A student and teacher struck an interesting wager once when I was in school. The former, 16 years old and renowned for being thick as 10 short planks, bet the latter a tenner that he could get a letter printed in The Irish Times within a week. His teacher, high on the hog as he had just had a tedious missive concerning teachers’ pay disputes or something similar printed in same, assumed that he was on to what racing folk consider a “good thing”, agreed to the terms and smugly waited to collect. Much to everyone’s glee, he was forced to shell out ten lids within three days, when a short missive from the pupil in question appeared in the newspaper’s letters page. It was the oldest trick in the book, a letter written about a subject close to the heart of a disturbing number of Irish Times correspondents: “Sir,” it began. “While walking in the grounds of Cistercian College Roscrea last Wednesday (date) at 9:30am, I heard the cuckoo. Is this a record?”

It was a master-stroke, the kind of coup that JP McManus himself would have been proud of and prompted a deluge of hastily written correspondence to The Irish Times from a body of young men eager to attempt to liven up the dreariest page of the Irish daily and get their names into print. Precise aural accounts of cooing pigeons, barking dogs, quacking ducks, braying donkeys, clucking chickens, screeching monkeys, laughing hyenas, diesel-powered tractors, shrill chainsaws and assorted booming explosions were dispatched with great

gusto but, sadly, never made it into print. We were to young to realise that, while writing to tell the editor of a newspaper that you heard the wailing of a banshee makes you a crank, informing him that you’ve heard a cuckoo is newsworthy in the extreme. Hearing one before anyone else does is extra special.

Recently, in an attempt to alleviate the tedium of the Monday grind, some deskbound pals and I began whizzing e-mails back and forth across the Irish sea in an attempt to see who could come up with the most preposterous Irish Times “is this a record?” letter imaginable. Sad? Totally. Funny? Probably not. Anyway, here’s a small selection – you decide.

Sir,

While walking past Middlesbrough FC’s Riverside Stadium recently, I espied a tall, overpaid, lumbering Columbian striker who couldn’t score in a brothel with a blank cheque. Is this a Ricard?

Yours etc.

Jed Diamond,

Sligo

A Chara,

Yesterday while out listening for cuckoos, I was attacked and mauled to within an inch of my life by a ferocious spotted member of the cat family. Is this a leopard?

Is mise le meas,

Hayden Foot,

Tubbercurry

Sir,

Recently while driving, my car was severely dented when a man plummeted out of the sky and landed on the bonnet. Upon checking the damage, I noticed that he had an unopened parachute on his back and was clutching a limp piece of string between the palsied dead fingers of his right hand. Is this a rip-cord?

Yours etc.

Huck Finn,

Clonmel

Sir,

While out shopping yesterday, I bought a second-hand copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours on vinyl. Is this a record?

Yours etc.

Junior Foyle,

Ballykissangel

A Chara,

In an attempt to pass the time earlier today, some friends and I began sending each other e-mails in an attempt to satirize the letters regularly published in your letters page by readers obsessed with hearing the first

cuckoo of the year. However, our pseudo-intellectual attempts to outdo each other’s lame witticisms meant we quickly

disappeared up our own arses and became sad parodies of the very folk we were attempting to mock. An expression exists which describes this process of becoming the victim of one’s own scheme, which begins: “to be hoisted by one’s own . . .”. Unfortunately, none of us can remember what it is exactly we’ve been hoisted by. Is this a “petard”?

Is mise le meas,

E. Fudd,

Listowel

A Chara,

Yesterday while walking out in the countryside, I encountered an insecure farmer who finished every sentence with a word as gaeilge. He had just built the biggest pile of dried grass I have ever seen. As I passed he shouted at me seeking reassurance: “Is this hay rick ard?”

Is mise le meas,

Homer Stench,

Navan