All's rosy in Tir na nOg for TV presenters
As I lurched from lighthouse keeper to labourer, from kitchen mechanic to machinist, my mother was driven to despair. "Get a job in the civil service," she implored, "it's a job for life." Me being young, those words were wasted on me.
Well she was right, but not entirely. I eventually got sense, no doubt from her St Martin De Porres novenas, and I served 30 years' hard time in the public service. What my mother omitted to tell me was that had I served one term as a TD, I too could have been made up for life, but without having to serve life to achieve it . . . if you follow me.
The daddy of the job for life is with RTE of course. As long as the queen of England has been my queen, Gaybo seems to have paralleled her reign. The Celtic Tiger wiped out green fields, banished our foxes to the hills and abducted Mike Murphy. Lo and behold, no sooner than the Celtic Tiger itself took to the hills, Mike returned on RTE of course.