It's a lonely job, taking the rubbish bags out at The Irish Times. Less than two weeks ago, I was one of Ireland's highest paid, most respected and much-loved journalists. Like household names such as Eamon Dunphy, Terry Keane and Jean Kerrigan, I was a major celebrity, living a champagne lifestyle of fast cars, hedonism and good times. I can say in all honesty, I didn't give a damn about anybody else. Yes, there had been a down side, although recent events in my private life had given me grounds for optimism.
My on-off relationship with the northern Ireland Nationalist poet, Orla Ni Suibh, had been resolved happily, and we were very much looking forward to our wonderful wedding in Lurretstown Castle in June, an event that would be broadcast live around the world on the Internet. (Orla had also secured sponsorship from a well-known drinks company). However, after the cynical and vindictive burning down of Lurretstown by cast members of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, a terrible, all-consuming melancholy descended on Orla. My demotion to taking the rubbish bags out the back at The Irish Times has not helped our relationship, and Orla has recently put her name forward for selection from a pool of civilians, one of who will be eventually selected to join the first manned - or in her case, if selected, womanned - flight to Mars. In the early stages of our relationship, we found it quite difficult to make things work while I was based in Dublin and she was living in Belfast, and as Mars is even further away than the sectarian city on the Lagan, the relationship may come under even more strain. (I dread to think of the cost of phone bills!!!!) However, if she does end up being chosen from several thousand candidates, I think that the Red Planet may in fact be the best place for her. She may finally find some peace in that distant and lonely place, which, from what I can gather from photographs, looks much like the Burren in Co Clare (without the flora and fauna, but with better weather). Meanwhile, I am struggling with my new job taking out the black bags. It's not that they're particularly heavy. Predictably, they contain mostly paper: first drafts of columns discarded by Dick Walsh, Nuala O'Faolain or Tom Humphries. (I found one of Dick Walsh's first drafts the other day, and was surprised by the foul and disgusting language it contains. I suppose it takes a few drafts for him to get it out of his system). No, it is the monotony of the job which I am having most difficulty in dealing with (along with the 99 per cent drop in salary). Also, people show me a marked lack of respect. A few weeks ago, when I was irrefutably Ireland's leading columnist, senior editors would doff their hats to me and greet me with a cheery wave. Copy boys would ask cheekily how I was getting on with Orla, and cleaning ladies would offer to put me in contact with men who would happily track down the cast members of JATATC who burned down Lurretstown, and break their legs for them. Now, people, for no reason at all, except for the fact that I'm taking out the black plastic bags, tell me to f**k off. I walk a lonely street. My biggest fear, after reading a recent book on the fate of Stalingrad during the second World War, is that I shall be thrust into poverty and forced to eat rats. This happened to Henry Kelly in the period between the demise of his Irish Times column and his successful start in broadcasting on Game for a Laugh. There have been other negative developments. Disappointingly, the fund to name the guilty JATATC arsonists has not progressed beyond the sum of one penny kindly donated by reader Des Foley.
Sadly, Mr Foley has succumbed to the temptation to kick me while I'm down, and recently wrote an angry letter accusing me of revealing his real name when he wished to reside under a cloak of anonymity. (Presumably for tax reasons). It is a bitter end to what was really quite a beautiful relationship.
Sadly, then, this is my last column. As I write, a huge stack of black plastic bags is lined up before me, and I am being shouted at by my features editor to get them out the back. Goodye then, fair readers. I shall miss you all (except Des Foley), and I wish you all a pleasant summer.
Arthur Mathews is working on TV and radio projects and will return to these pages soon