One-track thoughts

A second of your time, Mr Motoring Editor?What is it now, Emissions?

It's these Dart drivers you asked me to write about. I've explored their grievances, and, well, I sympathise with them.

You mean their insane demand for a huge payoff to drive trains of eight carriages instead of six? The same claim that was variously described as "spurious" and "naked greed"? That one?

I wouldn't quite put it like that, but yes.

Oh, come on man. You don't really side with them, do you? You, me, the whole country know it's nonsense. It's like sales reps demanding extra cash for driving Volvo estates instead of Mondeos. I mean, it's not like they're pulling the carriages themselves, is it?

No, I grant you that. But there are parallels with my situation. You see I recently discovered there are a massive eight people reading this column every week, rather than the six I had previously thought.

Actually, I happen to know there's a lot more than eight people reading your tirades. There are these guys, for a start. (Pulls back red velour curtain to reveal bank of lawyers in expensive suits.) Emissions, I'd like you to meet the men whose children you are putting through university.

Good day, gentlemen, glad to be of service. Anyway, back to the situation at hand. The added responsibility of entertaining these extra punters is shocking. There's the sleepness nights, the greying hair, the anxiety attacks, the chronic nicotine abuse, the burgeoning career as a professional poker player. I could go on, but you get the idea.

You are a mess, all right, and no denying it. But what do you want me to do about it?

I thought the increased productivity and responsibility associated with carrying more readers should be rewarded accordingly. Say, €20,000 accordingly.

Excuse me?

Contrary to our 2002 agreement that I should rant occasionally about baby-on-board stickers and boy racers, I now find myself carrying the heavy mantle of amusing more people than I have fingers on a weekly basis. So I thought a few spondoolicks in recognition of the valuable service I provide would be nice.

Listen, I'm a reasonable man. But I think we both know there's more chance of my using my meagre powers here and now to crown you Emperor of the Universe than there is of you prising €20,000 out of my budget. Do I make myself clear?

I thought you might say that, so I've set up a union to represent me.

Is that so? And what's this collection of degenerates and reprobates called?

The European Emissions Journalists (Irish Times Section). Snappy, eh?

(Deep intake of breath. Mr Editor is losing patience rapidly.) Let me get this straight - you're honestly trying to tell me you have established a union called The Eejits?

The what? Oh, I see now. Ah well, Eejits by name, eh?

And how many Eejits are there, exactly?

Well, there's the general secretary, the chairman, the treasurer and the ordinary rank and file Eejits. We like to refer to them as "partners" though, it's less demeaning.

And the general secretary is?

That'd be me.

The chairman?

Yours truly.

Treasurer?

At your service.

Do I need to ask who the rank and file are?

Err, no, probably not.

So, what's the position of this union on your pay demands?

To be honest, we're not decided. We're going to have a postal ballot on whether to go on strike, to just write banal rubbish in protest or to ignore everything and hope it will all go away.

A postal vote, eh? So you will be posting a vote to yourself? Isn't that a bit pointless?

Why do you say that?

Well, you'll know the result before a vote is even cast.

Don't be stupid man. Sure isn't it a secret ballot?

I think I've had quite enough of this, you utter cretin. Get out of my office. Now. And I want an article of 700 words on these greedy Dart drivers by tomorrow morning. Comprende?

Fair enough. Would you like that in six paragraphs or eight, Boss?

(The head Eejit ducks as a scale model of a 1960s Mini Cooper zips past his head and embeds itself in the wall behind him.)