Miriam Lordlooks back at the ministerial graduates of the teachers' conferences - Shiny Martin, Mammy O'Rourke, Sincere Seamus, Sullen Noel, Wonderful Niamh and Singing Woodsie

They don't like to talk much about it - that terrible year when the minister announced he would not be attending the annual conferences.

"See if we care," huffed the teachers, who had been waiting for their chance to attack the man who had the temerity to send inspectors into schools two days before Christmas to check up on them.

In reality, they were hurt. Not only was this a disappointment, but it was an affront to their importance.

Noel Dempsey didn't care whether they cared or not. There were anxious days in the run up to the Easter whinge-fest. Meathman Noel stood firm:

- Better things to do.

- Nothing in common.

- Sure you don't like me anyway.

- I don't have to do the rounds of you lot to be insulted - all I have to do is open a newspaper.

At the eleventh hour, he changed his mind. This was inevitable. You can't go upsetting the teachers. They're more articulate and cranky than a roomful of frustrated backbenchers, and nearly as dangerous. Then there was the three days of saturation coverage in the newspapers to consider. A sullen Noel traversed the country and took his beatings like a man.

The conferences are strange things. Delegates exude an air of moral superiority, brought about by the knowledge that they too could have been packing the jets to Malaga with the rest of their breed, if only they weren't so selfless and dedicated. (The prospect of a rollicking few days in a country hotel with late-night drinking, big dinners, midnight assignations, intrigue, backbiting and all the rows they can handle is not a factor.)

Their colleagues think they're mad to do it, but wave them off with their best good wishes and support. "Don't forget, we'll be cheering from afar: Oh yes, we get The Irish Times in Torrevieja now."

Privately, they're praying their delegate doesn't play a blinder at the podium and make the papers. If that happens they'll have to share a staffroom for the rest of the year with someone who thinks they're the next Joe Higgins.

Ministers hate having to go. They say they're honoured to have been invited and delighted to have this special opportunity to share a room with 600 hungover and angry delegates in a mutual spirit of friendship and respect. In reality, they resent the imposition.

A galaxy of ministerial stars have braved the conference halls of Ireland and tried to soft soap the teachers. Some have been more successful than others. There was Mary O'Rourke, who came and read the gospel according to Mammy and went away delighted with herself. Shiny young Micheál Martin - he was nice. Seamus Brennan, skilled in the art of sincerity. Labour's Niamh Bhreathnach used the conferences as an opportunity to remind herself how wonderful she was.

There were lots of spats and opportunities to let off steam. Then the ASTI, the secondary teachers who like to think they're a cut above, lost the plot.

The union severed its links with the other unions and went off on a solo crusade over pay and conditions. They went on strike. Schools were shut down.

At the same time, internal ructions convulsed the union. At conference time, different factions battled for power in between whingeing for Ireland. When they weren't castigating the minister or insulting each other, they were berating the media. Journalists started to travel in pairs.

And who did they have as a focus for their fury? Minister Michael Woods. They did everything they could to rile him. Heckled him, held up posters, turned their backs on him, walked out. Woodsie refused to be bullied and just carried on, not in the least bit ruffled.

At a particularly stormy conference in Galway, the organisers felt it would be better if he didn't leave the hall by walking through the crowd. Instead, he was taken out the back door at great speed, through a yard past the beer barrels and into a room upstairs. Furious teachers caught up with him, and being teachers, they started singing outside the door. What did Woodsie do? He went outside and sang back at them. That shut them up.

In 2001, the ASTI held the best education conference ever. They made a disgrace of themselves during a wonderfully hysterical three days, when members of the media were banned from sessions, then harangued in the evenings. A member of the National Parents Council alleged he had been punched in the nose by a delegate when he went to the bar after midnight to get some milk for his wife. One of his colleagues said she was verbally abused half a dozen times, while her companion complained she was pushed and had a door shoved in her face. There was an appeal from the platform for delegates to come forward and help the gardaí with their inquiries, while the union's general secretary revealed he had received death threats before the conference.

Things calmed down a little after that. After the frustration of the singing minister, teachers were pleased when they heard that former teacher, Noel Dempsey was to be his replacement. That didn't last long.

When Noel departed the scene and the current Minister, Mary Hanafin, came along, the teachers were suffering from post traumatic stress. Mary, another secondary school teacher, butters them up and soothes frazzled nerves. She does what every minister is expected to do - apart from promising more pay - and tells the teachers that they're great.

"I love politics and I love education. Put those together and I have my perfect job," she says.

It's not good enough. The woman likes going to the conferences, for heaven's sake. The teachers like her. She'll have to go.