Emissions/Kilian Doyle: Intellectual types among you will no doubt be aware that it is 62 years and 9 months since the first appearance of Myles na gCopaleen's Cruiskeen Lawn column in this very newspaper. Granted, not the most obvious anniversary to celebrate, but I like it and I suspect its obtuseness would appeal to the man himself.
That most uncivil of civil servants, Brian O'Nolan, relished delivering almost-daily diatribes against frippery, pomposity, pettiness, bourgeoisie and anything else that got his particularly gruff goat.
Admittedly, we've come a long way since he unleashed his acerbic wit on us. The poor downtrodden Gaels of An Beal Bocht are now more likely to be cruising around in impeccably engineered German cars than tramping around rain-sodden fields with potato skins for shoes.
"Err, that's nice, but what has that got to do with motoring?" I hear you ask. And rightly so.
This rant about O'Nolan, aka Myles, aka Flann O'Brien, aka whatever you will, is easily the most tenuously motoring-linked Emissions to date, I freely admit.
In truth, it was inspired by the recounting of an episode in the war that O'Nolan waged daily against our fine Garda Siochána in Tony Gray's Mr Smyllie, Sir, a reminiscence of The Irish Times under the steerage of Bertie Smyllie's jocular editorship. Exasperated at the gardaí's persistent berating of him for drunk driving (this is the man for whom "a pint of plain" could cure any ill, remember) O'Nolan devised a cunning scheme.
Seems he planned to have some co-conspirators take the engine out of a car and roll it outside his favourite pub while he quaffed heavily inside. Upon his emergence onto the street, he was to stumble towards the driver's seat, whereupon he anticipated he would have his starched collar felt by the scruffy arm of the law.
When accused of being drunk in charge of a motorised vehicle, he would direct the unfortunate Malachys to look under the bonnet, proving he was doing nothing of the sort.
Humiliated, they would never bother him again. It is not known if this threat was ever carried out.
My father also told me a story told to him about another boozy outrage perpetrated by O'Nolan. Some kindly - perhaps equally intoxicated - friends took it upon themselves to deliver the incapacitated genius to his home in a Donnybrook cul-de-sac. Upon ejecting their charge and ensuring he was safely returned to the bosom of his long-suffering wife, they endeavoured to negotiate the tight 180-degree manoeuvre. Irked by the commotion of his friends' shenanigans, O'Nolan phoned the gardaí to complain. ("Terrible racket altogether lads, go and sort out dem hooligans, will yes? A fella can't a bit of peace . . .") Extremely objectionable or extremely hilarious? Depends on your point of view.
And then there's the story of what befell the manuscript to his finest comic novel, The Third Policeman, which surfaced only after his untimely death in 1966. O'Nolan was apparently utterly dejected by its rejection by a publishing house, but rather than try again, he pretended it had been lost, concocting various scenarios to explain how this happened. He variously claimed that he'd left it in the back of a taxi while spectacularly floothered, or that it had blown away, leaf by precious leaf, from the boot of the car in which it was being driven around Ireland. Why it was being driven around the country in the first place, he never explained.
The Third Policeman is, of course, most closely acquainted with another mode of transport close to my heart. Well, close to my arse, to be exact. In this masterpiece, O'Brien espouses his theory of molecular exchange between man and bicycle via the interface between posterior and saddle. In fact, he says, such an exchange can go so far that one may often find a bicycle leaning up by the fire in a house while its owner is left outside, propped against the wall in the cold.
I reckon I'm around 0.1 per cent car, 11 per cent bicycle and 88.9 per cent grumpy old trout at this stage. The influence of my aluminium 18- speed racing machine is profound - my intellect is lightweight, my saddle is a bit saggy, my pump is risible and my opinions are as full of air as one of my highly-inflated tyres. A perfect blend of man and machine, I'm sure you'll agree.