As Time Goes By - February 1984

It's some years since I got onto the Readers Digest's hit list. About 1978, maybe. They sent me a letter saying I had been specially chosen, by computer, because of my fine intellect, social sophistication, personal charm and all round gee whizz goodness, to participate in a fun experiment they were organising. Love that kind of flattery, except that at least three-quarters of the people I know received similar letters, and a good two-thirds of them are well-known hairbags and dog breaths (Mick Belker is a juicy little guy, isn't he?).

Getting the letter made you one of the favoured few. To be absorbed further into the elite you just had to sign this here, tick that there. And you could get "free gifts" and maybe win a super prize. I forget what the prizes were but Quicksilver they weren't (I think the third prize was Nicaragua).

Just in passing, they let you know that signing the form to put your name in for the prize draw committed you to paying for a subscription to Readers Digest, the literary wing of the CIA.

This is a notorious hard sell technique thought up by some pimp in a three-piece suit. What most people don't know is that when you receive this kind of crap unsoliciited through the post you can do what you like with it, without obligation. (A good idea is to buy a small fish, take it out the back yard and peg it to the clothesline, leave it a couple of days. Stick it in an envelope, no stamp, include your name and address, send it off to them. This gets you off their mailing list. Pronto.)

I signed and ticked where appropriate, sent it off. I didn't win Nicaragua, but they sent some free gifts (a tacky first aid bookklet and a tackier "joke" book. No kidding) and a copy of Readers Digest. And a bill.

Very handy for lighting the fire. As were the Readers Digests and bills that arrived for the next couple of months. Eventually they sent a petulant letter cancelling my subscription. They warned that if I didn't cough up the cash I "owed" they would put my name on a list of defaulting creditors and circulate it.

Aye, and even to this day there sits in the safes of all the major merchant bankers, stock brokers and financiers of the world a list warning them not to risk their millions with welshers like Kerrigan. But for this I might have had a fine career in property speculation or bond washing.

Another victim of this scam was my mate Scuffles Metcalf. Scuffles is something of a man about town, his every achievement and social engagement chronicled in the public prints (Scuffles at Football Match, Scuffles in Pub, Scuffles ~n Picket Line, Scuffles at Cabinet Meeting - you've seen the headlines, this guy gets around).

Scuffles has the virtue of directness, he not being burdened with too much weigh above the eyebrows. Having received the Readers Digest threat, he immediately flew to the States, got the address of one of the top RD executives, who lived in a mansion in upstate New York, scored a handful of heroin, broke into the guy's house, stole enough scratch from the safe to pay for his trip and the heroin, left the stuff in the safe. skedaddled and phoned in an unknown persons tip-off to the cops.

The executive was found guilty of possession with intent. Before sentencing, an associate of his called around to the judge's house with the keys of a brand new four-door sedan, air conditioning, the lot. The judge indignantly threw him out. He already had three cars. The associate was back next morning with a shoebox full of money and the executive got a suspended sentence. At least, Scuffles says, he caused the guy a lot of grief and a shoeboxful of money.

Friday night, Lazy Pete Maguire and I were elbows down on the bar of The Oasis, discussing the sad plight of so many of our eminent citizens. First it was the Gallaghers came tumbling. Then Joe Moore. Poor Pat Quinn is still mooching around the edges of things. Sean Doherty blew it, Martin O'Donoghue got the bum's rush. Eamonn Andrews went down with his ship. Frank Flynn got the chop.

And now even poor Bunny Carr has had to call a press conference to dispose of certain rumours and innuendoes. Bunny Carr. Jeeze, it's like someone making allegaations about Bambi.

Scuffles came in and threw an Evening Herald on the bar. "Danger List For Reagan Visit", was the headline. "A detailed list of subversives and political troublemakers is being compiled by the Garda Special Branch" and this will be handed over to Reagan's secret service.

This, we agreed, was serious. As founder members of the Spontaneous Aggravation Party we were sure to be on the list. That kind of thing could get your US visa canncelled. It can bring acne-ridden, dandrufffinfested Branchmen knocking on your door just when things are hotting up on Glenroe and you miss Biddy kissing Miley. And all because it's election year in the States and Sheriff Reagan wants some snaps of himmself strolling around the oul sod to impress the shamrock vote. Bloody nuisance.

The Boss put a pint on the bar. Scuffles drained half of it in a gulp. He sighed deeply. "Where", he asked, "does this guy Reagan live?"