing by one of the estates affected by the floods. “Take a look in the skips”, he said. “Call me back if you can figure out what you see. I can’t”.

I took a look. I haven’t called him back.

Maybe you the readers can explain this to me:

Among the sodden flooring, clothing, furniture and other items I expected to see were some strange items indeed.

Why would anyone throw out radiators? How could something whose sole purpose is to carry water be flood damaged?

Likewise how can plastic furniture be damaged by water? Or cups, plates etc? Soiled perhaps, but easily cleaned.

How could a wide screen TV that had been, given the visible mountings, on a wall have gotten wet? I seen no indication it had been. No staining whatsoever. Had the fuse in the plug blown and the entire set scrapped?

Most perplexing of all was why the need for a security guard to protect supposedly worthless goods? And why did he ask me to leave when I took out my camera phone?

There are others. Since the recession began to kick in many, many more have sprung up and membership of existing ones have grown dramatically.

Business owners are reaching out for everything they can to stay afloat. I know one individual who is a member of no less than seven networks. With so many weekly meet-ups to attend it is beyond me how he gets any actual work done. Perhaps there is no work to do.

I draw a major distinction between organic and forced networking. It is the latter that has seen the greater growth in recent times.

Take a two-day course run by a county enterprise board or a weekend event like the upcoming WordCamp Ireland. There are interesting speakers, demonstrations and so on. The networking happens naturally during coffee breaks or over dinner/drinks. Attendees go to learn primarily and if business comes out of it that’s a bonus.

Take a sports club where members help each other out and share business. Passing on a lead is natural. It is being passed to a friend. A friend you made while having fun.

This is organic networking. If it happens well and good. If it doesn’t then nothing is lost – something has been learned or enjoyed. But when it does work it works very well and the bond that leads to repeat business is strong.

Forced networking takes many forms. There is the cabalistic structure of the Kildare Business Network where membership is restricted to one business per business sector. Likewise, Business Network International where not only may just one person from each professional classification or speciality join a chapter, but all the other members carry copies of your business cards around with them to hand out. It cannot be helped but read that as members are required to carry others’ cards. To me, a network that is restricted to the point of being incestuous is not a network at all.

There are the OpenCoffee Clubs, some of which work extremely well, with attendees hearing from speakers of interest and proving a platform for entrepreneurs to showcase their businesses. After all, that’s what the OpenCoffee Club was founded to do – it was started to encourage entrepreneurs, developers and investors to organise real-world informal meet-ups to chat, network and grow. In short. the OpenCoffee Club was founded for Internet developers.

Others purport to be part of the wider OpenCoffee Club network yet their purpose bears no semblance of the above. The Open Coffee Club (that’s Open Coffee not OpenCoffee) nearest me explain how it works: You come along, buy a coffee and have a chat. There is no charge to attend, no agenda, no speakers, no badges or formal networking – just a chance to meet some familiar and new faces. So it’s a coffee morning. Nothing else. A hijacking of the OpenCoffee brand to facilitate forced networking.

That said, at least the agenda is clear. You are there to pitch your business and nothing else. Unfortunately the realisation come quickly that you are pitching at the same faces time after time.

There is also a growing number of serial forced networking individuals. I know of some who repeatedly take the same courses and seminars to network at breaks with new faces.

Trying to hard and being too pushy and you will fail. A forced laugh is immediately spotted.

The same parallels of organic and forced can be made in online networking. All too often business people jump onto platforms like Twitter shouting about how great they and their business are and wonder why they are being ignored. I am often approached by such people: I don’t get this Twitter thing. How do I make money out of it? You don’t, is the short answer. But I was at a talk and your man from Blacknight was mentioned as a good example of an Irish businesses using Twitter. How does he make it work? He tells us about his cats, I reply, to stunned silence. And sometimes fixes things, I add.

See the difference? Forced networking is taking the bus solely to walk up and down the aisle introducing yourself and pitching your business to everyone. Organic networking is taking the bus because you need to get somewhere and happening to strike up a conversation with the person next to you that leads to new business. Update: If you still wish to take the former route and expect to attain spontaneous success I suggest you enlist the help of a “social media guru“.

Update 2: John Cradden writing in The Irish Times seems to be rather a fan of BNI. Either that or the Old Lady now accepts advertorials.

Then the recession came. Cars were not being cleaned. The bands were not getting bookings. He took a job with one of the private security firms providing bodyguards in Iraq.

I met him recently. Home for his first break in over a year.

The eyes were the give away. Darting. Piercing. Narrowed. He was a coiled spring. In 12 short months the once natural chit-chat and banter had become forced and strained.

I have seen this before. A man I was in school with and an American I was later to work with had both joined the French Foreign Legion in the ’80s. Both had been in the reserves. Both deserted during overseas postings while on R&R. The slightest provocation would set of uncontrollable rage. Both carried knives. And used them.

In contrast, an ex-SAS instructor who now lives near me and has worked privately in Angola, Nigeria, Iraq and Afghanistan to name a few hotspots, arrives home relaxed and calm after each contract. (Most believe him to be an oil engineer and he doesn’t correct them). A big gentle giant who laughs off any slagging or anti-British insults.

It takes a certain type of person to take on the role of professional fighter. Playing soldiers at weekends doesn’t make one that. The vetting by private security firms doesn’t test for that. Nor do the psycho-technical tests done by the Legion.

Vincent’s family are coaxing him into not going back.

Given the current state of the global economy this is not unexpected.  The cartoon industry is not exempt. Indeed, nor are it’s clients.  A recent survey by our own ESRI shows that pocketmoney incomes are down 17% year on year and trips to the zoo have fallen to 2006 levels.

Falling employment has staunched the flow of funds into the pocketmoney coffers.  One four year old was of the opinion that no one gets paid for working – When mam gets me from school after work, she always says she has no money to bring me to the shop for sweets.

Speaking from Stamford, Connecticut, Monke of Garntner tells of some of the more subtle cost-cutting measures being taken by the cartoon industry.

Barney smiles 5.7% less today than he did in 2007.  Why? Industry chiefs may claim it is designed to reflect reality as part of their mission to educate children for life, the truth is that it is a cost reduction measure – drawing big stupid grins takes time and materials.

Monke has also noticed reduced levels of stock being carried by Kelly in her Sheetrock Hills hardware store.  Walt Disney spin the same we are reflecting reality story.  Children don’t notice this as Handy Manny’s lines are scripted such that he never needs request out of stock items.

I asked Monke if there would be further contraction.

Why, yes!  By the middle of the first quarter of 2010 I predict Kelly’s store will close for good.  Handy Manny will source materials on the Internet from China.  In Q-3 we will see layoffs with Turner and Stretch first to go.

But Monke believes even more is to come.  He speaks of mergers, acquisitions, rationalisations and consolidations.  Changes to date have only put off the inevitable, he says.  To return to profit and restore shareholder confidence far harsher measures will have to be taken.  There is no way to avoid this.

Monke cites leaks by industry insiders of a merger between Bob the Builder and SpongeBob SquarePants.  The new cartoon’s main character’s construction empire is no more.  He is old, frail and financially ruined.  Set in a state-run nursing home, SpongeBath Bob will air on our screens in mid-2010.

Okay. Away is putting it lightly. I now realise I haven’t touched this blog since July 1. Funny that – I thought my last post was about 6 weeks ago. Serves me right for messing with the space-time continuum.

So what was I up to? Bugger all of interest really. Work mainly. Lots of it. Too much at times. Not only was I messing with the space-time continuum I also managed to get the whole recession thing arseways.

There were loads of topics I wanted to rant about and stories I was gagging to tell. I could have. That wouldn’t have taken much time. But a blog is a funny beast – feedback can trickle in over weeks. A blog with unacknowledged feedback isn’t a blog.

I offloaded a lot on Twitter instead. Quick, short bites. Replies immediate. Done and dusted there and then. Move on.

If a blog is a wife, then Twitter is a hooker.

What now? I’m not sure. I’ll see how things go. The plan is to at least post something on Sunday mornings. I think this marriage just might be worth saving.

There is one other close by but the drink in it should carry a boil notice. Warm, putrid swill. Yet, it has a loyal clientèle. I guess warm, putrid swill is an acquired taste.

So you can imagine my horror when I heard Grandad’s was to close for renovations. I was gutted it was to be gutted.

What were they going to do? Would it become one of those super pubs devoid of character? Would all the memories be erased? Would all the lack of memories be erased?

Complain as we would we regulars had become attached to the little quirks. The door that couldn’t be closed properly. The double light fitting that only ever had one bulb. The radio that crackled. The TV that turned itself on from standby. The ringboard with the 10 hook missing. The floral print bedside lamp that was brought out when someone complained the lighting was poor.

It turns out our fears were unfounded. The new look Grandad’s is impressive. Best of all it has a whole new set of quirks. A door on, not in, a wall that leads nowhere. Lights cluttered in one spot so readers huddle in a tight group. A maze of hallways and doors – a trail of breadcrumbs is advisable.

And of course the same grumpy owner. Passers by dropping in to use the facilities are always curious when asked for their address. And shocked at the response – So the next time I’m passing your house I’ll drop in for a shite too.

They would have been even more shocked on Saturday gone. Luckily Saturday’s band of passers by were rough and tumble (mostly grey haired) AC/DC fans who whipped out camera phones on seeing the facilities.

Click to biggilize