While Irish people will easily understand the story below, for those not so Irish minded, a little explanation is in order. Late in 1999, a man tried to bring a briefcase through Irish customs at the airport. He was stopped and searched by customs officials. The briefcase contained a large sum of currency. The man in question was a local official working for the government. When questioned by Gardai (Irish police), he sought legal council and an investigation was forthcoming. During the tribunal like proceedings,our man ran the usual gauntlet of media types outside the court steps. In one particular instance he made a curious remark, when questioned about how he could have such a large sum of money on his miniscule salary, the 'man with the tan' said that he was a 'heavy saver'. Naturally the media had a field day with this.


THE CELTIC TIGER BREAKS WIND

A doorbell rings loudly, sharply followed by an even louder Klaxon-clanging
sound and then a tiny cellular phone vibrates so vigorously against the wearer’s
hip that he jumps startled from his armchair slumber.
“Ow!” he winces and plucks something from an ear before his grainy voice
speaks into the receiver.
“Hillo...someone at the door?”
"That’ll be Milo, so.”
“I’ll get it..I’ll get it woman, don’t get yer knickers in a twist.” Snap goes
the receiver into its mooring.
A door is opened to the nerve-wracking tune of turbine-like engines droning
behind it.The noise disappears just as quickly, as a tall gangly man dressed
in an off-tan long trench coat, tied at the waist with a double-twisted hessian
rope, closes it after him. His salt and pepper hair sticks out around his ears
like the old, dilapidated eaves of a thatched cottage. He sports a non-
descript grey cap. While standing in his bottle-green wellies, turned down
at the tops, he fishes for something in his coat pockets and rescues a thin
wireframed pair of granny glasses, which are gingerly placed before
squinting eyes, as if he were suddenly caught off guard by a rude shaft of
sunlight.
Finally he opens his front door.


“Boys Oh Boys Oh Boys, it is you so.”
“Milo boy, yer..yer lookin’ great, the sheep rearin’ business isn’t doin’ you
any harm.”
Theo’s visitor, similarly clad in matching attire, but diminutively built, replies:
“Haven’t seen yerself since Eamonn lost them 11 sheep of his at the Curragh,
remember?”
“Aw ya, ya sure an’ I do.”
“What the feck would that eejit know about sheep rearin’anyway?”
“That boyo couldn’t raise the steam off bath water.”
“Can I come in so?” Milo inquires furtively.
Theo slaps his forehead with the palm of his hand as if he were swotting
some errant bluebottle fly.
“God I’m losin’ the mind there, come in ,come in ,don’t stand out in the cold.”
Milo steps into the hallway of the small farm house.
“How’s the Fiesta/Vauxhall/Anglia runnin’ there boy?”
“Oh, just had the water pump replaced there last week.”
“God that must be the tenth pump repair in...in what? 15 years now is it?”
Theo asks, scratching a stubbily chin.
“Well to be honest eleventh, but whose countin’, I’m lucky she’s still
going.”
“Like my Sheila eh,” Theo soft-thumps Milo’s shoulder and guffaws loudly.
“So how’s Sheila anyway?”
“Is she hoovering again?” Milo asks hearing the sound of a low droning
noise coming from the living room.
“No, no, she’s out in the kitchen peelin’ them there spuds for the tae, ya
came just in time, boy.”
Milo smiling, starts to take off his coat but Theo stops him short.
“Best keep it on, yer goin’ to need it inside.”
He gives him a puzzled look as Theo once again fishes inside his pockets,
only this time he plucks out 2 cellular phones and 2 ear pieces and hands
Milo one item of each.
“What are these for?”
“Just do as I do when we get inside, boy and you’ll be fine.”


“Jeesus, Mary and Joseph,” exclaims Milo when they enter the room
as his eyes survey the interior. Out of every possible nook, corner, cranny
and available space, small and large, assorted electric fans are whirring and
humming, blowing air across at each other and turning their blades left to right.
Across the walls masses of electrical wire are neatly machine stapled into the
wallpaper every few inches giving the appearance of miniature train tracks
snaking their way ,spaghetti-like, into one small wall socket. There Milo sees
multiple electrical plugs so backpacked onto one another that if you clipped
a coloured bulb to each plug the whole contraption would light up like
a Christmas tree and probably cause a deep red glow at sunset if it caught fire.
At this stage Milo’s mouth is jaw-dropped and he looks
like a great fish trawling for snacks in the deep blue ocean. He instinctively
closes his coat tightly against the cold crisp air billowing about. Glancing
at the ceiling, he notices more electrical wires stapled to the
plaster ,only the staples are pushed too strongly in place ,so the whole
area looks like silver-bodied spiders criss-crossing the ceiling lamp.

Theo calmly sits at an armchair and motions Milo to do likewise across
from him. He clicks a button on his cell phone and places an earplug
in his free ear. Milo copies him all the while his mouth still trawling the
deep blue ocean.
“Are ya there Milo, are ya there, boy?”
Milo finds the feeling coming back to his mouth. “God Almighty, Theo
what have ya done to the place?”
“What about that then, eh boy,” Theo says sweeping the room with an arm,
and a big grin on his face.

“I’m doin’ me bit to avoid the economy goin’ wallop boy, that’s what I’m
doin’.”
“Don’t ye read the papers?”
Milo is stumped for words.
“The Central Bank has come out and said the Irish economy is overheatin’....
overheatin’ boy, can ye imagine that?”
“So I’m partaking in a collective cooling process, to get it back on track.”
“God yer marvellous, Theo, marvellous man, I never knew you had it
in you.”
“Tis a great idea, a great idea,” compliments Milo.
Theo sits back lapping up the praise.
“And I’ll have ye know I have a big wind machine out back I’ll let ye
have a gander at later on.”
“God, Theo you’ve.( fishing for words)...you’ve excelled yerself there,man.”
Milo sees Theo’s canary bird in its cage ,its coat glistening, rigid on its
perch, its feathers unruffled by the constant breeze blowing its way.
“So where’s Molly, yer cat, Theo. It always sits on that chair,” points out
Milo.
“Ah, sorry to say that’s a sad state of affairs there, a sad state indeed.”
“Didn’t she up and catch the flu and died on us, boy.”
“Sorry to hear that .”
“Well, we all have to make small sacrifices to allow a bigger pussy, our
Celtic Tiger, to flourish my friend.”
“What, what! you bought a tiger ,Theo?” Milo asks nervously as if some
wild animal were about to pounch on him.
Relax,relax there Milo, God yer a jumpy one, that's just a figment of
speech,....a figment of speech to describe how well the economy is steaming
ahead, roarin' away like goodo."
"Oh God, Oh God," gasped Milo,clutching his chest. "Ya had me goin' there for a minute,"
to which Theo lets out a hearty laugh.
"But wait a minute, yer ESB bill must be astrological so, ya must be
selling more pigs then Theo?"

“Ara not atall, not atall, boy. I got me one of them bank loans ya know,
for the fans and the cell phones and the 2 mile of electrical wiring.”
“But, but Theo, I couldn’t get a loan for a new car.”
“Well now, after satisfying the 3 times income requirement...me wellie size..
..inside leg measurements and not fergetting me life membership card to
Macra na Feirme, I qualified.”
“All that to get these?”
“Not quite all the above lit up the bank manager’s eyes ‘til I produced
the trump card, boy.”
“And what would that be then?”
“A bag of marbles I’ve been collecting for 43 years.... 43 years.”
“A bag of marbles,” echoes Milo, scratching his head through a hole
in his cap.
“That’s right, the bank man is a fanatical collector of marbles ,boy, just
fanatical and that little item swung the deal.”
“I even let him keep the bag they came in ,no harm there.”
“God that’s amazin’, Theo.”
“Indeed, this little country doesn’t work miracles like that very often, ya
have ta grab while the iron is hot.”
Both men pause their conversation while their breath forms cold clouds
before them.
“So what possessed ya to invite me over then, Theo ?”
“The reason, boy, I brought ya over , seein’ as though ya have no telly
yerself, is to let ya see a new class of a programme ,an undercover
investigation, into the fashion scene.”
“The fashion scene..,like you mean Kate Bush and all them other classy
jezebels on the runway.”
“E-g-g-actly, boy, e-g-g-actly,It’s billed as a must see.”
“A show like Panorama or..or that other one, Today Tonight.?”
“If by that answer you mean that class of a lad...what’s his name
now?” Theo stares vacantly at his ‘spider’ ceiling for inspiration.
“Eh, eh, If you mean that ..Jonathin Philthebin Bowboy, he’s only
in the ha’penny business......only in the ha’penny business compared
to this new fangled fella on this show.”
“Kate Bush, Kate Moss, who cares what class of vegetation they are,
boy, as long as they act suave and suffocated on the runway, that’s the
important bit, you know.”

At this Theo points his phone antenna at his Pye eleven inch black and
white set and clicks a button.
“You can press number 2 on yer phone there, Milo, while the set is
warmin’ up, that way ya won’t have to endure the noise of the
fans.”
“And besides,” Theo continues smiling, “You might even see a new classy
rope to hold up them there trousers of yours, boy.”
Milo signals a thumbs up to Theo, who mirrors the action in reply.
A TV reporter, a stockily built lad, in an ill-fitting suit, appears on screen
clutching an ear piece against one ear and holding a mike with the
other hand.


“Good evening, folks. Today our investigation comes to you, live, from
a secluded, secret location that we’re not supposed to identify as 2 miles
North of Balbriggan and 20 miles North East of Lucan, down the road from
Sasha’s Kebab Corner,so we won’t reveal that on the air (he, he).”
Brendan, the reporter, is standing in short grass on the edge of an airfield.
“As you can see the runway here is vacant at the moment, but any minute
now fashion plates will strut forward dressed in the latest ‘Armony’
style suit. This suit ,designed specifically for Ireland’s elite business and
political classes, incorporates the latest weaves and fabrics that has
positively captured the fashion world by storm. Recently-”
“Eh, Brendan, If I may interrupt you there for a second,” a female studio
voice is heard to say.
“You may indeed, Eileen.”
“Brendan, why do you think this magnificently designed suit has
‘taken off’ ,so to speak ,with the business class as opposed to the
usual Versace or John Rocca designs?”
“Well, apparently, our best estimates have it that this particular weave
is so tightly interwoven into the fabric that seemingly, any muck or
dirt, for that matter, simply slides off the cloth if flung tenaciously
in the course of everyday wheeling and dealing.”


“I see, you mean it doesn’t stick then.”
“Exactly, Eileen, doesn’t stain as other suits would.”
“God, Theo, that’s a great asset to have at the pig farm,” Milo chimes
in.
“That’s why I told you about it, boy, now let’s listen to the rest of the show.”
Eileen's voice continues....


“So Brendan, this would help cut down on the dry cleaning bills,
would it not?”
“Not so much the dry cleaning, Eileen, as the laundering, if you catch
my drift.”
“Oh, you mean it requires suds then?”
“Well,” Brendan says, “I’m not positive about the involvement of
suds, that maybe an entirely different matter altogether.”
“Hmmmm,” sounds Eileen.
Brendan fiddles with his ear piece.
“As I was saying ,the suit comes in 3 -.”
Suddenly there’s a loud engine roar over his head. A huge shadow
sweeps over the entire TV crew as Brendan and his team
duck down in the short grass , some diving for cover.
“Careful there ,Brendan,” Eileen says, concern showing in her voice.
The reporter stands up again and brushes his further crumpled suit.
His team scan the sky watching the plane bank out over some fields.
“You get used to it, the ups and downs of the job, I suppose,”
Brendan says and tries to register a laugh.
“That was a Gulfstream class 10, there, Eileen, didn’t get to see
who embarked on that one.”
“Any idea where these planes and helicopters disappear to?”
“No, no flight plans are ever registered with aviation officials.”
“As I was saying the suit comes in 3 colours, Eileen, eh.....
Midnight Blue, Burglar Black and the favourite at the moment,
Absconded Butterscotch, would you believe,..a sort of off-white
beige.”
"No feckin' good to us, Milo, eh, with the black & white?",Theo chips in.
Milo slowly nodds his approval.
“I’m amazed, but whose buying these suits then?”
“We have trained our cameras repeatedly over the runway and only
see badly disguised individuals boarding the aircraft.
“What do you mean by, badly disguised, Brendan?”
“Well, how should I put it, they’re a bit like Mike Murphy disguises.”
“Really, you mean badly fitting red wigs, oversized moustaches,
buck teeth and hideous sunglasses.”
Brendan laughing, “Yes, yes, exactly ,obviously they don’t want to
be recognised as they scamper across the tarmac carrying black
briefcases.”
“Brendan, another question.”
“Fire away, Eileen.”
“There’s a rumour going around that these suits have a miniature,
satellite flip phone in built into the lapels, and this phone has a
range either to Guernsey or other offshore islands, any truth in
that?”


At this point, Theo’s canary decides to keel over and dives for the bottom
of its cage, shattering on impact into tiny pieces of what look
like bits of yellow glass.
Theo and Milo stare at each other aghast. The programme continues...
“Yes, as much as we can ascertain to date, we have uncovered this
phenomenal accessory, but don’t yet quite know the full reason
behind it.”
“Lastly, Brendan, there’s an even more incredible piece of information
coming to light concerning reinforced male underwear...underwear
with multiple pocket linings. What’s that all about then?”
Brendan stifling a laugh, “Well that takes the biscuit. That’s the best
spoof line I’ve heard in a long time..sounds ..sounds like
someone is trying to pull a fast one on ya there, Eileen”
“No truth in the story?” Eileen presses.
“No...(laughing)...no don’t believe so...oh hold on....we’ve spotted
someone on the runway.”
The TV picture jolts wildly panning the grass and sky. Someone
shouts ,”Over there, over there! by that blue Cessna.”
The camera settles on a redheaded man with briefcase, scurrying
to a small plane, and holding the top of his head with one hand
against a slight breeze.
“There goes another one ,Eileen are you catching this?”
“Yes, we’re all agog.”

Suddenly a strong gust of wind sprawls the man on the tarmac
while others rush to his assistance.
“That was an unusually strong gust there Eileen, although strangely ,
over here at the edge of the runway, there appears to be no wind at all.”
“Might be another plane taxiing on the runway for takeoff?” Eileen
suggests. The camera pans wildly again and quickly spots a car
some distance off.
Brendan shouts at his crew.
“Lads train your cameras over there.”
“ I think we’ve found the source of our gusts.”
“What’s happening there?”
“Eh, looks like two individuals are jumping up and down madly
shaking their fists furiously at the departing ‘suits’.”
“Can we get a make on the car then, Brendan?”
“Its a ...let me see...an Anglia cum Vauxhall with a hint of
Fiesta...I think.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, a real old Mary banger there.”
“Brendan, is that a wind machine of sorts I see, and fans scattered
around the car there?”
“That’s correct, Eileen, they’re using what looks like a portable
generator, ingenious.”
The camera swivels back to the ‘Armony’ suited man who is now
minus his hairpiece, moustache and is frantically holding onto
the wing-tip of his plane for dear life with one hand.
Suddenly another blast of cold wind rips off his suit and
trousers which float off into the nearby bushes revealing a tanned
figure, in vest and underwear, still clutching his briefcase.


Just then the TV screen changes pictures and a bland St. Bridget’s
cross comes on against a light blue background, accompanied
by soft strains of harp music. A mellow voice speaks....


“At this point we, at RTE, would like to advice all mammies
in Ireland that this might be a good time to put their little ones to bed.”
“We will now return to the current programme in progress.”


Again the picture reverts to the runway and Brendan is heard
to shout, “It’s a man with a tan, Eileen, a man with a tan....and oh
he does have reinforced underwear, I’m flabbergasted!”
“Me too,” cuts in Eileen. “Who in Ireland can get a tan like that!!.”

The briefcase finally flies open at the handle and small printed sheets
of paper rain across the tarmac like confetti.
“Lads, who wants to rescue the Charlie Parnells and Danny O’Conn-”
Before Brendan could finish his words he is swamped and bowled
over in a sea of legs ,mike booms and dangling wires.
Eileen appears, sitting in her studio, on the screen.
“Well folks, it looks like Brendan and his team have scored another
hit for investigative journalism and lets not forget our enterprising
duo on the wings there.”


“On a final note, you’d have to say, its an ill wind that blows
nobody any good. Good bye until next week when we
explore the world of laundry detergents and not leaving ou
t
...plenty of suds.”






© Paul Griffin 1999