All the talk in the council nowadays is about changing the “culture of the organisation”. Maybe they want us to take up Irish dancing, dabble in a bit of poetrifying or brush up on our appreciation of Impressionist painters.

Like the big political parties, the powers-that-be decided that it would be good for the council to have a think-in for a day, before we get down to work for the new season.

We weren’t taken off to a luxury hotel to be wined and dined for a few days, we were told to find our own way to the new community centre in Cloughbaha. Since the recession hit, and everyone became obsessed with austerity, transparency and accountability, we can’t even be seen to have double-ply toilet paper in the council conveniences.

This think-in was held a few weeks ago, but with all the excitement around the new job, I forgot to tell ye about it.

The community centre where it was held is a grand building, but Cloughbaha is about as remote as you can get in Tipperary, the sum total of the local amenities include a two-teacher school, a GAA field, a post box and a church that’s only used for funerals and quiet weddings.

The village once boasted a pub, a shop and a creamery, but inevitably it has gone the way of many a rural village.

Thanks to the wonders of satellite navigation, councillors from all over the county made it to Cloughbaha for the think-in. I got a drive from Percy Pipplemoth, one of the main movers behind this affair. He was like a schoolboy on an excursion.

“Oh Maurice,” says he, “this is going to be wonderful, a whole new era for the council.”

“Sounds to me like another talk shop,” says I, “and talking about shops, if we need as much as a box of matches we’ll have to drive 10 miles to find an emporium where we can buy them.”

“Today, we will see the problem of rural isolation in all its nakedness,” says he.

“I didn’t know there was a nudist camp in Cloughbaha,” says I, “but I suppose ’tis the right place to let it all hang out, no one would ever see you.”

“I’m afraid, Maurice,” says Pipplemoth, “you’re getting more and more cynical with age.”

“And you’re as cracked as ever,” says I.

I had a feeling in my water that nothing good would come from this event, especially given Pipplemoth’s track record for daft notions. As soon as we arrived, I began to believe my premonitions were justified.

FF councillor Peter Treacy arrived in a fluster and looking for a newspaper.

“You’ll have to get back into your car and drive at least 10 miles to buy one,” says I, “but may I ask, what’s the mad panic to get a newspaper?”

“I had a few bob on a horse in Newmarket yesterday,” says he, “and I didn’t hear how he got on.”

“I should have known ‘twas an issue of profound political importance that was bothering you,” says I.

“I can look it up on my phone,” says Moll Gleeson flicking through her mobile. “Oh for feck sake, there’s no coverage. Isn’t it typical of that mad hoor Pipplemoth to bring us out to this godforsaken place to listen to shite for a full day. If they as much as attempt to get us to do any of Percy’s hippie relaxation exercises I’ll hit him.”

“You won’t be the only one,” says I.

“I brought a second pair of tights just in case we have to do any physical jerks,” says she. “We’re at least a day’s journey from the kind of shop that would sell my kind of tights.”

A pair of consultants from Cork with Dublin 4 accents conducted us in our deliberations. Sounding like Brendan Howlin on drugs, they talked about “dealing with issues in the round”, “bottom-up processes and top-down responses”, “elevating concerns”, “ring-fencing”, “red lining”, “parking” and “leveraging”.

At about midday, Moll Gleeson stood up to make her way to the loo and one of the consultants asked her if she was leaving.

“No,” she answered, “but I have a top-down issue that needs a bottom-up response.”

That was the only bit of light relief we had for the day. The younger councillors are an eager bunch and mad anxious to try new things. Before we knew what was happening, they had agreed that a travelling roadshow of councillors and officials should go around the county presenting our wares to the public, sort of like the Ploughing Championships without the ploughing.

“I knew nothing good would come of this day,” says I to Peter Treacy. “We’ll be like bullocks on display at the Tullamore Show.”

“Speak for yourself,” says he.