As you know, I’ve been trying to dispose of my patch of ground at Lisnapookybawna and it eventually went to auction last week. The transaction threw up a surprising result.

Prior to the event I was curious to know what to expect, so a few days before I met Tinky Ryan for a quiet pint in Clonmel.

“Will we get a crowd?” says I

“Oh, we’ll get a crowd alright,” says he, “but will they be any use to us? Two interested parties are all we need, maybe a third to encourage them. We don’t need 50 or 60 wheel-kickers.”

We chatted about possible buyers and agreed that the auction would sort out the sheep from the goats. Later that night at my local hostelry in Killdicken, I got talking to Cantwell and Cantillon.

“You’ll need one or two people in the crowd to pump that for you,” says Cantillon, “what are you willing to sell it for?”

“Well, Tinky says I should get €200,000 for it, it’s worth at least that.”

“If it stalls at €150,000 you’re fecked, you’ll need someone to drive it on,” says Cantwell.

They suggested that, unknown to Tinky, I should line up two phantom bidders and if they played their cards right, on the day they could literally be worth their weight in gold.

I contacted a councillor friend of mine across the border in Cork and he lined up two bidders for me, fellas who knew land and were well used to the auction room. I met them on the morning of the auction and promised them a pint when ’twas all over.

On the day a huge crowd showed up at the function room in the Drippin’ Tap in Shronefodda. Tinky got proceedings under way, giving a detailed description of the property and concluded his remarks with a shower of praise for this “wonderful little holding, a place that was minded like a baby by its previous owner, Mickeen Ross, and treated to the woman’s touch by Mrs Biddy Hickey, the Mother of its present owner Councillor Maurice Hickey”.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, who will offer me €100,000 for this lovely farm?”

One of my Cork friends raised his index finger and was followed by a stranger who opened his palm whereupon my other Cork pumper nodded his head only to be followed by another stranger who stuck up his thumb. Within minutes, the tipping, nodding and winking saw the price on offer hit €250,000, well beyond our expectations. Tinky looked at me, nodded, and announced that he was taking a short recess to consult with the vendor.

“Come on in here to the back room,” says he.

“Who is the vendor? I asked

“You are, you gobshite,” says he, “now, we have two good customers out there, it’s time to put it on the market to sell.”

“What two customers are you talking about?” I asked

“The fella with the flat cap and the younger lad with the beard,” he said.

“Oh God,” says I, “they’re pumping for me, I thought you meant the other two.”

“Shite,” says he “them other two are pumping for me. What are we goin’ to do? We have €250,000 worth of hot air on the table.”

Tinky paced the floor; he was rattled.

“Alright,” says he, “first, we’ll text our pumpers and tell them no more bids. Then I’ll go back out and look for €260,000. There will be no bid and I’ll withdraw the lot. After that we’re in the Ballingarry Hearse, also know as the private treaty market.”

We sent our texts and out we went hoping our respective pumpers had got the message.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Tinky, “I have €250,000 on the table, a considerable sum indeed, but this is a considerable property, so could I have €260,000 and I think we will all be happy.” There was dead silence, thankfully all four pumpers kept their hands down and their heads straight. But just as Tinky was about to announce the withdrawal of the property a man in a pinstriped suit at the back shouted,

“Sir, I offer you €260,000.”

“What?” asked a flabbergasted Tinky

“€260,000,” said the suit.

Tinky meekly asked for other offers and then lifted his gavel: “Going, going, gone to Mr. Lucius Grant of Grant Lunnigham Solicitors, Kilkenny.”

A round of applause erupted from the crowd and Tinky mopped his brow. As we left the podium, he whispered out the corner of his mouth,

“Not only did we get away with it, Hickey, we made feckin’ hay. I wonder who he’s acting for.”

We adjourned to the back room where the solicitor joined us. After handshakes and pleasantries all round Tinky asked him the burning question,

“Lucius,” he said, “may I ask the identity of the new owner? ”

“One Mrs Bridget Hickey of Killdicken,” he replied

Jaysus, the Mother.