reading

INTRODUCTION

THEY DO NOT
MEAN TO, BUT THEY
STILL DO

Who would have thought that a poem from the 1970s by the slightly balding poetic chronicler of the stilled dreams of middle England, Philip Larkin, would provide us with the most fitting description of the surreal madness of Irish politics in recent years? Then again, given that this is the story about faith grounded in nothing more permanent than the quicksand of hope, followed by a Great Betrayal that was all the worse for being clothed in such respectable garb, perhaps it is not quite so strange.

We were, prior to 2011, a nation that was resigned to the concept of betrayal. Bertie Ahern, that most loved of Taoisigh and the cutest and most cunning of them all, had betrayed us by flitting down the political foxhole of retirement just before the hounds had snapped his neck. Further betrayal, or rather a series of them, by his successor Cowen, inspired more by lassitude and carelessness rather than intent, had destroyed the independence of the Irish Republic. The word ‘betrayal’ might sound excessive to describe the mechanics of the bank bailout and the policies of austerity that followed. But this was more than an economic phenomenon. Recessions come and go, but they do not normally cost states their independence.

In our case, the bailout and the subsequent arrival of a Troika of governors from the European Union, the European Central Bank and the International Monetary Fund saw Ireland reduced to the status of an EU satrap. The fall back into a form of Home Rule created a psychologically scarred country that was fiscally and psychologically ravaged by the reparations imposed on its citizens as payment for the frolics of a small caste of bankers and developers. Ancestral vices like mass emigration and unemployment flooded back in, until finally the citizens got their chance.

In the coldest of springs, as part of a great national citizens’ revolt, the perennially unloved Pious Protestors of Irish politics, Fine Gael and Labour, were elected to end all this. The voters did not list their requirements, but their core demand was clear. Such was the scale of the destruction of Fianna Fáil that it was clear that the voters were ready for a revolution in governance. And, via the largest majority in the history of the state, they had given the new Coalition the tools to just that.

It was a cheering prospect for our newly elected Coalition, but it contained one fatal danger. The serially cheated-upon Irish voters were used to political deceits but the 2011 election marked a definitive upswing in hope for change and reform. Were a government elected with the biggest majority in the history of the state to renege upon their mandate for change, truly this would be the greatest betrayal of all.

Larkin is apposite because the Great Betrayal by the Coalition Cartel of the Democratic Revolution we were promised in 2011 was a very English sort of affair. Quiet, polite, mannerly but, despite the astonishing absence of public turbulence, very, very real. Never before, not even in times of war, had an administration garnered such a huge majority. Never before had the public anticipated change with such hope. Never before, not even under Albert Reynolds, did an administration so comprehensively squander its mandate.

Larkin’s vicious lines about the influence of parents apply to many Irish administrations of the past:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

The Coalition, however, and the potential for change it promised should have marked a new dawn for Irish politics, one without any ‘fucking up’ of the Irish public. To adapt a phrase made famous by Fianna Fáil’s Ray Burke in another era, ‘a line had been drawn in the sand’.

But as inevitably as the passing on of parenting mistakes from one generation to the next, the Coalition fulfilled the premise of Larkin’s poem. Of course, like Larkin’s mum and dad, Eamon and Enda never meant to fuck up the Democratic Revolution. But they still did. And like Larkin’s mum and dad, the Coalition didn’t just continue the faults we already had; instead, they spiced up the nature of Irish misgovernance with some extra faults just for us.

This was a pity, for when they started, both Enda and Eamon were well-intentioned. Mind you, it is hard to find an Irish politician who isn’t. But unfortunately, the enervating leadership styles they adopted – Enda’s swinging between the opposing poles of Bertie-Lite and Victorian Dad-style governing and Eamon Gilmore’s Mrs Doubtfire-esque ‘careful now’ ethic – contributed further to the electorate’s disillusion with the Irish political system, already devastated during the Celtic Tiger era of a self-interested politics of carelessness.

Perhaps we should not be too harsh with our political class. Given their veteran status, the Grumpy Old Men of our new Coalition had obviously been ‘fucked up in their turn / By fools in old-style hats and coats’. The problem with handing on their own flaws to the new administration, in a continuation of the destructive cycle of political parenting that had dominated Irish politics since the Civil War, was that the Irish electorate had changed. As Lucinda Creighton noted after her departure from Fine Gael, the election of 2011 marked the death of Civil War politics. Paddy, as Enda declared on election night, had voted for a different way of doing things.

If Enda had actually paid heed to his own words, we might be writing a different tale. Instead, rather than inaugurating the democratic revolution the Irish voters were looking for, the Coalition’s Grumpy Old Men, exhausted by the length of their political journeys to power and discouraged by the Augean state of the Ireland they inherited, turned their backs on reform. Instead, they set their aim at an easier task, that of imposing a veneer of order and civility on the discordant pyre of the failing Irish Republic. This fundamentally flawed decision fatally misunderstood the mood of Irish voters. By 2014, it was clear the Coalition’s failure to generate the psychological healing of the Irish electorate via a moral and political revolution was, in the eyes of the voters, a betrayal too far.

Such a sequence would not have come as a surprise to our curmudgeon of a librarian poet. In Larkin’s poem, despite the lightness of the rhythm, a truly dystopian tone enters his final chilling warning:

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.

Larkin’s lines highlight the inexorability of the cycle of inherited flaws, whether in parenting or democratic politics. While his advice to ‘get out’ is straightforward when it comes to not having children, in the case of politics the choices are not as simple. The only easy way to ‘get out’ of democratic politics is to embrace the politics of the great dictator, and even the benevolent variants of that school of government tend, in the long run, to hand on even more misery to man.

This means our thin alternative is to hope, always hope, that in democratic politics the vicious cycle embodied by Larkin’s parents can be broken. Sadly, the verdict is already in on the Coalition. We know it failed – not always for bad reasons, but it did. The question this book hopes to answer is how it failed and why, because only when that is known can we try to break the cycle.

CHAPTER 1

PADDY IS GOING
TO HAVE A
DEMOCRATIC
REVOLUTION

The Coalition wears its brightest
colours as a new dawn is promised

It is rare for Ireland’s dusty old political soap-opera to experience a defining moment. For the most part, Irish politics struggles along like a marriage in which love has gone into hiding. While there may be occasional moments of passion, in general it is a thing of routine interspersed with occasional feverish bouts of bickering about things that are not important at all.

Over the course of Irish history, there have been a few defining moments, occasions where it seemed as though we were at the edges of a new dispensation. The revolutionary triumph of Eamon de Valera and his post-Civil War sans culottes in 1932, the election of Seán Lemass in 1959 and Garret FitzGerald’s tenure as Taoiseach in the 1980s were all junctures at which revolutionary change to Irish political life appeared to be possible. The accession of Charles Haughey to power, shrouded as it was in elemental fears and sepulchral prophecies, appeared to be a moment that signalled something too – although the problem was that nobody, including Haughey himself, appeared to know what that ‘something’ was, and by the close of his fantastical career, no-one, including Haughey, cared that much any more.

Election night 2011 certainly appeared to meet all of the requisite criteria for revolutionary change. The Fianna Fáil ancien regime had been massacred in a manner resembling the fall of Constantinople, where, according to myth, by the time the Turks finished their devastation of Constantinople, the body of the last Emperor was only recognisable by his purple imperial slippers. On election night 2011, the age-old war between the Fianna Fáil, the Cute Hoors of Irish politics, and their Pious Protestor counterparts in Fine Gael and Labour reached what appeared to be a similarly definitive conclusion. But was the reign of the Cute Hoors fully over? Or would the historical attraction of Ireland’s politicians to bad behaviour colonise the austere ranks of our newly formed Coalition?

Certainly a huge transformation had occurred. Since 1997, the Cute Hoors of Fianna Fáil had, with the help of an astonishing variety of political side-kicks, held the whip hand over the luckless Pious Protestors of Fine Gael and Labour. This was nothing new, for, although the public face of the Cute Hoors was affable, Fianna Fáil had dominated the theatre of political combat with an iron fist since its formation in 1927. However, in the wake of Bertie Ahern’s 2007 election triumph, a new spirit of despair had entered the ranks of the Pious Protestors. As Fianna Fáil snuggled up to their new and still somewhat astonished Green Party coalition partners, Pat Rabbitte, the third Labour leader in a row to be declawed by Bertie’s patented political technique of strangulation by affability, was moved to wonder whether Fianna Fáil would ever be removed from power again. Pat had a point, for even when the milk began to curdle in the court of Good King Bertie as the Taoiseach attempted to untangle himself from his tribunal travails, the imminent arrival by force majeure of Brian Cowen (affectionately or otherwise known as Biffo) as Taoiseach provided the despairing opposition with another classic example of Fianna Fáil’s enduring capacity to change their appearance just as trouble comes trotting around the corner looking for them. Once again, the most ruthless political party in Europe had read the runes and realised that the chill winds that were stripping away the fool’s gold of Bertie’s Gatsby-style age meant a strong leader was required to fearlessly steer the ship of the Irish state through the dangerous currents ahead. However, the strong leader did not, as we know, work out in that manner and Fianna Fáil’s invincibility was shaken. As disaster followed disaster over their final two years in government, it looked as though the Cute Hoors had used up their entire store of karma.

The eviction of Fianna Fáil made way for the incoming Coalition of Pious Protestors, a group of Grumpy Old Men (along with a couple of token women) who made for an unlikely set of iconoclasts, given the age, gender and political profile of its members. Its membership also included thoughtful and sometimes radical figures from the Labour Party such as Pat Rabbitte, Ruairi Quinn and Joan Burton, a couple of talented political brats such as Fine Gael’s Leo Varadkar and some, like Fine Gael’s Phil Hogan, who seemed amenable to practicing the dark arts on soft civil service mandarins. This varied team meant we really did dare to hope that, despite the shortness of time they had to make a mark, the knowledge they gleaned during their exile would give the Coalition the stomach to engage in real and substantive reform.

The belief that the new Coalition would lean towards the iconoclastic was fanned by the unlikely form of Enda. All Irish election victories attract at least one defining statement that summarises their import for the state. These can range from the delightfully casual ‘another All-Ireland, Jack’ by one Fianna Fáil TD as Jack Lynch backed his way into the Taoiseach’s office to the high-octane ‘flawed pedigree’ oration by Garret FitzGerald that set the tone of political discourse in the Haughey era on an unchangeable course. On election night 2011, in spite of a galaxy of opinionated political and media stars fighting for the right to coin the defining summary of this strange election, it was Enda Kenny who, all on his own, caught the mood. In the RTÉ studios, on the night of the count, the soon-to-be Taoiseach promised that the incoming Coalition would not leave ‘our people in the dark’ because ‘Paddy likes to know what the story is’. Kenny’s eccentric phraseology and his use of the racially loaded term ‘Paddy’ came in for some stick from some overly sensitive commentators, but in one sentence the incoming Taoiseach had summarised the defining flaw of the chaotic government of Brian Cowen. The apparent core value of Cowen’s ill-starred administration, whether influenced by fear or genuine paternalism, was that the Irish public did not have the right to do anything other than silently acquiesce to its decisions. This had, almost invisibly, been the most corrosive factor in the erosion of Fianna Fáil’s grip on the Irish psyche. Fianna Fáil, who in the past had embraced the peasant society-style concept of tribal politics more comprehensively than any other party in Ireland, simply did not appear to understand that in a modern Republic the people believed they had the right to information.

Mr Kenny, our soon-to-be Dear Leader, also noted on that famous election night that what had happened was a veritable ‘democratic revolution’ in which the voters had not ‘taken to the streets’ but instead had ‘wreaked vengeance on those who let them down’ via the more conventional route of the ballot box. It was certainly a revolution in numbers and personnel. But although the St Patricks of the Pious Protestors had chased the snakes of the Fianna Fáil Cute Hoors to the very edge of the Irish political shoreline, one question still hung in the air. Were the Pious Protestors for real or did they only want to clothe themselves in the tattered old robes of the previous imperial crew?

As we begin on our journey to track the rise and fall of a government elected with the largest majority in the history of the state, it is worth remembering the mood of that first hopeful day on 26 February 2011. Often, tangible political messages become tangled up in a confusing narrative of programmes for government, infighting for cabinet plums and vast legislative plans. Straight after the 2011 election however, the dominant feeling was one of a genteel revivalist-style attitude of hope. The Irish electorate had, in what was an Irish Bastille Day minus the shootings and guillotines, metaphorically stormed the barricades of power and thrown the ancien regime into the gutter. In a clever piece of spin, the two TDs chosen to proclaim the elevation of Dear Leader Enda to Taoiseach were the youngest members of their respective parties. Labour’s Ciara Conway promised that ‘in the words of that programme written by Tom Johnson 92 years ago, our purpose must … be “to secure that no child shall suffer hunger or cold from lack of food, clothing or shelter” … and to provide the “care of the nation’s aged and infirm, who shall not be regarded as a burden but rather entitled to the nation’s gratitude and consideration”’. It was, as we would find out over the Coalition’s lifespan, a statement that was utterly incompatible with the Realpolitik of austerity. Meanwhile, for Fine Gael, Simon Harris proudly declared that ‘today, the period of mourning is over for Ireland’. It was, he said, time for us to ‘hang out our brightest colours and together, under Deputy Kenny’s leadership … move forwards yet again as a nation’. Back in March 2011, this seemed charming, albeit in a school-boyish sort of fashion.

Inevitably all eyes were on Enda Kenny. In retrospect, it might seem strange but although he had been the Fine Gael leader for just under a decade, very little was known about the man. For most of us, he was a riddle hiding behind the enigma of a nod hiding behind a wink that was hiding behind a nudge to the ribs. In truth, had we paused to consider it, we would surely have noticed far too much hiding going on for comfort, but of course we didn’t. Instead, in a classic example of the immaturity of our political discourse, the great and the not-so-good confidently sermonised on why there was no need to worry about Mr Kenny’s enigmatic nature. This was, they proclaimed, because when one becomes Taoiseach, the office makes the man. Although a commonly-held view, sadly this is a school of belief as accurate about the nature of governance as old beliefs in the divine right of kings. The real truth about Taoisigh is that the capacity of the man defines the reputation of the office.

It should have been more unnerving that this purportedly great age of democratic revolution was founded on talk was of how the Taoiseach would accommodate himself to and be moulded by the very institutions of the state that had failed so comprehensively. Still, the Taoiseach-centred nature of Irish political discourse meant we had to overlook the elliptical nature of the man himself to try and discern meaning from his public pronouncements in order to predict how he, and our brand new Coalition, would get on. So although it was expressed in a somewhat odd fashion, Enda’s declaration of Paddy’s Bill of Rights offered us some hopeful prospects for the consummation of the Democratic Revolution.

On the opening day of the 31^st Dáil, the incoming Taoiseach certainly struck a more elevated tone than his Paddy comment on election night when he claimed that the country stood ‘on the threshold of fundamental change’. Given that Enda had been hanging affably around the Dáil club for four decades without making much of a run at any radical reforms, some eyes were raised at his promise that the central theme of his administration would be a ‘renewal of what political leadership in Ireland should be about’. Still, even in Irish politics, Damascene conversions are theoretically possible. And to our innocent and hopeful eyes, even if only for the sake of his own political health, our Dear Leader Enda had to be serious about his ‘democratic revolution’ promise.

The incoming Taoiseach even incorporated a touch of Arthurian high sentiment with his pledge to ‘enter into a covenant with the Irish people’ that ‘honesty is not alone our best policy, but our only policy’. His use of the word ‘covenant’, whether accidental or intentional, was particularly loaded. Irish voters are used to their politicians making promises and have come to expect that they will be broken; indeed, many voters would almost be disappointed if they were kept. A covenant, however, is much more binding. If Mr Kenny has any understanding of English at all – and what politician doesn’t?– he would have known a covenant is an oath of fealty. This particular covenant with the Irish people was all the more significant because it was not been made under the barrel of an electoral gun; by this stage, the Coalition was home, hosed and installed in Dáil Eireann.

You could hardly blame us for thinking, ‘Good Lord, the man is serious!’ At the very least, we tried to convince ourselves this might be the case, out of the mannerly pleasantness that is the Irish curse.

All this stuff about covenants was indeed a long way from the old Biffo ‘we are where we are, now shut your traps and stop complaining’ school of non-governance. In the most emotionally intuitive line of his speech, Mr Kenny expressed his genuine belief that ‘the old ways of politics damaged us not alone financially, but emotionally, psychologically and spiritually’. It was not easy for us to adjust to the concept of a Taoiseach who might possess the virtue of emotional empathy. Again, whether by accident or intent, Mr Kenny had tapped into something profoundly important to the Irish electorate, for the damage done by the recession and subsequent austerity measures was not merely fiscal. Something greater was eating away at the core of a citizenry that had seen the hard-won independence of the Irish Republic so flightily discarded.

As part of his appointment as Taoiseach, Mr Kenny also pledged to ‘introduce the most ambitious ever programme for reform since the foundation of the State’. A key element of this would include, ‘with the people’s approval’, the abolition of Seanad Éireann. This was a promise that sent a shiver running across the spines of the plump unfeathered Seanad hens. It was difficult to see how our dusty old senators could resist a government with the largest majority in the history of the Irish state. For now however, the Taoiseach was uninterested in the specifics. Instead, he implored us to once again ‘believe in our future … let us lift up our heads, turn our faces to the sun and … hang out our brightest colours’. It was a fitting conclusion to his maiden speech as Taoiseach, cleverly crafted with language that consistently conjured up images of light bursting out of dark. Now all Mr Kenny had to do was to deliver this sunrise.

Of course, even at this point there were doubters. But it was surely not too unreasonable to hope that, although his Coalition was immediately confronted with the problems of an Irish Republic that had collapsed in upon itself, Mr Kenny would not turn out to be like so many others, full of piss and wind and very little else, like the infamous barber’s cat. For that day at least, it was enough that, after the carefully cultivated imbecility of Bertie and the bureaucratese of Mr Cowen, our new Taoiseach was offering us a different register of thought, one that contained at least a drizzle of the American theory of progress, renewal and optimism. To a country devastated by EU-imposed austerity and used to the ‘we are where we are’ approach to politics, the American Dream ideology, which relies on change, reform and responsibility, was especially necessary. After the materialistic excesses of the Celtic Tiger era, in which the citizens of Ireland had almost become sickened by surfeit, and the thin famine of recession and austerity that followed, we could surely be forgiven for hoping that a prophet who understood the electorate’s need for nutrition of an emotional, spiritual and psychological variety had emerged.

Eamon Gilmore, whose Labour Party had scraped into government in a similar manner to the last Americans leaving Saigon at the end of the Vietnam conflagration, also caught the millenarian mood, observing that ‘we have been conscious of the hope and goodwill of the people. Many people have stopped me in the street or called out from a passing car to simply say “Good luck”.’ In claiming that this would be a ‘national government’, the Tánaiste, like Mr Kenny, was specifically asserting that this was no ordinary come-day-go-day administration. The responsibilities the Coalition set for themselves and our resultant expectations were therefore significantly higher. But even as Gilmore piously observed ‘hope is never a burden’, there was one lacuna within all the chatter. Although there was much emotion and chat about morality, tangible plans were thin. Traditionally Irish politics has been far too often the politics of sentiment. The original ‘man with a plan’, Seán Lemass, characterised the verbal rodomontade of Irish politics as ‘that school of dying for Ireland’ rhetoric. If you were of a somewhat more riotous mindset, you might compare the rhetorical capacities of Irish politicians to the scene in Blazing Saddles in which Hedley Lamarr, the evil villain, summarises his latest diabolical scheme while in the bath having his back scrubbed by his sidekick Taggart. Lamarr declares that his mind is ‘a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives’. After a brief moment of silence, an awed Taggart responds, ‘God darnit, Mr Taggart you use your tongue prettier than a twenty-dollar whore’.

We had certainly experienced a surfeit of the politics of the twenty-dollar whore. But after the high-blown sentiment of Enda and Eamon, who could believe that Paddy was not going to have his Democratic Revolution? The historians among us pointed out that governments with excessive majorities fared poorly. In 1977, Fianna Fáil’s Jack Lynch and his 84 TDs had talked warily of the dangers of ‘carrying a full jug’ and although much was written about the Brobdingnagian scale of the incoming administration, its majority was not that much larger than that of the ill-fated Fianna Fáil– Labour coalition of 1992. It had more than a hundred TDs and yet it collapsed in flames less than three years after it was elected. Still, this time would surely be better. After all, Jack had been something of an old woman past his prime, constantly being hand-tripped by the spectre of Charlie Haughey. And the Fianna Fáil–Labour administration of Albert Reynolds and Dick Spring was essentially an accidental creation, and one dogged by a perceived sense of betrayal on the part of an electorate that had been intent on voting Fianna Fáil out of office.

When it came to doubters of the new Coalition and its programme for the Democratic Revolution, they were indeed sparse – well, at least during that first sacred debate of the 31^st Dáil. Sinn Féin’s Mary Lou McDonald noted that we should be ‘honest enough to say that the current programme for government, regardless of how it is dressed up, is essentially Fianna Fáil-Lite’. At this point, few were inclined at this point to surrender to that or to Micheál Martin’s prophecy that politicians such as Mr Gilmore would swiftly learn that ‘it is not ‘Labour’s way or Frankfurt’s way’ and he will learn that Mr Trichet [President of the ECB] is more than a “mere civil servant”’. Instead we hoped that Fine Gael’s Peter Mathews would be prophetic rather than idealistic in his belief that, ‘in the words and thoughts of Edmund Burke, we are not just delegates for the people who elected us here. We are trustees for them’. The tale of Peter’s time in 31^st Dáil would in time evolve into a real judgement on that particular dream. For now though, the somewhat less idealistic among us emerged from the great galaxy of political sentiment, blinking and confused by the darting lights. We wondered what on earth had we just done, while still hoping that somehow, just maybe, it would all work out for the best.

In retrospect, the prophecy of the Socialist Party’s Joe Higgins was far more accurate than the hopeful fallacies we peddled. In a finely judged speech, Higgins warned that ‘the Oxford Dictionary defines “revolution” as the overthrow of a government or social order in favour of a new system’. If this definition was correct, he said, then ‘the programme presented by Deputy Kenny is a grotesque betrayal of that revolution because it proposes almost to the letter to continue the reactionary programme of the old order of the late and unlamented regime of Fianna Fáil and the Green Party, a regime that was rightly reviled, rejected and sent to oblivion by the Irish people for its economic and political crimes’. Fine Gael backbenchers, who were utterly unused to anything harsher than the deification of Dear Leader Enda, went into shock as Higgins said, ‘this is not the first time the Irish political elite responded to an Irish and Europe-wide crisis by sacrificing its people. Nearly one hundred years ago, the forebears of today’s speculating EU financiers … plunged into war in a vicious competition for markets raw materials and profits. The Irish Parliamentary Party of the day will be forever remembered in infamy for its campaign to dragoon a generation of youth to feed the insatiable appetite of the imperial war makers’. Higgins made it clear that when it came to a willingness to sacriface ‘our people, our services and our youth to feed the equally insatiable appetite of the … European and world financial markets’, Fine Gael and Labour would play ‘an equally shameful role’ to Fianna Fáil.

Sinn Féin’s Gerry Adams confined himself to noting ‘it is appropriate that we gather here at the beginning of Lent, given what is coming for the citizens of the State’. It was in truth one of his more accurate prognostications. Independent TD Shane Ross was even closer to the mark when he warned us that ‘we do not know exactly what is being promised at all, except that the Labour Party and Fine Gael will be the government over the next few years and will stick together, come hell or high water’. Ross presciently hoped that ‘the Fianna Fáil version of cronyism is not replaced by a Fine Gael–Labour version of cronyism’. And he also warned that he feared that, ‘because of the parameters and restrictions of the economy, the government will almost inevitably yield to the temptation to be a government so similar to the previous one … that it will be indistinguishable from it’.

Not many people listened to Joe, Shane and the rest of the naysayers. Instead, in what unfortunately was to become an ongoing trend, the chirruping rooks of the Fine Gael backbenchers, after they recovered from their initial shock, broke into a disapproving chorus. And truthfully, in the immediate afterglow of the execution of Fianna Fáil, we were too entranced by the numbers secured by the Coalition of the Grumpy Old Men to pay attention to voices of dissent. Shane Ross’s prediction hung eerily in the air, but surely after all the Coalition’s lofty speech-making and promises, we would not end up back in Biffo’s ‘we are where we are’ land. If the Coalition of all the Grumpy Old Men and the cawing rooks of the Fine Gael backbenchers needed incentives for courage, all they had to do was look straight in front of them and witness the horrors that political failure had inflicted on Fianna Fáil. In 2007, Fianna Fáil had been elected on the subterranean fears of the electorate that the boom was over and the somewhat contradictory hope that Bertie might be able to weave his economic alchemy a final time. Even then, it felt as if securing the self-interested trust of the Irish electorate was a dangerous prize for Fianna Fáil to celebrate. Now all that was left was the bitterest of dregs.

Of course, we now know the Coalition would slip slowly and inexorably towards that very place in which Biffo the Unready had left Fianna Fáil. But how did it happen? After all, we had experienced our fairy-tale ending with the triumph of the Fine Gael–Labour Pious Protestors. This fairy tale’s official narrative was that good had defeated, if not evil, then certainly sloth and self-indulgence. Ahead of us, the fairy tale said, there would be purification and repentance for some but ultimately everything would end well. The problem, alas, with using fairy tales to describe the real world is that in the real world, things don’t always tie up as neatly. In the real world, fairy-tale scenarios can take unexpected and capricious Gothic turns. Sometimes in the real world, the fairy-tale Prince gets barbecued by the dragon. Sometimes, despite the best of advice, Hansel and Gretel end up being boiled in the cauldron.

In our case, there were a number of problems with the fairy tale our new government of Pious Protestors constructed in March 2011. It wasn’t just that the group of white knights who arrived to slay the Fianna Fáil dragon were gentlemen of a somewhat elderly hue, riding donkeys rather than noble steeds. The drama of their rescue mission was also somewhat compromised by the fact that by the time our motley knights arrived, the aged dragon had run out of flames some years earlier, fallen into a deep sleep and could not be roused into battle. Mind you, when it came to our Grumpy Old Don Quixotes, there was no excessive banging of shields. Instead, after a couple of timorous shouts, mostly from the Labour knights-errant, our heroic Pious Protestors glided gently away from the mangy form that was far smaller than the mythical creature they had been planning to bravely take on.

Furthermore, the unavoidable fact remained that the damsel in distress our heroes had rescued was a woman of loose morals who had enjoyed plenty of good times with the poor dragon before he ran out of puff – and, more importantly, cash. Still, as our Grumpy Old Men delicately slipped away from the declawed dragon with a less than impressed damsel, who was only going with them in the absence of anything better, they could not be criticised too harshly for the failure to deliver a perfect fairy-tale ending. After all, even in fairy tales you can only work with the material you are given. And for all of the sulkiness of the damsel in distress, no-one else was exactly queuing up to rescue her. But before we chronicle the adventures and misfortunes that our Grumpy Old political adventurers went on to encounter, it should be noted that at this early stage a happy ending was not impossible. The stars may have been set against our Grumpy Old Men and, as a few prescient speakers on the opening day of the 31^st Dáil pointed out to deaf ears, there was scant evidence they were journeying towards a land of milk, honey, peace, prosperity and bread, let alone towards the promised Democratic Revolution, whatever that might be. But we had Enda and we had Enda’s speech and we had a Vatican choir of sincerely voiced fine intentions and public faith and a record Dáil majority – have we mentioned that? – to back up the fine sentiments. Surely that would be enough for some form of transformation. March 2011 was not the time for the fairy-tale dream to be shattered, for no-one, including our rescued damsel, was in the mood for listening to doubts. That was a story that would change.