The Celtic Tiger (c. 1996 – c. 2006) was, in retrospect, an unusual period. At the time, however, most of it made sense. With plenty of money swilling around, people had opportunities to try new things. To redress that balance, and to bring an air of misery to the proceedings, here is a list of things I didn’t do during the Celtic Tiger.

Some of these things I wish I had done, others I’m glad I didn’t do. This is in no way a “bucket list” of things I’d like to do in the future; it’s merely a list of things which people did, but which I didn’t do during the Celtic Tiger.

1. Ride in a helicopter

During the Celtic Tiger people took helicopters with the same nonchalance that New Yorkers take taxis. The helicopter business boomed as people became too busy or self-important to get the train or drive anywhere. I never went in a helicopter. I’m not sure I’d have liked to travel by helicopter, but like so many of the things on this list, the chance would have been nice.

It’s very rare that I feel out of my depth in social situations but I do recall one meeting in the early days of the Celtic Tiger being stuck for words when it turned out I was the only person who hadn’t arrived by helicopter. It turns out the location of the meeting had been chosen on the basis of how easy it was to get to from the nearest helicopter landing pad, a fact which passed me by even when I struggled to find a taxi driver who knew where the hotel was.

2. Go to the Galway Races

I’ve been to the races plenty of times in my life. My mum and sister are keen equestrian types. Indeed some of my earliest memories are from long afternoons standing on a windswept Northumbrian hillside watching distant horses run point-to-point, and feeling drizzle go down the back of my jumper. A Northumbrian point-to-point consists of Young Farmers getting drunk, old Land Rovers getting stuck in mud and red-faced farmers (and their sons) getting cold. The Galway Races is a very different beast. During the Celtic Tiger period, the week-long event seemed to consist of Fianna Fail TDs getting bribed, speculative developers getting planning permission and the country getting screwed, all in plush marquees where the horse-racing was a mere side-show to the main event; talking to other rich people. Apparently the thing to do was to get the helicopter to the Galway Races, in order to occasionally look through binoculars at the horse in which you own a share. Which brings me on to…

3. Join A Syndicate

Celtic Tiger people were always joining syndicates, whether to buy a racehorse or greyhound, or an apartment complex or even in one case I heard of - a vineyard. Groups of dentists, lawyers and taxi drivers would group together to buy shares in things, and pretend to each other that they knew what they were doing so that they could make profit from whatever it was they had bought. During the good times, well, if the horse or vineyard didn’t perform as well as expected and the syndicate needed to be topped up, there was always plenty of money to do so. Like so much during those years, mistakes could be hidden. Apparently the courts are now filled with feuding syndicates who now don’t know what to do with a knackered old greyhound or who is supposed to pay for the upkeep of the mare which they were told was of fine pedigree.

4. Date a Z-List Celebrity

There are generally understood to be 26 letters in the English alphabet. If you need proof, look down at your computer’s keyboard now. In Irish a couple of letters are missing and in German a couple more are added. No amount of adding of letters to the end of the alphabet could begin to describe the status of Irish Celtic Tiger celebrities. Their memory lives on in the pages of VIP magazine, but it’s a shadow of its former self. Compared to their US counterparts on the newsagent’s stand, Irish celebrity magazines are like the empty hulk of the Anglo HQ beside the glass and steel of the other Docklands buildings – a sorry mess of something that one had the beginnings of something good. Irish celebrity magazine are always worth a quick glance. Most of them are comprised entirely of photos of Georgia Salpa (who, I’ve discovered in the course of researching this blog post, doesn’t even appear on Wikipedia) and her friends pouting inanely over their shoulders while almost wearing incredibly scratchy-looking clothes.

I could have been the boyfriend of a Z List Irish Celebrity; anyone would have done. Georgia, Bryan McFadden (it’s rumoured that during the Celtic Tiger period, every single person in Ireland dated McFadden at least once. I think there was a Census question on it last April), even Twink (who, does appear on Wikipedia. And, of course, YouTube) would have done at a push. We could have gone to clubs together and appeared on the Late Late Show to promote our matching tattoos. I think it would have been fun, and it’s not too late. If you’re a Z-List washed-up Celtic Tiger celebrity and haven’t been asked onto RTE’s Celebrity Origami and you’d like me to be your date, give me a call. I’m usually free. And, if the clothes get too scratchy I’ll wear a vest.

5. Open A Shop Which Sells Nothing

Stephen King wrote a really good book called Needful Things which focused on a mysterious small-town shop which was always open and sold everything you wanted. The Celtic Tiger gave birth to the exact opposite – shops which never seem to open and which don’t seem to sell anything except a couple of bits of expensive objets d’arts or a tiny rack of half a dozen dresses. These shops, which usually located in south-side Dublin suburbs and have pretentious French names, are staffed by very grumpy ladies of a certain age and degree of facial orangeness which marks them out as the wives of red-trouser wearing developers. The only people who shop there are their air-kissing orange friends or some misguided soul who thinks that they might pick up a birthday present or a new dress, only to be met with six enamel buckets painted pale blue and a watercolour of a Kerry cottage. How these shops remain in business is a mystery to me (and the Revenue Commissioners, I expect).

6. Buy Property

The Celtic Tiger is synonymous with the property bubble and this isn’t the place to discuss the Irish property market, but I never bought property and nor was I particularly tempted. But by not buying property I missed out on loads of Celtic Tiger opportunities. I never had the opportunity to construct Greco-Georgian pillars outside my house. I never got to install gates which were opened by an illuminated keypad. But most tragically, I never got to buy potted trees. David McWilliams has made a good career out of measuring unusual economic indicators, but I think he missed a trick when he neglected to count potted trees as a barometer for the Irish property market. They seemed to arrive overnight, standing like soldiers on either side of the doorways of newly refurbished homes, guarding the occupants within and marking another success of the ever-booming market.

Eventually the pillars will crumble and the electrics inside the illuminated keypad will fail, but what will happen to all those potted trees which stood so bravely on the steps of Dublin homes in their little brown pots? Will they be liberated and returned to the forests, or are they too domesticated now? Will the government intervene if the owners abandon the house? They might even form ghost estates. Ghostly forests of tiny potted trees without owners, huddled together, waiting for the next property boom. Leprechauns could go paint-balling there on stag weekends.

7. Go to Renards (with my Celebrity Partner)

Are they still open? I might take my future Z List Celebrity Partner there some night.

As an aside, in order to find out if it’s still open, I did a Google search but mis-spelled Renards. Apparently Reynauds syndrome is a medical disorder which makes your fingers go white. As opposed to Renards where, according to Celtic tiger lore, something similar happens to your nostrils.

8. Go Skiing

Celtic Tiger holidays seemed to be the best. People recovered from the hectic nightmare of Christmas by going skiing in February. They recovered from the hectic nightmare of late spring by taking a cottage in France or Italy for six weeks over the summer. They recovered from the depression of autumn by doing to a country house hotel spa for a long weekend. The summers in Tuscany and the autumns in country hotels I could do but skiing sounds like hell. I hate the cold and I’m not very fond of falling over, so forking out a fortune to fly to a cold place in order to fall over all day isn’t my idea of a holiday, even with the promise of hot tubs and alcohol-fuelled hot chocolate.

During the Celtic Tiger skiing was the perfect holiday. It gave an opportunity to buy very expensive branded kit, to go to places other people hadn’t been to and to return to late winter Ireland with a tan. I’m sure some people even found ways to avoid the ski lift and take the helicopter.