An Irishman's Diary

Let's say a big "fáilte abhaile" to all our emigrants who are visiting for the festive season. Isn't it grand that they're back?

The annual tradition, now almost as established as the Hadj, and nearly its equal in magnitude, means they've been arriving in droves. And they've so been looking forward to it. For months.

Just like us. We've all been thinking about them. Wondering about how they've been getting on. And what's happening where they live. And we can't wait to hear all about their interesting lives abroad in exotic, far-flung Sydney or Vancouver, Dubai or Capetown. And we're thrilled that they're here for two whole weeks.

We are in our hats. The truth is that we've forgotten all about our emigrants - despite the light in the window of the Áras. Because we have no time. Even when communicating on our beloved "mobiles" we "gotta go". You've hardly got through to someone when they signal the end of the conversation with the sing-song oxymoron, "Talk to you", before dumping you in cyberspace with a galloping "byebyebyebyebye". Nobody has a minute. And nothing takes up more of that precious commodity, time, than an emigrant home for Christmas.

So we salute them with the traditional greeting: "When are you going back?" Which is a euphemism for "Don't overstay your welcome, Buddy!" And they're so hopelessly out of touch. They'll ring you up and say they'd love to meet "at the Horseshoe Bar"; "outside Switzer's"; or "for coffee at Bewley's in Westmoreland Street" and start to reminisce about "the good old days." And you say, rather snappily, "Let's meet at Bang" or "the Cellar Bar" and they respond with: "Where's that?" Then they turn up an hour-and-a-half late because "the traffic in Donnybrook was appalling". Oh yeah? Wouldn't you feel like giving them a box? And telling them about what we have to put up with for the other 50 weeks of the year. And not a hint of gratitude about Operation Freeflow either, which was put in place for their benefit.

And really, they'd give you the creeps - especially the ones who've been in the States "forever", droning on and on about how its "all changed, changed utterly" (they think they're so witty after two pints). And they find the pace has become "very fast", and everywhere is "so busy" and "it's, like, too much". And they wonder aloud about "all the new houses!" and "so much money around!" and "can't get over the Luas". What planet are they living on? Where do they think we live? In Glocka-bleedin'-Morra? And wouldn't they sicken you with their nostalgia for Kimberley, Mikado and Coconut Creams? And black pudding and Tayto and "real" Guinness. For crying out loud, Proust's madeleines didn't cause as much blather.

Get with the programme! Like our lovely, efficient immigrants do.

And, of course, we expect someone who's lived in Peoria or Perth for 20 years to switch back immediately and seamlessly and join in, and understand conversations about where Mairéad McGuinness might run for Fine Gael; or the carry-on of Keith Duffy on Podge & Rodge; and will Fianna Fáil really win all three seats in Donegal North-East; and didn't the fuss about the Garda Reserve die down very fast in the end; and hasn't Eamon Dunphy lost the plot altogether this time; and isn't Michael Healy-Rae a chip off the old block? And have you tasted the "sensational" "Snail and Roquefort Pithivier" at L'Gueuleton?

Wouldn't they wear you out with questions? "Who's Henry Shefflin?" and "Why did Gráinne Seoige get her own show?" Or: "Did Paisley become First Minister yet?" And even when you tell them stuff, they can't seem to take it in: "He's the Tánaiste, did you say? You're joking me!" Or "You mean to tell me that well-known people volunteer to be humiliated on national television by puppets?"

But how could you possibly explain it all? How a TG4 weatherman from Kerry has become "the new sex-bomb". Or that John Waters is writing Eurovision songs. Or the significance of "Bryan Dobson eyes". And how Bertie was buckin' that nobody (hardly) came to "The Patriot" Charlie's funeral. And what, precisely were the conclusions of "the Burnfoot gun-planting and arrest module" of the Morris tribunal. And why people boo Brendan O'Connor on You're A Star. How "poor farmers" from Wexford have become big swingers in Florida's property development. And how Cape Verde is the new Courtown. And why we need a referendum on the age of consent. And what, exactly, was agreed at "historic" (yawn) St Andrews? And whether Dan will survive surgery in The Clinic. And who ate the dinner in Manchester. And how Bono's pants ended up in the High Court. And that there are more Poles than Kilkenny people in the country. And why BT's is better than the rue du Faubourg St Honoré. . .

And, of course, we're not remotely interested in what's going on in their neck of the woods. Oh, we feign interest for a few brief moments as they breathlessly tell us that the French presidential election is too close to call between Segolène and "Sarko" or how everyone in Maine was cock-a-hoop after the mid-term elections or why John Howard won a fourth term in Canberra or why Berlusconi fell from grace. And how difficult it is to get into a Catholic school in London these days. But we couldn't give a hoot.

So we blatantly check the Rolex or the TAG Heuer and tell them it was "great to catch up" and "maybe we'll do dinner before you go back". And ask: "How long did you say you were staying for?"