So we all thought the culture of strokes and “jobs for the boys” disappeared with the FFers? As recent events have shown, the Blueshirts aren’t behind the door when it comes to rubbing lard into their own backsides. It’s at times like this I regret not belonging to a political party – the lone ranger never gets anything, especially when it comes to dishing out plum positions.

It’s an undisputed fact of Irish life, that bucketfuls of cushy jobs are given out to the cronies of those in high and low office. To get one of these, the last thing you need is ability or qualification. I’ve seen fellas and women appointed to boards and committees and you wouldn’t send them out for the cows.

Now these plum jobbers aren’t winners of a lottery, they play a long game that involves, among other things, serial meeting attendance. They become experts on finger food, marrietta biscuits and vol-au-vents.

The likes of them can be relied on to turn up in plenty of time for the tea, coffee and registration that inevitably precede every caucus, conference or cockfight. Once proceedings get underway, there isn’t a word out of them until it’s time to decide where to go for the lunch. If there is an afternoon session they’re the first to fall asleep, but rouse themselves fairly lively when it come to setting a date for the next gathering and create pandemonium, as they try desperately to juggle the myriad of other meetings they’re scheduled to attend.

When eventually a date for the next dose of marriettas and coffee is agreed upon, they’ll be sitting on one cheek until the expenses sheets are passed around. As they leave, they fill their pockets with chocolate goldgrains, pink snacks and bundles of free biros.

These plum jobbers turn up in style on the campaign trail at election time, they’ll invariably be seen driving the candidates or driving carloads of canvassers, but are rarely knocking on doors.

“Oh, I’m a background person,” they’ll tell you, but there’s nothing background about them when it comes to sitting on “The Main Drainage Committee for the River Dribble” or the “Shronefodda Outer Relief Road Sub-committee”. So long as there’s expenses, travel, gallons of tea and no work, they’re your men and women.

A few nights ago, the topic of cronyism and jobs for the boys came up for discussion in my local hostelry. My so-called friends declared themselves to be quite underwhelmed by my record of delivering any perks for them after all their years of solid support.

“Well now,” says I, “I always saw your unswervin’ loyalty as a sign of your high regard for me and took it as an indication of your confidence in my capacity to deliver as a public representative.”

“Hey, Maurice,” says Quirke, “don’t be losin’ the run of yourself. What began as sympathy turned into support, but if you get too cocky you could lose out on both fronts.”

“Gentlemen,” says I, “if I could, I’d gladly honour ye with chairmanships, committee memberships and even knighthoods, but to do that I’d have to join a political party and lose my much-valued independence.”

“Your independence is obviously of no great value,” says Quirke, “if you can do feck all for your friends with it.”

“If it’s political patronage ye seek,” says I, “ye’d better start drinkin’ porter with Moll Gleeson. Her party is in power and she has any amount of jobs at her disposal.”

“Oh Moll isn’t in the best of favour at the moment,” says Cantwell.

“Is that right?” asked Tom Walshe.

“That’s right,” says I, “she got a job for her nephew drivin’ one of them new junior ministers around. It all happened very quietly, but Willy De Wig got a smell of it. She was on the radio with him a few weeks ago and when he challenged her about the nephew’s job she got up on her high horse claimin’ there had been a ‘transparent and competitive interview process’. That was until the young chauffeur was pulled for speedin’ while drivin’ his Minister to a funeral. When the guard on duty went about takin’ down his particulars it emerged the lad had no drivin’ license.”

“Indeed,” says Cantwell, “some competitive process that was, to say he got a job as a chauffeur without being asked to prove he could drive.”

“’Tisn’t like the bould Moll could be caught out so badly,” says Cantillon, “and she’d put legs under chickens for you.”

“Well, she hadn’t great success puttin’ wheels under her nephew’s arse,” says Quirke.

“Now lads,” says I, “aren’t ye blessed that your local independent councillor is above reproach and not tainted by the temptations of high office.”

“I don’t know whether you’d call that being useless or harmless,” says Cantillon.