Paddywhacking

In general, I love Oirland, and all Oirish by-products.

River Dance – go on, ‘twas grand in its day. That Michael Flately could flick a hoof with the best of them.

Give me an Irish coffee and I’ll smash the thing.

Circle of Friends: once a favourite of mine. Chris O’Donnell with the whole accent going on was off the perv charts back when we were in high school. At sleepovers we’d work ourselves into a lustful frenzy over the man.

Once I even schnacked an average-looking short-ass barman in Dublin because he asked me so nicely: “Excuse-meh, do’ya mind if-a kiss ya?” Hell no.

I even learned to appreciate the quirky humour in Father Ted after my mother subjected me to series after series of it. She gets rather misty-eyed and plays The Corrs a lot.

Unfortunately, that’s pretty much where my infatuation with the leprechaun nation ends.

The last few months at work have forced me into a situation in which I am compelled to to dispatch strongly-worded emails to a certain Irish IRRIT. Delivery of copy is undoubtedly two to four days late.

There is almost always a panic spree on a Monday. Panicked conference calls ensue with the bloke invariably ending up in an emotional breakdown and his green underwear in a tangle. I wish his manager would administer a Guinness intravenously to put him out of his woe.

The potato farmer cannot for the life of him begin to fathom the time zone phenomenon. Bad move seeing as we, the client, are operating on Dubai time, and Dubai weekends apply. It seems the learning curve is a steep and insurmountable one: “We’ll deliver it for’ya on Friday” [No, you won’t. I will be hanging like a bat. At home].

Today he’s done it again. Get off my tits won’tcha Paddy.