Potatoes are not funny, but there are other things we can teach the British

Do not take the Mick. Do not tell potato jokes. Do not refer to Britain as ‘the mainland.’

Oh, and never talk about 'the British Isles.'

Those are just some of the rules for working successfully with Irish people to be found in a British Embassy document exclusively revealed in this paper on Saturday. The document, entitled Working with the Irish, is for civil servants and others who have to be here during the EU Presidency. It's brisk, informative and useful.

It does have a couple of puzzling bullet points, though. Like banning potato jokes. Funny thing about potato jokes. The British Embassy wants to exterminate them, and I never knew they existed. I simply can't remember the last time anybody of any nationality told me a potato joke. Maybe I should get out more.

In fact, the only one that comes to mind, (and it's a potato mistake rather than a potato jest) is the incident where Dan Quayle, a former US Vice President famously corrected the spelling of a child in a school the VP was visiting by adding an E to the child's perfectly spelled 'potato.'

The only thing funny about that particular incident was the child's expression. Even though he was only about six, he had enough cop-on to know that when the Vice President of your nation makes a fool of himself, you don't dance up and down, pointing your finger at him and asking how the hell he got to be where he is.

(Unless, of course, you're a journalist.)

Even accepting that Kerr's Pinks may have a laughable side, I still wouldn't have viewed potato jokes as a real and present danger to British/Irish relations.

There's just not enough of them around. For a very good reason: spuds don't attract jokes the way bananas do. Potatoes are just plain unfunny. No comedian ever built a career around creamed spuds.

Nonetheless, there's always the possibility the British embassy knows that, somewhere in Whitehall lurks a sub-cult of civil servants who not only tell potato wisecracks but do so with the intent of wounding the Irish.

The embassy may know that these archivists of the spud-related giggle are heading over here, en masse, during the EU Presidency to subject us to six months of unremitting tuber wit. The Embassy is just trying to ensure that the comedy praties will be small, over here, over here....

They'd be better off running a few induction courses to put the incoming civil servants on the inside track on things Irish while exterminating some of the British habits that REALLY drive Irish people bonkers. Like laying claim to our heroes, sporting or entertainment.

It goes on all the time. A soccer player or an actor or a singer may have been born in Leitrim or Lixnaw, but the minute they get famous, they're forcibly adopted by Britain.

As was hammered home on British TV this week by African-American film star Samuel L. Jackson, who shot to fame in the Travolta movie Pulp Fiction. Jackson was being interviewed about the SWAT film in which he stars with Colin Farrell.

Apropos Farrell, the interviewer gushed that it was great "to see one of our own doing so well". Taken aback by this, Jackson said he thought Farrell was Irish, not British. The interviewer chortled that Britain had a tradition of spotting talent and claiming it as British.

"We've done that in America, too," Jackson responded grimly. "But we called it slavery."

OTT? Yes. Sledgehammer to crack a peanut? Of course. But did it ring a bell in Ireland? Resonantly. We've had it up to here with the boy next door becoming the British adoptee when he gets successful.

It's OK by us if Britain makes a Sir out of Geldof or an icon out of Roy Keane, but it would be good if they left their nationality alone.

The other thing that could greatly improve the rapport between British civil servants and Irish people would be if they listened to the way English is spoken in this country.

As the Embassy guide notes, Ireland and England speak the same language. Ostensibly. But only ostensibly. Ireland has a number of usages which can be opaque to visitors.

Take the term 'gobshite.' 'Gobshite' is our term for an unsubtle embarrassing inept drip with theories. If you need an example to fully understand the concept, consider the pointy-haired manager in the Dilbert cartoons. He's a classic gobshite, as is the manager character in the TV series The Office.

"Gobshite" is, however, a fluid and dynamic term which can be transformed by putting a possessive pronoun in front of it. A gobshite is one thing. OUR gobshite is quite another thing, and the distinction is important. A gobshite may be held in general odium.

OUR gobshite, on the other hand, is kind of a protected species like a bat. We don't much like him, but we greatly value his capacity to irritate and inconvenience others.

Just as a team needs a mascot, a local area needs its own gobshite. Having one shows how independent-minded the area is. Electing one as a public representative is even more fun.

British civil servants working here during the Presidency might also pay attention to the F word. British people use the F word, but in a sadly limited way. Mostly, they use it as an expletive: witness the opening scene of the film Four Weddings and a Funeral. However, they tend to undervalue its potential as a rhetorical intensifier.

And when it comes to rhetorical intensifiers, let us never forget the inestimable Mr Gogarty, star of stage, screen and Tribunal. Above all, let us not forget the exchange where he and his boss were travelling in a car on the way to ply Ray Burke with brown paper bags.

Because substantial amounts of money were about to change hands, Gogarty understandably wondered if the two of them were going to get a receipt when they handed over the dosh. To which question his boss responded, "Will we F.k?"

That rhetorical question is a deeply embedded part of the lexicon, these days. Instant inclusion in the extended Irish clan can be achieved by a well-placed "Will we f"

If you pace the sentence right, you don't even have to use the swear-word: people recognise and respond to the phrase the way they react to the first few notes of a much-loved melody.

Really, the Embassy should bring in Joe Taylor to train civil servants in how to mimic Tribunal personalities. Nothing would make an honorary Irishman out of an incoming Brit faster than being able to take off Liam Lawlor or Frank Dunlop.

One final thought. The Embassy might also consider introducing British civil servants to a couple of all-purpose (and essentially meaningless) phrases.

"Fair dues t'ya" and the Russian-sounding "Goodonya" are like blank tiles in Scrabble: without intrinsic value, they are comforting in their emptiness, completely interchangeable and don't commit you to anything. In addition, they allow you to nudge the conversation along without having to listen to it.

Both phrases could comfortably fit in the space left by the removal of all the offensive potato jokes.