greatest scandals of a newspaper called the leinster leader

Some years ago as a reporter it was my privilege to attend a public reception for a boxing champion in the dulcet unspoilt hamlet of Athy, murder capital of South Kildare.

Also in attendance were two of Ireland's most senior trade union officials, leading lights of the Irish Transport and General Workers Union.

Both these gentlemen were called Michael and referred to each other as they conversed as Michael.

It was Michael this, Michael that, and oh yeah Michael the other.

The effect was most curious.

There were several physical resemblances between the two trade unionists which added to their comic personas.

They both wore black suits and white shirts.

They both had silly greying trade uniony moustaches, one a Hitler, the other a handlebar.
They each had a grandiose self satisfied plush bottomed plummy verily invincible working class Dublin accent.

The two Michaels together put me in mind of nothing so much as a pair of bumbling CIA agents in some appeaserish Hollywood propaganda film for Al Qaeda.

Still I could not think ill of them.

I found the way they used each other's name in conversation added remarkably to the gaiety of nations.

The world has too much sadness in it for us not to occasionally applaud those who were born to make us smile.

At some point in the evening one of the Michaels approached me.

"Well young lad," said Michael importantly, "what newspaper are you with?"

"I'm with the Leinster Leader," I told him.

The effect was instantanous.

He began to cry out: "Michael, hey Michael," signalling to the Michael across the room.

His friend hove westwards.

"What is it Michael?" said the other Michael on arrival.

"Michael, this young lad works for the Leinster Leader," said Michael.

"So what Michael?" said Michael.

"Michael!," exclaimed Michael. "Do you not remember? The Leinster Leader? The court case? A few years back. The editor asked a journalist to do a story for him and the journalist punched the editor in the face. Wah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha... Do a story for me on that please... Bam. Wah, ha, ha, ha, ha..."

"Wah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha," guffawed his friend agreeably.

I let them finish.

When the dust settled I spoke gently.

"It is reassuring," I said in a voice dry and droll as ditch water, "to see the trade union movement keeping such a close eye on the provincial press."