By Brendan O'Connor
Sunday Apr 20 2008

FRIDAY YOU'D WORRY about some of the people who have time to write letters about dog shit. Admittedly, I did so myself during my recent time off, but I have some excuse, being a crank and all. And at least my letter was to the relevant authorities. You all decided to write to me. Maybe it's a sign I'm as cranky as you people at this stage, but the letters actually made sense to me. John O'Keeffe, late of Collector's Corner in Dun Laoghaire, who used to be my diamond dealer back in the days of the economic boom, has the perfect excuse for having time to write letters to people about dog shit, him being retired and all that. Maybe as I move into my middle-aged crank phase I need to accept that John and the rest of you are increasingly my brethren.

John is under doctor's orders to walk, and then walk some more, and he likes to do it at Sandymount Strand. Finding his walking hampered by dog shit, he has come up with a very reasonable solution to the whole thing: "Ban the bastards". He suggests an initial ban from May 1 to September 30.

"The children will have a chance to play on the sands, pram pushers will not have fouled wheels, etc." He reckons the main culprits are not the "Ringsend tough brigade, but the glitterati who exit from the 4x4s, open the rear doors and release the dogs as if they were down on a day's shoot in Conna. Off the dogs go across the beach, chase the birds, return and crap on the dunes." I have images of my retaliation on the dog owners as I exit from the 4x4, open the rear door and release the child who runs across the beach chasing the birds, before returning to crap on the dunes. Not that she'd have the modesty to go into the dunes for a crap. She'd look you right in the eye and crap there and then, right in front of you.

John reckons that dogs have been banned off the beaches and promenades in some other parts of the world. I think I'm with him. If we can ban smoking everywhere, we can ban people from bringing their dogs to lovely public amenities for them to go to the toilet, causing a health hazard.

SATURDAY

A LARRY MULLEN spotting in Eden. While the ignorant among you may think, "Jesus, O'Connor, give us a proper spot. He's only the drummer. What about a spotting of Bono, or the other fellah, the Edge," that's where you'd be wrong. A spotting of the lesser-spotted Larry is the ultimate. You'd catch Bono out on the town any night between Wednesday and Sunday and the Edge is fairly common too. Adam Clayton and Larry are the real exclusives. And there's also the fact that God, Larry looks good. If Irishmen were to admit to a slight man-crush, most of them would probably say Larry.

If nothing else, he gives great hope for Irish guys. He shows we can be good-looking in an old-fashioned, handsome, movie-star way. If Irish guys are attractive, it's usually in the rugged or interesting-looking way, boxers' noses and big jaws and stuff, or we have a great personality or something else useless like that. Larry just looks good like Brad Pitt looks good. Larry is eye candy.

And age isn't diminishing him. And he always had the dignity to appear troubled by the worst excesses of U2 -- like the Pop album.

THURSDAY

MC-ING A ball tonight, so have been going through the usual, "Oh God, why did I agree to do this months ago when it seemed it would never come around" thing. Dates are so deceptive. When someone says to you in January about doing something in April, of course you go, "Yes, yes that will be fine," because you know that April never comes. And then, of course, April comes.

You'd think I would have learned my lesson at this stage -- that April always comes. Anyway, I doubt I'm going to have this problem in the future because I think my event MC-ing days are over. You see, this was a ball full of PR people and I decided to take the interesting tack of getting up and insulting them all at length before dinner. And not even grade-A insults (I think the bit that vaguely centred around PR being the oldest profession in the world was, even by own lofty standards, somewhat of a watershed for MC-ing).

Given that these people run all the events in this town, I think I was unconsciously ensuring I would never MC again. I don't know if I'll ever hear again either. You know how much noise, like, one PR chick makes, OK? Well, like, can you imagine a few hundred of them all in one room? You'd nearly feel sorry for the half dozen or so guys who work in PR.

I say nearly. I thought I knew a thing or two about being blessed among women in the workplace but these guys have it sussed -- 20 giggling blondes to every one of them are what I call good odds.

SATURDAY

ME AND the child lay in bed and listened to poor Nuala's interview. The child, who has other more pressing considerations at this time, and besides which does not speak the language here yet, was unmoved, but I was less so. It is brutally honest and heart-rending. Let's face it, not many people who are dying have the balls to admit they're pissed off about it.

Of course, the main thing I wanted to know, as many of you did, was now that she knows it's nearly all over, what would she have done differently? Would she have borrowed more money? Taken more drugs? Slept with more people? Lived it up a bit more? No. She would have drunk less and been more reflective. And, Jesus, that's Nuala O'Faolain, who's pretty reflective. If a lack of reflectiveness is something we're going to regret on the deathbed I'm going to be in a bad way. I don't think I will even have enough inner resources and calm to reflect for a few minutes on my lack of reflectiveness. I don't think I'll be able to turn off the TV for long enough.

MONDAY

In a funny way, since the child arrived, I think I'm a bit more reconciled with the idea of death. At the very least, I think I have now accepted that I will die some day, which is a bit of an achievement, if you ask me. Not that I'm claiming to have overcome the fear of death. Doubtless it will arise again and again from here on in. Thanks for that, baby. Right now, my thinking is that the being dead bit is fine really. Hopefully, one will either be in a better place or in no place at all and completely unaware of it, so whatever the truth about the great beyond, it's grand. It's the dying bit you'd worry about.

Funnily enough, I think I have a millionth of a hint of an insight into what Nuala may be going through as I've just got to the end of The Road by Cormac McCarthy, this year's must-read novel about the end of the world. Jesus, that's one grim book. There's no let-up whatsoever. You start out knowing for sure where it's going and then it goes there slowly and relentlessly. Any respite in the situation is, you know, ultimately pointless because it doesn't make any difference to where it's all going.

Why, you might ask, did I keep reading it? To which I would give the same answer as those smart arses who climb Mount Everest. Because it was there. And boy, was it there.

Every night I'd hit the sack for the precious 10 minutes of reading I get these days before I conk and there it was looking at me. "So you can't take it, huh? Too real for you, am I?" So I would resignedly pick it up, determined that tonight I would finish it. But I always only seemed to get half of the rest of it read. And as you know, if you keep only getting half way to the end, you never actually reach the end. As Beckett, no stranger to this field himself, might say, I can't go on. I'll go on.

TUESDAY

THANK God, for him, that Pat Kenny stopped that case. Was he the only one in the country who didn't realise that it was going to destroy him? Although I did detect huge sympathy on the street from ordinary people about a guy who lives in a giant house in Dalkey wanting to get another piece of land next to him for nothing. As it is, now we got to enjoy just enough of a window into the lives of our betters in Dalkey and for that we will always be grateful to Pat. It was an unexpected little bit of crack as winter refused to turn into spring.

And whoever would have thought Pat Kenny would be claiming squatter's rights? Clearly, he's a bit of a crusty at heart. Do you think he'll be up a tree protesting next? Or under the ground refusing to come out until they stop building a road or something?

Maybe he'll change his name to Squeak or something.

The thing is, Pat apparently tried to buy the land before. Now I don't want to cause trouble by suggesting there was a winner in this because clearly mediation is based on the principle that no one wins, so everyone's happy. But he kind of got what he wanted didn't he? He also has Cathy, which makes him a bit of a winner too.

How good does that woman look for her age, or for any age? Not that I know her age, but she must be roughly the same generation as him.

If we got nothing else out of all this, it was a great outing for Cathy and it reminded us all what a national treasure she is.

- Brendan O'Connor

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