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The ostman

You’ve probably realised from the title and some previous stories that I take the P out of the postman quite a bit. Sometimes I get the upper hand, sometimes I don’t.

Why is that? you may ask. Well, I may tell you, we grew up together and have been playing practical jokes on each other since we could walk and slagging each other since we could talk.

I was invited to his wedding. A blacktie affair the invitation said. Well it was for me and no one else. I stood out like a right dick in my monkey suit. I got him back for that the week he came home from the honeymoon - he came out one morning to find “Just Married” sprayed on the post van in shaving foam and a clatter of tins cans tied to the back. He was half way through his round when someone pointed out the banner trailing from the aerial - “I got my first ride”.

For months now he’s been at me to put a postbox at the entrance. For months now I’ve been putting it off just to bug him.

I relented last week and bought one. But I couldn’t hang it on my own, so I figured who better to help me than the man who would use it most. On Friday he held it while I bolted it on. He even got to pick the spot it went. I thanked him most profusely: That’s grand. You won’t be coming into the yard annoying me now.

Yesterday I seen him pass by the window. A knock on the door. I ignored it. He came to the window.

Open the door, ya bollix ya.

How do I know it’s you?

You can see me, for feck sake.

Not good enough. Have you ID? And anyway, the postman always knocks twice.

He knocked on the door again and I opened it.

Would ya not use that grand postbox I bought ya?

I have a parcel. Won’t fit. Why didn’t ya get a decent size one?

Me? Me? You’re blaming me? Shur it was you put it up.

I did not. You did.

No I didn’t. As sure as the dog’s me witness, I seen ya. I was standing there right beside ya on when you put it up. Not my fault you put up a box that’s too small.

I noticed something protruding for the box later. He’d gone and stuffed it full of advertising leaflets.

I left them in it. We’ll see what happens today.

Guess what I won!

Six hours with a business coach worth, I don’t know, a stocking load of money. More than six hours with a hooker anyway I’d reckon.

My name was pulled out of a hat in a competition run by the local Chamber Pot of Commerce. I didn’t know there was a competition. I didn’t even know they had a hat. Maybe they got a grant for one.

Apparently I’m going to be so delighted with the coach I’ll be only gagging to join the Chamber out of gratitude. Gagging? We’ll see about that - the very word ‘Chamber’ does make me gag, but I don’t think that’s what they mean.

So I did a bit of research about this business coach on the Internet. Turns out it’s a partnership of two very young looking gurus. The website lists “Business Development ,Team Performance , Time Management ,Sales & Marketing ,Advertising ,Website SEO, Costs,Finance ,Cash flow” as areas they can help in. Obviously they don’t help with writing copy.

Being reluctant to give up six hours of my time to be coached by someone who looks like they could have no more than six hours actual experience in business, I consulted with the sibling (recently qualified in coaching) and one of my erstwhile managers (who is one of Ireland’s top coaches - writes now an again in the grown-up paper and all).

Both agreed I should take the Chamber up on their offer and listed their reasons one by one. One by one I responded “ah here, that’s bollix”, or words to that effect. Both finally admitted they wanted me to report back on the competition.

So over the next few weeks I shall be conducting industrial espionage at the expense of the Chamber Pot of Commerce. Now there’s something to add to my resumé. I might hit myself for a payrise.

Earwigged gems #5

- What’ll they get into next?

- Who?

- BIC.

- The pen crowd?

- Yeah, them. But they make razor blades and razors too. And lighters. And Tippexy stuff. And glue. And crayons. It was in the paper that they’ve even come up with a mobile phone. What’ll they get into next?

- Condoms?

- Jayzez, could ya imagine the slogan: Put a BIC on your bollix.

- Gas! Hey listen though, if they leak anything like their pens I’m not going near them.

Snippets #20

  • I had a visit from the TV licence inspector. Finally. After writing to An Post many times asking them to stop sending me warnings - I don’t have a damn TV. The inspector’s reaction wasn’t what I expected at all. Apparently more and more are ditching their TVs in favour of other things like reading, listening to music, playing games, socialising and so on. When I told him I like to go for walks he grinned and asked so you can do that on the Internet too?
  • MacKozer has begun doing stuff on the Internet again. Not that he ever stopped. He kept his fotoblog going and his regular blog in Polish. But he has returned to posting in English (since Ireland from a Polish Perspective slipped away) on MacKozer.com. If you’re interested in Polish and world affairs it’s well worth reading.
  • Of course, other than the financial turmoil in the markets, the world* news we are all following is the US presidential election. While the best anti-McCain-Palin slogan I’ve seen yet has to be Unstable and Unable, the best observation has to be that by John-Joe Brogan (rider of the high stool and pundit-in-residence, aged 76 and with a bad cough): The only good thing about McCain is his fucking oven chips.
  • And speaking of spuds, Conor Pope’s Pricewatch chose mashed potato for this week’s price comparison. Products tested were from Tesco (Helping you spend less), Centra (For the way we live today), (Your) M&S and some outfit called Mash Direct - probably the factory outlet for SpudWorld Museum and Amusement Park in Longford. The winner was … wait for it … homemade mash potatoes. His only quibble was that it took 25 minutes to go from raw, unpeeled potatoes to mash on the plate, which is significantly longer than the five minutes in the microwave the other options. But, Conor, with just a teaspoon of water in a bowl and you can microwave spuds in minutes, so homemade wins hands down.

* World = places Palin has visited for longer than it takes to pee: Ireland, Germany, Iraq, Kuwait, USA

Internet freedom does not mean free Internet

A guy I know approached yesterday me about setting up a website for a horseracing syndicate he and nine others have just formed.

He explained the requirements:

We want the name to be theladsfromthepubracingsyndicate.com. Dot COM is cheaper than dot IE, right? It’ll have a password and only the ten of us will be able to get at it. We want to have news about the horses - races they are entered in and how they did - that kind of thing. We want pictures from the stables and the racecourse. And video. New stuff every week. You can take the pictures and the videos and put them up. We’ll have the trainer text you every morning about how things went on the gallops and you’ll put that on it too. Three of us will do the other news part. The other seven won’t be able to put stuff on it.

So can you have it ready tomorrow? I’ll pay you up front. Right this minute. Here.

And he placed a €10 note in my hand.

Coming clean with the bath

The holiday makers arrived home from not-Galway at the weekend. I made sure their cat and Gold Finger, the fish, looked well fed and content (using drugs and a stomach pump). They knew their bath was to be used for a project at some point, but they didn’t know it already had been used. In their absence. I caught the mare, hitched up the welcome-wagon, and went around to break the news. But …

Her: The bath thing happened, didn’t it?
Me: Oh. Eh. I thought I told you.
Her: Don’t think so. I could tell anyway.
Me: The girls left everything the way they found it. Spotless. I went to put the stuff back later and they’d already done it. How could you tell?
Her: I got the smell of whatever they used for milk as soon as I walked in the door. What was that?
Me: Eh, don’t know. I think they got it from the props department. Perfectly safe. Really. I think.
Her: You thi …

[Changing subject quickly ...]
Me: Hey! Want to see the outcome?
Her: Yeah. Go on.

[I power up the laptop ...]
Her: Wow! Fekin deadly. Absolutely gorgeous.
Me: Yeah, Rosie really has doe-eyes, doesn’t she? Just like Annie said.
Her: Huh. Suppose. I was talking about my bath and my tiles. They look gorgeous.

[I show her husband ...]
Him: [Eyes light up. Big smile. Stares at screen with a 'show me more' look]
Her: Our bath looks amazing, doesn’t it, hun?
Him: [Nearly chokes]

[I change the subject quickly ... honour among thieves and that]
Me: And this [I brandish the Irish Times magazine] is Annie. In the Times. Imagine that.
Her: Does she mention my bath?
Me: Eh, no. Why would she?
Her: She should have - it’s brilliant.
Me: It’s all about women bloggers, not baths.
Her: Ah, that auld Internet shite. Boring.

[She scans the magazine]

Her: Do you know any more of these Internet people?
Me: Yes. No. Yes. Sort of. It’s hard to explain.
Her: But you did know the two that were here?
Me: Yes. No. Yes. Sort of. It’s hard to explain. Well, I know them now.
Her: Who are they anyway?
Me: Well Annie is an acclaimed graphic designer, photographer and writer from Wales who lived in Iceland for years. She did a masters in film in Dublin and made some short movies of her own. She works in Ardmore on The Tudors now, but she’s off to tour America soon.
Her: And the other girl?
Me: She’s the one who took her kit off …
Her: [Strange look] Full-time job?
Me: No. She’s a gaeilgeoir and …
Her: So she takes her kit off as Gaeilge? How?
Me: She keeps her caol le caol and her leathan le leathan, I suppose.

[She thinks a bit ...]

Her: So what else did yee do?
Me: We had tea and biscuits.
Her: Mine?
Me: Your tea, my biscuits. I had to borrow some of your teabags.
Her: That’s like borrowing Tippex.
Me: And we went for a pint in the village.
Her: So what did they think of the pub?
Me: Annie loved it. Rosie wasn’t there for long. She went off to the shop first, back, then off again somewhere else.
Her: So you went for a pint with one and a half of them?
Me: Yeah. Sort of like the Cadbury ad - a pint and a half in every half pound or something.
Her: We’re back to the milk again.