This is a rather exciting diary, the first ever written on my new computer, which resulted from a complaint in this space about the rusting old beast I had been conned into buying five years ago. In order to speak to the Irish Times computer, the old screen would turn a funny blue colour, rather as great Aunt Myrtle did that time she tried to bump off Great Aunt Pru , but the sillybilly got the cocoa-cups confused. It only ever saved copy by means of an enormously complicated procedure which resembled the switching-sequence for a moonshot-launch, and downloading - as we computer whizzes say - copy from it into The Irish Times computer took as long as emptying a swimming pool with a teaspoon.
After I wrote a column about this, a surprising number of computer-types contacted me. I assumed such people were all too busy skimming the web and browsing the netsites - you see! I have mastered the terminology already! - to be reading newspapers. Some chose to speak to me by the Interweb, which, despite my mastery of the vocabulary, was truly a vain quest. My problem was that my computer was as incompatible with the world created by that odd-looking fellow Bill Doors as is ogham. Messages sent by the interweb merely vanished for all time in the dark lagoon of my old computer.
Lost on a bus
Other people wrote letters. I am ashamed to say that I lost the lot on the bus to Blessington. I know one of them was from a nice fellow called Warren Singh, whose name I remember because on the hill where I live, I used to conduct choir lessons for the local rabbit population. They proved to be highly musical, far more than one might have expected: a most melodious bunch of beasts indeed, which explains why at night you could even hear their warren sing. So thank you Warren, and thanks to all the other computer-types whose names are not so distinctive and whose letters are even now probably travelling back and forth between Eden Quay and Blessington.
Then at last, another nice fellow, from something called Gateway, by the name of Peter O'Sullivan - I suppose he's got to do something to fill in his spare time now he's finished doing the racing-commentaries - actually telephoned me. Person-to-person contact. Bingo. He offered help, in exchange for money. I sent him a cheque for the full value of the items, and he in return sent me some huge boxes which looked as if they contained several small cars. Naturally I did what anybody does with large boxes when they arrive. I put them under the stairs; and there they have stayed for the past two months.
Computer boxes
No longer - but not because I was dying to get at my computer, but because my wife wanted the boxes emptied; and the reason she wanted them emptied is for me to put my books in - the books for which I have no bookshelf space and which cover my study floor. When the demand was accompanied by a stamped foot, I surrendered, and cleared the computer boxes of their contents. So what else could I then do but set my computer up?
It might not be clear to you now, such is my mastery of computer-terminology, but I was not always the living lump of silicon-chip that you see before you now. Indeed not. In the bad old days, the electronics geniuses in the Irish Times computer-room would fall to their knees and begin to search for lost paperclips whenever I walked in to their sanctuary. One, whom by chance I found standing upright, promptly pretended to be a lampstandard.
Computer manual
But I am a reformed character now, and I tackled the assembly of my computer with gusto and intelligence. The first thing you do is to look for the computer manual. This is usually a large volume with an index in the back, which tells you where to find everything. Once you have found it, throw it away. You are now ready to assemble your computer.
Tip one: never worry if the parts don't fit. A bit of force will usually do the trick, and you're not strong enough, a hammer will normally finish the job. Don't be shy about forcing round plugs into square sockets, or gluing bits together which don't seem to fit. If mere computer parts don't know who is boss, you're heading for trouble. In the event of a sustained rebellion, I always find a pot of tea poured into the innards of a computer teaches it manners: never mind the flashes and the blue lights and the burning smell - an adolescent tantrum, no more.
And here it is, my first column on my new computer. Clearly, computers now come to me so effortlessly that I should open my own computer consultancy service for those like minded souls who believe in corporal punishment for computers: FloggaPC.com. My company will be floated shortly. Brace yourself for Ireland's newest billionaire.