Now that this blasted Seanad referendum is over it’s time to face the puck out and do a bit of early canvassin’ for the local elections due next summer.

My electoral area has been extended to include Rathbinnis and Lisnapookynbawna, where I was left the house and the few acres by Mickeen Ross. I was out to see the place last week and my two nearest neighbours, Tom Brannigan and John Joe Ryan, came by to let me know how delighted they are that a man of my ‘stature and connections’ will be the resident councillor in the area.

“We hear,” says Brannigan, “that the Mother and her Polish man are a serious item and are gettin’ ready to march up the aisle.”

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“That would surely mean,” adds John Joe, “that you’ll have to move out of the house in Killdicken and move in here beside us.”

I was about to tell them that there is more chance of an ice sheet formin’ on the Sahara than me movin’ out to Lisnapookybawna, but I thought better of it. The rumour that I might be comin’ to live in the area would do no harm to my electoral prospects among the local electorate.

“Lads,” says I, “sure none of us knows what’s around the corner, I could be installed here before the year is out. ’Twill be very important for me to get to know the locals and, in that regard, if I was to do a bit of a tour, would either of you lads like to take me around and introduce me?”

“No better men than the two of us,” says Tom Brannigan, “we know everyone, we’re known by everyone and we know everything about everyone.”

I wasn’t sure whether all this was a hindrance or a help, the pair have a reputation for nosiness that might do me no good. Anyway, I decided to take the risk and we settled on last Saturday as the first day on the stump. The Mother and Stefan brought me out to the farm where we found Tom and John Joe waitin’ for us in the yard, arrayed in their Sunday best and mad for the road

“This is better than a weddin’,” says John Joe, “we’ll have some day out. Stand in there, Maurice, I’m drivin’.”

I looked around the yard and aside from the Mother’s recently acquired second-hand Micra, there was no other car to be seen. But John Joe’s Zetor was parked facin’ the gate and as I looked at the transport box, the invitation to “stand in there” began to make sense.

“We’d better hop on and get started,” says Brannigan, pointin’ to the aforementioned transport box, “we won’t pick up any votes standin’ around here.”

We left the yard at a snail’s pace, if John Joe drove any slower he’d have been arrested for loiterin’. It got worse though – they stopped 300 yards down the road to “ooh and aah” at Mossie Riordan’s cattle,

“They’re in powerful condition. By jaysus, Mossie didn’t spare the feedin’.”

“And he has 15 of them, I was sure he had only 13.”

“He has 19, I’m tellin’ you, count them again.”

It took 45 minutes to get to our first house, a painstakin’ journey peppered with a runnin’ commentary on every field and every manifestation of livestock or fowl we saw.

Mary and Lar Heenan had a great welcome for us and served up copious amounts of tay and tart. After a half an hour of ullagonin’ about the state of the country, Mary and Lar proceeded to go through all the ailments in the parish, anyone they missed was named by my two guides who were absolutely no help in movin’ things along.

The four of them listed out all who had colds, flus, gallstones and strokes. Before they finished they had poked through every varicose vein, every twisted hernia and every loose bowel in the parish.

As we left the house an hour and a half later, I nearly suffered a stroke myself when my guides delivered a bleak assessment of the likely electoral outcome from our first stop.

“That was a waste of time anyway,” said Brannigan

“Indeed it was,” agreed John Joe, “sure Mary and Lar are blue to the gizzard. If Fine Gael ran a pigeon with a sore arse in this neck of the woods he’d get the number one there.”

Things continued in that vein as we covered a total of three houses in six hours. I was physically and emotionally exhausted when my pair of Sherpas eventually dropped me back to the farm. Heaping misery on frustration, as they left they didn’t realise the sound of the tractor carried their voices as they reviewed the day’s work.

“Well, what do you think of his chances?”

“He should stay inside in Killdicken, sure the poor hoor wont get a scratch from anyone around here.”