IT WAS interesting to read in a leading article in this paper the other day that "no rural bacon factory, 30 years ago, would have been run along the lines described by Messrs Cromien and Molloy" (Mr Sean Cromien and Dr Edmond Molloy, who reported on the recent debacle at the Department of Justice).

It was interesting, but inaccurate. I ought to know. I was briefly managing director at Petrovski Murphy and Co, the joint Polish Irish pig processing unit established at Cloonfad, not far from Ballyhaunis, back in the early sixties. And Pet Murphy's, as it was popularly known, was being run in those days precisely along the lines described by Cromien and Molloy, to an extent that is almost eerie.

Many memories, happy and unhappy, of my time in Cloonfad were revived by the leading article referred to. Many of its powerful words were taken straight out of my mouth - words like farraginous, glutinous and sclerotic, and believe me I had a lot more space in my mouth when they were removed. Indeed, many of the long and worrying words with which life in Pet Murphy's was afflicted were attributed, perhaps unfairly, to the Polish influence at the plant. But that is neither here nor there.

Like the unfortunate Mrs Owen, I too inherited a mess which made the Augean stables look like a brand new operating theatre, though like her I did not know it at the time. As with Mrs Owen too, the iceberg struck on my watch. It is one hell of an experience to have an iceberg strike while sitting at one's desk about 65 miles from the sea, but I coped as best I could.

That is why I believe my experience may be of value to the Minister. I did not sack myself - an option being recommended on all sides for Mrs Owen. What then did I do? I went down among the workers. That is what she should do.

When I say I went down among the workers (and I just did, as you must have noticed) I am not implying that as the boss, I was not already a worker myself. I was. But the new theory of delegation was rife in Cloonfad ("delegate or die" the locals would cry at odd moments) and I had fallen prey to it.

I delegated everything. All aspects of sales promotion, contract creation, credit control became increasingly foreign to me. Foreigners, who bought much of our bacon, were even more foreign to me. I delegated my cigarette habit to a deputy administration manager, my after lunch walkabout to a junior sales clerk, my lunch itself - to a boning hall foreman. I delegated all decision making to a vast committee. Eventually I was delegating my desk top finger tapping habit, my unique manner of lifting an eyebrow and - pardon me - even my visits to the lavatory.

Finally I delegated someone to go home to my wife in the evenings, and depending on how this worked out she delegated another worker to return next morning. (It worked out quite well, as a matter of fact).

It was not surprising then that business suffered. Letters complaining of poor quality bacon were not seen by me. Sausage quality dropped alarmingly, but I was never told. Complainants who called in person were thrown out before they got anywhere near me.

That was not all. A consignment of crubeens was sent to Mecca instead of Mexico. Underweight bonhams were regularly taken home by my employees as pets for their children, or for a Sunday dinner. Nine employees dismissed in 1951 were still receiving full pay in 1963, and two of the staff who retired in 1948 were still mixing sausage meat in 1965.

When the bubble finally burst I went down among the workers - did I say that already? I did. I worked with them on the factory floor. I shared their breaks, discussed mutual problems, planned holidays, sabotaged the minced pork in unspeakable ways, sneaked off to the loo to read the paper, gambled a lot, spent more in the pub and went home to their wives, each in turn.

By the end of the day I had learned more than I would have - ever thought possible.

. Re my recent piece on Michael Collins's dog, Kitty's cats and Harry's guppy fish, I have been contacted by the eminent Civil War historian J Ridgeway Wright, who adds the interesting information that Eamon de Valera disliked most animals but built up an interesting collection of ornamental stone monkeys over the years: "When he eventually took up residence in Aras an Uachtarain, he liked to invite visiting dignitaries to view his collection. Despite their training as diplomats, they were quite often at a loss for words when confronted for example with a full size baboon carved from a block of pink Wicklow granite."

As for Bean de Valera, she apparently found these stone creatures ugly in the extreme ("go granna ar fad") and absolutely refused to dust them, leading to long domestic stand offs in the Aras in later days. {CORRECTIONS} 96110900001