In an economic climate such as the one we find ourselves in, it becomes increasingly difficult to live the playboy lifestyle that every young Belturbutean farmer aspires to. Wages shrink as companies struggle to tread water. Taxes swell like a weanling’s foot on wonky slats. It’s a dire situation altogether.

But, as in every aspect of life, it’s survival of the fittest. God blessed us country folk with a couple of gifts. The ability to block any gap up to 20 metres wide when there’s cattle walking by is one. We’re also fabulously talented engineers. Instead of cement, baling twine is our adhesive of choice. We have the ability to communicate using a series of head nods and winks, and we’re exceptionally proficient drivers.

It is this skill that allows the humble country chap to become the master of his own destiny. Give him the keys of any machine, big or small, and he’ll make a living. Nixers make the world go round. Bread is put on the table with your 9am-5pm run of the mill job, but a nice coating of marmalade for that bread comes from the Saturday afternoon nixer.

Francie's Fabrications

I run a weekend-only construction company, ‘Francie’s Fabrications’. Every cent earned goes through the books of course (that’s right, Mr Taxman, if you’re reading). I’m the CEO and my little brother is the Head of Public Relations. Basically, I get a loan of my uncle’s loader on Saturdays and dig holes for lads.

Profits for the first quarter have been down unfortunately. My brother isn’t the sharpest tool in the box, God love him. In February we were taking out hedges for a lad and he managed to get some of the hydraulic pipes wrapped around a branch. He pulled them asunder in a split second. Nightmare. They’ve been since repaired but more recent moments of stupidity have lead me to question whether appointing him to such a demanding role was wise?

Filling the loader

Last weekend, we were asked by a neighbour to clean out an area of his yard that’d become overgrown with bushes and briars - a relatively simple task. That morning as we ate our breakfast, I asked my brother to fill the loader with diesel.

“Yeah no probs...how much?”

“What? Fill her up t’hell!” I’d replied.

How much??? Such a question to ask! We were Cavan men, but now wasn’t the time for tightness!

I’ll never forget the walk into the yard that day. Approaching the corner of the shed I could hear running water. What the hell??? This wasn’t the time to go washing the digger?

I stopped dead in my tracks. Mother of god.

My brother was standing at the diesel tank with the nozzle in his hand.

“What’s wrong?” he quizzed.

But I was speechless, looking on in horror as the liquid reached the brim. My brother had literally filled up the loader with diesel. A couple of hundred euros worth was now sloshing around in the bucket.

“You really are a dipstick!!”