The sun was setting on The Absent Signpost & Almost Permanently Red, the pub favoured by the road administrators of Ireland. The senior administrator led the young apprentice into the bar, which was filled with other members of their calling.
Excited, lad? You should be. There are men here who are masters of their craft. Listen to them. Learn at their knees."
The boy felt grateful indeed. Not just any pupil in his class could qualify for an apprenticeship as an Irish road administrator. Firstly, you had to fail every exam throughout your entire school career. Ideally, you should have been expelled from at least two schools for sheer bone idleness. And thirdly, you should have no civic sense whatsoever.
"How did the pub get its name?" the boy asked breathlessly. "I'd have thought road administrators wouldn't approve of signposts that weren't there or traffic lights that are nearly always red."
Major artery
"In other countries you'd be right. But here in Ireland road administrators pride themselves on such little negative triumphs. Our day isn't made unless we can go to bed in the knowledge that we've left a tourist stranded in The Land That Time Forgot, just south of the Bog of Allen, or blocked an entire major artery at rush hour with a traffic light which shows green to a deserted country lane."
"Golly," said the boy. "How exciting."
The administrator looked at him with approval. "That's what I like to hear - enthusiasm in the young. Now. What are you having? The cocktails are rather good here. I'd recommend The Signless Roundabout, a house speciality. Packs a hell of a kick. A couple of those and you haven't got a clue where you're going. Or maybe you'd like another Irish invention, a Lights on a Roundabout - absolutely deadly, because it's mixing your drinks: one measure of individual initiative plus one measure of State command - a complete contradiction in terms, which you can have shaken, stirred or best of all, rear-ended."
"Rear-ended? Is rear-ending allowed in this pub?"
"All right? All right? Why, you can't qualify for membership of our professional body, SMASH, unless you can prove your work had caused at least one serious crash, and you have at least 10 cases of misleading people with your road signs."
"Who checks up on whatever accidents you cause?"
A terrible hush instantly fell on the pub. The barman came over and said: "I'm sorry gentlemen, but unless you can mind your language, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The "a" word
"I'm sorry," whispered the engineer across the counter. "He's young and doesn't know the rules here." He turned to the boy and declared with deadly ferocity. "Never let me hear you saying the "a" word again. Never. We do not allow it here. We like to think there are no. . ." he looked around, lowered his voice and halfwhispered, half-mimed, "accidents, qua accidents" - he raised his voice again - "but car smashes caused by stupidity, arrogance and incompetence, qualities which we pride ourselves on."
He gestured to a collection of portraits on the wall. "Past presidents, and an inspiration to us all. This man here now," he gestured, "is responsible for the signage on the road from Dun Laoghaire to Tallaght, a highly complex itinerary with maybe a dozen major junctions and connecting two large towns, plus the N81 and a seaport, and only a few signposts along its entire length. A work of pure genius. Hundreds of motorists get lost every day because of his handiwork. I, nay, we, revere him.
"Let him be your inspiration and guide."
"And who is the gentleman asleep over there?" asked the boy.
"The current president. And a noble figure indeed. If you ever see a road-sign pointing in the wrong direction and leaning over sideways, if you see one which is obscured by branches, if you one in a visual clutter which can only confuse, that is his responsibility. His job is signpost maintenance, which he attends to by sleeping. By Gad sir, just to see him there, having 400,000 winks, makes you proud." He stifled a sob.
"And who is that creature?" asked the boy of an odd character, sitting alone and cackling.
Journey time "You have a good eye for talent, boy. Another of our stars, a man of genius. He is a traffic light co-ordinator. He ensures that on roads right across the country you will invariably get a sequence of reds. Not merely does he add hugely and needlessly to people's journey time, but he puts them in bad, often dangerous form, so that they are more likely to have crashes. He is our ace of aces, our Red Baron, and noone can count his victories over ordinary motorists."
His young companion paused. "Bad traffic management really is a lethal business, isn't it? Do you think I'll have a future in it?"
His earnest tones caused a manly tear to start in the road administrator's eye. "By Jove, sir, your enthusiasm reminds me of myself when I was young. Now, what would you like to drink? A Multiple PileUp On Ice? Or maybe a nice little Needless Tragedy On the Rocks?"