IT'S only seven years since he was hatched, but 1996 has been yet another triumph in the life of Dustin - singing builder, television personality, would-be politician and owner of a Hiace van.
Sitting in the back porch of his new residence in Killiney, he contemplates the recent £15 extension to his pigeon loft - paid for by a complex but completely legitimate business arrangement with Maurice Pratt - and reflects that he has been a lucky turkey.
Still, there's the small matter of Christmas to contend with, which explains Dustin's slightly gaunt appearance. "I'm down to seven batter-burgers a day, a few pot noodles and a worm," he says, referring to the annual December diet designed to make him look inedible.
He is haunted by a recurring nightmare in which "Hippo-head", as he affectionately calls Derek Davis, chases him across the RTE car park with a box of Paxo. He will not be able to relax until January. The old saying is particularly true for a turkey: just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.
Our interview is delayed slightly because he's watching Neighbours. ("Not the TV show the two next door. They're gorgeous.") Then he settles into the job, with that gentle deprecation for which he has become famous.
"What paper did you say you were from?"
"The Irish Times."
"Sorry?"
"The Irish Times."
"I heard you the first time, I'm just sorry. Wha, Wha, Wha
This last bit is Dust in laughing. (For those who haven't heard it, it sounds like an overweight turkey trying to get airborne.)
THE past 12 months have seen Dustin mature, both as an artist and a flightless bird. For example, asked where he sees himself in five years' time, he belches thoughtfully before replying:
"...in a mirror! Wha, Wha, Wha."
With his "difficult second album" behind him, he has grown in confidence as a lyricist (witness the line "did a bit of neckin'/in Termonfeckin" from the classic I've Never Been To Meath) and he is now much more at ease with the technical side of the recording business.
"I know what a microphone is now, for instance. I was only four-and-a-half when I made the first record and I was very inexperienced. But you could say I've grown up. I was in with the vet the other day and he says I could be three foot six when I'm finished."
He dismisses suggestions of a world tour in the New Year, although the romance of life on the road has its appeal. "I played support to Declan Nerney last week, but I was only helpin' him out because Louise Morrissey was sick. That was a bit of a buzz.
"But the thing is I'm a builder, first and foremost. I just happen to have a good voice, which it would be criminal of me not to share with people. And I'm finishing a big building job at the moment. You know that new Jervis shopping centre?"
Yes.
"Well, there's a small house a few doors down from that and I'm doing the gate for the oul' one that owns it. It's a tricky job but I'm not going to leave it half-done, like some cowboy builder. I've been at it for four years now, should be finished any day."
THIS attitude is typical. Despite his fame, the fundamental truths on which Dustin's world-view is based remain unchanged. For example, in spite of his hymn of praise to Meath and his admission - also on the album - that he does his bit for charity by saying hello to culchies, he remains very much an urban turkey. In his own words, everything outside Dublin is a "hygiene risk".
"That's probably why I found Bob Geldof in Limerick. He was wandering round telling anybody who'd listen that he used to be a famous rock star. I dragged him into the van and told him: `Bob, I'm puttin' you back on the road.'"
Contact with Geldof since the recording has been limited: "Mostly legal matters. But I'm confident we can settle out of court." However, his public concern about the former Boomtown Rat's personal hygiene habits is typical of his robust but caring attitude to friends and colleagues.
"Pat Kenny, for instance. I know I do be knockin' him a lot but Kenny Live is great. It's marvellous. Very rarely does RTE get comedy that right."
What about his relationship with Zig and Zag? "The two British lads? Yeah, I still talk to the boys, but you know we've kind of gone in separate directions. I'm still hangin' round the RTE canteen with Thelma and the girls, and the boys are off in England. The thing is, I haven't forgotten me roots."
Would he forget his roots if the money was right?
"Yeah, definitely."
As 1997 approaches, two events loom large on the horizon. The first is the Presidential election. "I reckon I'll be there or thereabouts, this time.
"I'm confident, now that I have the financial backing of Maurice Pratt, I can do better than the last time. Mind you, I have to hand it to Mary Robinson she's done a very good job. For a woman, y'know."
His political career has taken a back seat to showbiz in 1996, but corruption is still one of his main themes: "I'll take all the back-handers going," he says, echoing one of his slogans from previous campaigns. "That's the difference with me - I'm honest about it.
HE is scathing about "John Brutal and Pontius de Rossa and the rest of them," and claims he has information that the Government knew about next year's Garth Brooks concerts in Croke Park as long ago as last September. "And they did nothing about it."
The other big 1997 event is the Eurovision. Is he available should RTE give him the call? "Well, when I think of the famous people who've done it in the past, people like Pat Kenny, Mary Kennedy, Gerry Ryan ... no, I wouldn't touch it with a bargepole."
He also appears an unlikely candidate for the interval entertainment, given his low opinion of Riverdance and Michael Flatley.
"Michael Flatfeet! He should have been a hairdresser. Wearing girls' blouses on the stage and shakin' his pelvis at the oul' ones."
Fame has brought pressures, of course. There's the inevitable complications with women, for one thing. "Well, there was that thing with Biddy in Glen roe. Miley was away, you know, and she was lookin' for a bit of company, and I was there. But I want to say this: Bibi Baskin didn't leave the country just because of me, in spite of what she's telling people."
Generally, he has few problems with the opposite sex. "I always tell them at the start: I don't do kissing. So long as they understand that, we're OK.
There are also the endless demands for charity work. "Most of them I pass on to Ray D'Arcy - that's how charitable I am," he says. "But, like, the proceeds from the single went to the National Council for the Blind. Some people who heard it said it should have been the National Council for the Deaf. Wha, Wha, Wha."
He confirms that Ray is as good-looking in reality as on screen, but he worries about his friend's romantic life. "I'm always warning him to be careful. He does be keep in three and four women on the go at the same time.
Just before this interview, Dustin had returned from a visit to Lapland, which he found "very like Leitrim ("Nothing happens.") But he has fond memories of meeting Santa Claus ("Mr C. Present every year. Top man.") and, in keeping with his chanty role, he asked for special treatment this Christmas for children from Cavan.
So, at the end of 1996, has he a message for the fans? "Yeah, I have. To all the people who went out and bought the record. People who went into town in the rain for it. Queued up in the cold, and handed over their last few quid to buy it ... (he pauses here, choking back emotion) ... My message to those people is this: there'll be absolutely no refunds."
He also has a Christmas message for the human race in general: "Become vegetarians. Eat pot noodles."
