I'm naturally suspicious when someone calls to my passage-tomb

Just in case I never told you before, I'm naturally suspicious of anyone who comes knocking on my front door.

The fact that I live in a 5,000-year-old underground passage-tomb should, of course, result in fewer visitors than a normal, say, three-bed semi in a Dundalk housing estate.

For instance, just a few weeks ago I had an Eircom guy around offering me a sensational deal on an Eircom Phone Watch alarm. Now, it took me some time, and no amount of gentle persuasion, to convince this fellow that I am not in need of such a device.

Typical salesman, he wasn't taking no for an answer. So after about an hour of being patient with him, I eventually had to scare the bejaysus out of him by getting my son Cúchulainn to perform one of his warped spasm feats. And it wasn't pleasant, I can tell you. I'd say Mr. Salesman is having a few disturbed dreams of late. The boul Cookie, as I call him (short for Cúchulainn), pulled his face into his head and popped his brains out his ears. I won't even tell you what came out his rear end. After vomiting on my doorstep, if you could call it that, the Eircom man ran for the hills and hasn't been seen since.

You see, I tried to explain that there are no actual corporeal beings living in my stone chamber, and that motion sensors would be no use in a situation where the only occupants of a building were in spirit form. But this guy just wouldn't listen. He kept blabbering on about security this and intruders that and motion sensors the other.

I tried to tell him no-one would dare enter my domain, even if they could find it. My address is not in the phone book, and the postman doesn't know it exists. It's a wee bit off the beaten track, in a field on the side of a hill outside Ardee. The last time I had a visitor was in 1789 and such was the scare he got his story has been widespread in local folklore ever since. I set the Cailleach Bhéara on him. Frightened the poor divil out of his skin.

I'm the sort of fellow who does not normally welcome visitors. Especially because I've got a whole sleeping army of enchanted warriors in the deepest chambers of my underground lair. They don't take kindly to being woken, because they're in a 1,000-year sleep and only a six-fingered hero can wake them from the spell. But more of that another time.

One succinct point I also raised with the Phone Watch guy was that I don't, in fact, have a telephone. I mean what Celtic god would need a phone, given our ability to communicate with any of our kind across vast distances? Just last week, I had a chat with my old mate Bodb Dearg, a Tipperary chief, for a whole hour and it cost me nothing. If I had a phone, the same conversation would cost me a fortune - probably half the gold buried under all the ringforts of Ireland.

Anyhow, I won't make light of a situation in Dundalk where an intruder posing as a water company worker stole a 70-year-old woman's handbag. Admittedly it's the sort of thing that many people could be duped by. A guy arrives saying he's going to test the water (remember the lead in water scare recently?) and you think, well, better let him in and make sure my water's okay. And ten minutes later he's gone and so is your money.

It's just an awful pity I wasn't around to help. This poor woman must be very shaken up by the ordeal. How many of you, if someone who looked like a council worker or a water company employee or an ESB official called to your door, would ask them for ID and show immediate suspicion of them? Let's be honest, your natural inclination is to hold back on the suspicion because you don't want to be rude to them if they're genuine. But that's the reality these days. You should always ask the person for ID and if you're still suspicious, ask them to wait a moment, close the door on them and phone someone nearby to come down to your house, just in case.

If I get my hands on the culprit, heaven help him. I'll set the Hound of Culann on him and it'll make a warp spasm look like a picnic party.

Snow in Dundalk, at last

At last the snow came to Dundalk. Just when it seemed the whole country was going to be covered in white with the exception of our fine town, along came the snow in sufficient enough amounts to allow the kids have a ball, if you pardon the pun.

It's been the coldest winter since 1991, according to the experts, and the unusually long cold spell has seen some parts of the country blanketed with snow numerous times. But not poor old Dundalk. No. Whether it's the shadow of the mountains or some other mystic force (you'd think being a Celtic god I might know what's behind it, wouldn't you?), the snow usually misses Dundalk, even if the rest of Ireland is at a complete standstill in blizzard conditions.

Well, not to fear. We got our sprinkling, and enough to allow the making of snowmen and the throwing of snowballs. Even the boul Cúchulainn was out making ice balls to knock about the place with his hurley stick. For once, Ice House Hill park had the conditions befitting its name.

Now that the thaw is well and truly on, I can promise you it will snow again. But when is the question. It might not come along for another five years judging by recent years . . .

Two proper nouns sum up heroism and cheer

There are two words, or rather proper nouns, which appeared in international headlines in January which momentarily lifted us out of the gloom of global recession. They are proper nouns associated with a good news story, one of just a scarce few to come our way during the dark post-Christmas days when bad news was all over the place.

What are these two proper nouns I speak of?

Chesley Sullenberger.

Yawha? I hear you all thunder in unison, your mouths agape at such a seemingly unfamiliar name.

Well, fear not. As I look out across the plains of Muirthemne from my otherworldly realm, I hark back to that day, January 16th, and it brings a warm smile to my face. I shall enlighten you.

For those unfamiliar with his name, let me refresh your memory. Chesley was the captain of a US Airways Airbus plane which ditched into the Hudson river minutes after take-off from New York. His plane flew into a flock of unfortunate brent geese, some of whom were ingested by his aircraft's engines. While some planes can survive a small bird ingestion, more than one bird being sucked into the engine usually spells big trouble. And Big Trouble came with capital B and T for Capt. Sullenberger because half the flock was sucked into his Airbus turbofans. He lost power at about 3,200 feet and ran out of time and power to get back to any airport, so made the quick decision to ditch into the Hudson river. After successfully putting his bird down on water, and getting all his passengers off alive (miraculously, not one was killed although a few were injured), the Captain calmly strolled down the aircraft to check everyone was out and was the last person to leave the aircraft, despite the danger that it could sink in the icy waters. He was the last one to step into a lifeboat. What a hero.

It's heroism like this that marked out the special ones of the Tuatha Dé Danann, you know. Those of us who were to become the immortal gods were the supreme champions of our race. If he lived in Ireland, Mr. Sullenberger would be made very welcome in the halls of Tara for a feast befitting a great warrior or hero. We would regale him with our tales of conquests and heroism, and he could recount his remarkable tale over much ale-swilling and fine wine slurping. It's been many a year since we had a hero of his like sit in the guest's seat in the banqueting hall on fair Tara. I'll make sure he gets an invitation.

One of my minnions told me after the incident that the captain must have pressed the "DITCH" button on his Airbus before putting it onto the river. I laughed heartily, asking if the "Ditch" button was anywhere near the "Take-off" button or the "Land" button. But my acquaintance assured me that there is a "ditch" button in the Airbus, which closes any vents and hatches and ensures the aircraft is properly sealed in the event of such a drastic measure. Well I never. Technology these days is remarkable.

Anyway, to brave Captain Sullenberger, his copilot and crew, we bow down low and salute your bravery. You brought us cheer and delight during dark times.

Evelyn Cusack for President

Evelyn Cusack. Isn't she just class? The epitome of straightforwardness. Last night she was being interviewed on the radio about the current inclement meteorological conditions. Asked about the outlook, she said it was going to be very cold. Her interviewer didn't seem to hear the boul Evelyn when she said it would be cold for the next week and a half. The interviewer said, "so it's going to be cold for the next few days". Evelyn's response was cool and matter-of-fact: "Eh, it's going to be cold for the next ten days." She had all the enthusiasm on this occasion of a snail preparing for a race against a hare. But she told it as it was.

No fudge. No bull. No nonsense. Just plain old straightforward honesty. Evelyn is not in it for the popularity contest. Nope, she just wants people to know about the weather, even if the weather's gonna be dire.

She could run for President, you know. Or even better, Taoiseach. She's a million times more intelligent than most politicians, and she might have told us exactly how it was months ago, unlike the current Government incumbents who seem to be clueless about the state of the economy and bereft of decent ideas to fix it.

Crucially, she might show a bit of honesty about the economic forecast. This time last year, some so-called "experts" were predicting the economy would pick up in six months or nine months. Now, we're hearing it might be a year or two. But let's be honest, anyone who has any clue about economics knows that, after a prolonged boom, recession is inevitable. And recession is no light rain shower. No siree. It's more like a continuous band of depressions cycling in from the Atlantic. If Evelyn was our leader, she might give us a more realistic, albeit somewhat gloomy, forecast. She might say we're in for five or six years of it. At least she'd be honest about it, even if her chances of being re-elected were severely damaged in the effort.

A few days before Christmas, Evelyn was being interviewed on 2FM and was asked what the chances were of a White Christmas. There might have been a hundred thousand people listening, or a lot more, and many kids besides. But here was no-nonsense Evelyn delivering the facts again.

"Eh, about zero percent chance," she told her enthusiastic audience, dashing all their hopes in four words and an "eh".

Well how could she be expected to say anything else? It was, after all, going to be about ten degrees celcius on Christmas Day. It would take the magic of an articifer god like the Gobann Saor to make it snow in ten degree heat. Certainly such a miracle is beyond my magic, and I am, after all, the chief of the gods.

You know, if we'd had Evelyn as our seer during the Táin Bó Cuailnge, we might have had a better chance of knowing how the battle was going to go. Our own prophetess was a bit of a tuppenny chancer. She would have made a great politician. Talked out of both sides of her gob, and never told us anything meaningful. Always playing to both sides. Put it this way, you wouldn't want to be asking her the winning Lotto numbers.

Snow

Hello there all and sundry and welcome to my new blog. My name is Lugh of the Long Arm from County Louth. If you've never heard of me, then here's a short description. Allow myself to introduce . . . myself, as Austin Powers would say. I am Lugh Lamhfada, Lugh of the Long Arm, and I've been hanging around these parts for the past few thousand years. I am probably most famous as a leader of the Tuatha Dé Danann and even more famous as being father of that little pup Cúchulainn, who goes around the place killing animals with his big stick and balls. County Louth is named after me. I am known also as Lugh Samhildánach, the "master of all arts", although to be honest I never counted journalism among my many skills. Still, nobody's perfect, not even an ancient Irish god.

Anyhow, I've learned English at last, having been speaking the native teanga for three thousand years, and I've finally caught up with the internet revolution. This is my place in cyberspace. I see an awful lot of stuff happening in my native county, and I'm not always too enamoured by what I see. So consider this my little commentary on worldly matters from this, my home, the Sidhe, in the Otherworld. It's a nice place here. I'd love to tell you how to get here but really that would be boring you.

I see it's snowing on my beloved county right now. While the snow is not "sticking", as they say, in Dundawk or Drawda, it appears to have created a nice little winter wonderland in places like Collon, Dunleer and Monasterboice. My advice is, if you have to use a car to get home and not the old-fashioned Iron Age chariot, do take care. Those roads are dangerous. Although not nearly as dangerous as the idiotic drivers who use them most of the time. Back in my day, there was a famous road leading north out of Tara called the Slighe Midluachra or something similarly unpronouncable. Fine thoroughfare it was, until some day some wise ass decided to build a "street" on part of it and called it "Clanbrassil Street". It's never been the same since, if you ask me.

Word is Dublin Airport is closed because of the old sneachta. Now that bothers me. No, not the fact that the airport is closed, but rather the fact that people have learned how to fly. There was a time when only the Tuatha Dé Danann could fly. Oh, and those feckers the Fomorians. Now everyone can come and go as they please, on these big fancy metal conveyors with wings. I'd love to know who this "Ryanair" fellow is. Is he one of the Fir Bolg, or perhaps a Fomorian. If he's a Milesian, I might worry though. They did defeat us after all, and cast us into the underground chambers until the end of time. Strong fellows from Spain they are. I reckon though that Louth would have the beating of them in a game of GAA. No problem. Sin é, as they say.

Well, not quite. You see I reckon this snow must be somehow connected with this big "Recession" that's going on. To be honest, I don't know what all the fuss is about. One of my spies tells me that lots of people are losing their jobs. Well, who wants to work anyhow? I hang around in the otherworld, courting fine maidens and gobbling down pig meat and swilling fine ales, and I can highly recommend it as a full-time occupation. If so many jobs are in jeopardy, why doesn't everyone just ask Ryanair to fly them to jeopardy?

Anyhow, enough rambling from me. There's a beautiful maiden sitting here singing up to me, so I'd better log off and tend to her needs, if you get my drift. Drift, get it ? Snow-drift? Ah, never mind ...

In the meantime, keep up with events in my home county by visiting www.dundalkdemocrat.ie