When Patrick started up the potcheen distillery he imagined it as the beginning of a money-spinning venture. He put the still in a barn at his cousin’s place, out in the country where no-one was likely to find it. Sean, the cousin, knew someone in the potato trade and assured him the supply would be a synch. In theory it was. Just tell the delivery guy where to ship the merchandise and sit back and await the arrival of potato gold.

Unfortunately, Sean, never one to keep quiet about a great idea, let slip to one or seven people about the spuds, and about the still, and pretty much everything else. This news came to the attention of Daniel O’Grady, local farmer, distiller and all round devious little shit, who wasn’t having any competition on his patch. So a call was made to the Garda who, not having made any significant recent arrest, and under instructions to clamp down on illegal potcheen shenanigans, leapt into action with alacrity.

Later that night Patrick was sitting in the local station, musing over his misfortune. Sean had heard about the raid from another cousin and cleared out before the Garda were on the scene. At least that was an opportunity for him to retire to The Castle where he happened to mention to one or seven people about the terrible luck of his cousin.

‘I tell yer, it’s impossible to keep anything a secret these days’, he declared.