The Eighty-Five Billion Euro Man

by Donal Conaty

  The following morning I called Dermot to go to the count centre but he said it was far too early. ‘There won't be any cameras there yet,’ he said. ‘We'll wander in after lunch. I'll probably be elected on the first count shortly after that.’

  I couldn't get over his supreme confidence. It reminded me of the glossy advertisements for graceful living on the hoardings outside ghost apartment blocks.

  So, after a pleasant lunch in Thornton's, we made our way to the count.

  ‘I can't wait to see Moany Joany's face when I romp home,’ Dermot said as we walked into the hall just in time to hear that Joan Burton had in fact romped home, easily winning the first seat. Dermot was almost pale with disappointment and Ms Burton couldn't hide her delight.

  ‘Oh, Dermot,’ she said. ‘I hope I give you enough transfers to get you elected. It would be a service to the Department of Finance to remove you from it.’

  ‘It will be the only service you ever do for the Department of Finance,’ Dermot said coldly. Then he remembered his manners. ‘Still, I suppose congratulations are in order for your remarkable achievement.’

  ‘Remarkable? Why is it remarkable?’ Ms Burton demanded. ‘Is it because I'm a woman?’

  Dermot brought his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn and turned his back on Ms Burton to find that he was facing the Socialist Party candidate, Joe Higgins.

  ‘I am surprised you bothered to turn up,’ Mr Higgins said. ‘You have nothing to offer the people of Dublin West, or, indeed, the people of Ireland.’

  ‘I assure you that you are mistaken, Mr Higgins,’ Dermot responded. ‘It is your sieg heil nonsense that the people of Dublin West will reject.’

  ‘That's National Socialism, you buffoon,’ Mr Higgins said. ‘I am not a Nazi, I am a Socialist and a worker.’

  ‘A Socialist and a worker,’ Dermot said. ‘That's novel.’

  Before an irate Mr Higgins could respond, another voice interjected. ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’ Leo Varadkar asked.

  ‘Fuck off, Leo!’ Dermot, Mr Higgins and Ms Burton said in unison.

  As I had expected, Dermot's first preference count was pitifully low but he did get a bounce once Ms Burton's surplus was distributed. The early signs were that the people of Dublin West were keeping their promise to give Dermot their second or third preference. It was as though they were hedging their bets in case the real politicians let them down. Dermot, however, could not hide his disappointment when Mr Varadkar was the second TD elected. ‘They really should vet people before they give them a vote,’ he said sniffily.

  The bottom three candidates – an independent, a Green and the second Fianna Fáil candidate were then eliminated, and their transfers, although helpful to Dermot, actually propelled Joe Higgins to the Dáil after the third count. ‘We need a dictatorship,’ Dermot said. ‘The vote is wasted on these commoners.’

  On the next count a Sinn Féin and a Fine Gael candidate were eliminated, with their transfers narrowly getting Minister for Finance Brian Lenihan over the line. Dermot was devastated. He had assumed that Mr Lenihan would lose his seat. However, he did his best to conceal his disappointment. ‘Congratulations, Mr Lenihan,’ he said. ‘You're the last of the Mohicans. The only Fianna Fáiler from Dublin remaining in the Dáil. We will have to try and organise a preservation order for you.’

  With only one seat remaining, Dermot was neck and neck with the second Labour Party candidate, but he sneaked ahead on transfers and was deemed elected to the fifth seat although he did not reach the quota.

  Dermot immediately forgot the ignominy of coming so close to failure as he was hoisted aloft by jubilant civil servants and paraded around the room.

  ‘What will happen now in the Department?’ I asked him. ‘Will Liam be confirmed in your position?’

  ‘God no,’ said Dermot. ‘I can take five years’ leave of absence. Liam will keep my seat warm. He's always been terribly dreary but I think he's growing into the job. High office has a way of bringing out the gloss in people. He's next in line for promotion so he will get it eventually if I decide to stay in politics.’

  I was about to ask Dermot what his plans were now that he had been elected but an intense, agitated RTÉ reporter actually pushed me out of the way and asked the question for me.

  ‘This is CHARLIE BIRD asking Dermot Mulhearn to tell CHARLIE BIRD what his plans are,’ the reporter, whose name appeared to be Charlie Bird, said rather loudly.

  ‘Well, Charlie,’ Dermot began.

  ‘CHARLIE BIRD,’ Charlie Bird corrected.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Dermot. ‘Well, Charlie Bird, I intend to wait and see who is forming the new Government and I will then offer my assistance and expertise in the efficient management of that Government.’

  ‘Can you tell CHARLIE BIRD what you will be seeking in return for your assistance and expertise?’ Charlie Bird asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing for me,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Oh, nothing for me, CHARLIE BIRD,’ said Charlie Bird.

  Dermot sighed. ‘Nothing for me, Charlie Bird,’ he said. ‘But I would insist that the Government treats the civil service with the respect it deserves.

  I left Dermot and his civil servant friends to celebrate his victory and went back to the apartment. The weeks of campaigning had taken their toll and I fell asleep on the couch. When I awoke, Dermot was standing in front of me with Enda Kenny, who was sporting a large ‘I am the Taoiseach’ badge on his lapel.

  ‘Meet the new Taoiseach,’ Dermot said. ‘He took a helicopter straight to Dublin from his constituency in Mayo just to shake your hand. Taoiseach, meet the man with the money.’ Out of the side of his mouth Dermot then whispered to me: ‘Actually, he came to Dublin to celebrate Fine Gael's victory but his TDs gave him the slip, so I took the opportunity to introduce him to my plans for the new Government.’

  I was about to congratulate the new Taoiseach on his election victory when he turned his head to one side and said to someone who clearly wasn't there: ‘Did you hear that, Paddy?’ he said. ‘He called me Taoiseach.’

  I was utterly confused and looked to Dermot for guidance. ‘How silly of me,’ said Dermot. ‘I forgot to introduce you to our Taoiseach's most trusted friend and adviser, Paddy.’

  ‘Hello, Paddy,’ I said uncertainly to the empty space beside the Taoiseach.

  Mr Kenny was delighted. ‘You can see him too!’ he said, beaming. ‘Some people say they can't see him.’

  ‘Don't mind them spoofers,’ said Dermot. ‘Of course they can see him. Isn't he a fine figure of a man? But he would be nothing without you, Taoiseach. You are clearly the boss in the relationship.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Mr Kenny asked.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Excuse us, Taoiseach,’ I said, ‘while Dermot and I get you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Don't forget Paddy,’ the Taoiseach said.

  ‘No, Taoiseach,’ I assured him, ‘we won't forget Paddy. How could we?’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ I asked Dermot as soon as I closed the kitchen door behind us.

  ‘Nothing much,’ said Dermot with a shrug. ‘Our new Taoiseach has an imaginary friend.’

  ‘An imaginary friend?’ I was in shock. ‘The leader of your country has an imaginary friend. Is he supposed to be an improvement on Brian Cowen?’

  Dermot shrugged again. ‘Well, he's certainly more presentable. He'll probably forget about Paddy now that he's Taoiseach,’ he said. ‘He just needed him in the difficult years when even his own party couldn't stand him. The first fifty-nine years of his life have been terribly lonely. He was never invited to sleepovers when he was a child, and now they don't even want him at the Fine Gael victory party. Paddy is a great comfort to him.’

  I was speechless and I had absolutely no idea what to tell Ajai about this. We returned to the living room with four mugs of tea for the three of us.

  ‘Paddy wants to know what's going on,’ Mr Kenny said as we sat down.
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br />   ‘Well, Taoiseach,’ said Dermot. ‘I suppose we should prepare you for your meeting with Mr Gilmore to negotiate the formation of the Government. It won't be easy.’

  ‘He's a very pushy little man,’ said Mr Kenny.

  ‘He is,’ said Dermot, ‘but you are well able for him. Remember he wanted to be Taoiseach but you are Taoiseach; you have the badge and everything.’

  Every time Dermot called him Taoiseach, Mr Kenny smiled broadly and winked at Paddy.

  ‘The first thing he will do,’ said Dermot, ‘is try to get you to make Joan Burton Minister for Finance.’

  ‘Michael Noonan has to be Minister for Finance,’ Mr Kenny said. ‘He made me promise him that.’

  ‘How did he make you?’ asked Dermot.

  ‘He told me to,’ said Mr Kenny. Then he leaned forward and whispered, as though afraid that Mr Noonan would somehow hear him: ‘He said he'd eat my liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said Dermot, ‘I hate fava beans. Don't pay him any attention, Taoiseach. He's a scary man, but we will protect you.’

  ‘He thinks he's the boss of me,’ said Mr Kenny.

  ‘Well he's not, Taoiseach. You are the boss,’ said Dermot. ‘Now listen closely; this is what I want you to do. You need to appoint two Ministers for Finance – Michael Noonan and one of the Labour lads. The two of them will fight all the time and leave you and Paddy to run the country in peace.’

  Mr Kenny laughed when Dermot mentioned him running the country. ‘Noonan and Burton?’ Mr Kenny asked.

  Dermot looked troubled. ‘That is up to you, Taoiseach. You're the boss,’ he said doubtfully. ‘It is entirely your decision. But the media will blame you if Ms Burton doesn't work out.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Mr Kenny asked me. He looked worried.

  ‘I met her a few times during the campaign,’ I said. ‘She struck me as a very capable woman.’

  Dermot shook his head from side to side. ‘A capable woman,’ he said ruefully. ‘Is there anything more difficult to manage than a capable woman, Taoiseach? And a member of the Labour Party too. You would have no peace, no peace at all.’

  The Taoiseach looked troubled. ‘She can be very mean,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dermot. ‘You know, if you gave the job to someone else in Labour, someone like that pipsqueak Howlin, you could cause a rift within their ranks. It will be much easier for you to govern if Labour are fighting among themselves.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Taoiseach tentatively. ‘Maybe I should appoint Brendan Howlin then.’

  ‘That's a great idea, Taoiseach,’ said Dermot. ‘How clever of you to think of it all by yourself.’

  The Taoiseach giggled nervously. ‘Paddy helped me,’ he said.

  ‘Paddy is a great adviser,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Kenny, and he looked meaningfully at Dermot. ‘Do you want to be a minister?’

  ‘Oh no, Taoiseach,’ said Dermot. ‘I have important work to do. Anyway, I'm not a member of Fine Gael.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Mr Kenny said. He looked troubled. ‘You're not in Labour are you?’

  ‘God forbid,’ said Dermot. ‘No, I am not a member of any party and I am not seeking a ministry. I would be very happy, however, to advise you on how to deal with the civil service in the difficult times that lie ahead. I have much experience in that field and I know how they think.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr Kenny. ‘Do they know you know how they think?’

  ‘Yes, Taoiseach, they know I know how they think but they think I think like them.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘And do you think like them?’

  ‘Oh no, Taoiseach,’ Dermot smiled. ‘I think like us.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘I will appoint you to the post of Special Adviser to the Taoiseach. What about you?’ Mr Kenny asked me. ‘Would you like a job? Paddy could do with an assistant.’

  ‘I already have a job, thank you, Taoiseach,’ I said. ‘But I will happily assist you and, erm, Paddy in any way I can to make the bailout work.’

  For the next few days I was in constant attendance on Dermot while he was in constant attendance on Mr Kenny. Although he was supposed to advise the Taoiseach only on matters relating to the civil service he had quickly gained Mr Kenny's complete confidence and was consulted on absolutely everything. This didn't impress Mr Kenny's Fine Gael colleagues or his potential coalition partners.

  ‘What is he doing here?’ the Labour Party leader, Eamon Gilmore, asked when he walked into the room for the first post-election meeting between the two party leaders. He was referring to Dermot who was standing at the Taoiseach's shoulder. Neither Mr Gilmore nor any of the other politicians who entered the room in the days that followed paid any attention to me. All I did was pay the bills.

  ‘He's my adviser,’ said the Taoiseach firmly.

  ‘I thought Paddy was your adviser,’ Mr Gilmore said sarcastically.

  ‘Paddy is my friend,’ the Taoiseach said defensively.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Gilmore, ‘of course he is. Listen, I have accepted, against my better judgement, that Paddy goes where you go but I must draw the line at Mr Mulhearn. He has to go. You can't have him as an adviser. He's part of the problem, not the solution.’

  ‘Dermot said you'd say that,’ said the Taoiseach.

  ‘But Enda,’ the red-faced and clearly frustrated Labour leader began.

  ‘It's Taoiseach Enda,’ Mr Kenny interrupted.

  ‘You're not Taoiseach yet,’ Mr Gilmore reminded him.

  ‘And you're not in government yet, Mr Gilmore,’ Dermot broke in with a smile.

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Gilmore. ‘Taoiseach Enda it is.’

  The Taoiseach smiled at Paddy and then at Dermot, who smiled back.

  ‘I have grave reservations about Mr Mulhearn advising you,’ Mr Gilmore went on. ‘He is tainted by his time in the Department of Finance and the dreadful decisions that were made there.’

  ‘They were Brian Lenihan's decisions,’ said Mr Kenny. ‘Dermot did his best but Lenihan wouldn't listen to him; Dermot told me so. We must listen to Dermot so that we have full civil service support for our government.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Mr Gilmore wearily. ‘But Joan isn't going to like it one bit.’

  ‘Ah yes, speaking of Joan,’ said Mr Kenny.

  ‘Hmm, Joan,’ said Dermot, almost grinning.

  ‘What about Joan?’ asked Mr Gilmore.

  ‘May I say, Mr Gilmore,’ Dermot said. ‘That it takes a big man to allow her to speak as frankly about your leadership as she did on the doorsteps of Dublin West during the campaign.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Mr Gilmore asked.

  ‘I am just saying that I admire the way you allowed her to openly discuss your leadership qualities with her constituents,’ Dermot continued.

  This struck me as strange as I had been with Dermot throughout the campaign and I had never heard Ms Burton do anything of the kind.

  ‘She did what?’ asked an increasingly agitated Mr Gilmore.

  Mr Kenny interrupted. ‘We need someone who can introduce reform without ruffling too many feathers.’

  ‘Joan ruffles feathers,’ said Dermot.

  ‘Yes, Eamon,’ said Mr Kenny. ‘She's terrible for ruffling feathers. See how she has ruffled yours?’

  ‘Well where can we put Joan, then?’ Mr Gilmore asked. We have to put her somewhere.’

  ‘It's a pity there isn't a Department of Home Economics,’ said the Taoiseach.

  Everybody roared with laughter except me. I had to ask Dermot what was so funny.

  ‘Home Economics for Moany Joan,’ he said, almost crying with laughter. ‘You know, cooking and dressmaking and crochet.’

  ‘But that's absurd,’ I said. ‘Ms Burton is a highly capable woman.’

  A deafening and awkward silence descended on the room. I had clearly spoken out of turn. The atmosphere reminded me of the Boxing Day debacle.


  ‘The Department of Social Protection has a big budget,’ said the Taoiseach, breaking the silence.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Dermot. ‘Tough decisions will have to be made there if we don't meet our obligations under the Memorandum of Understanding with the IMF. Social welfare might have to be cut. It needs a minister who isn't afraid to be deeply unpopular.’

  I was surprised Dermot knew anything about the Memorandum of Understanding, but I kept my mouth shut.

  ‘Joan would be very good there,’ Mr Kenny and Mr Gilmore said in unison.

  ‘So, that's settled,’ said Mr Gilmore. ‘Now who will I put in Finance with Noonan?’

  ‘What about that little fellow who's negotiating for ye?’ said Mr Kenny. ‘The one who's even smaller than you.’

  ‘Howlin?’ said Mr Gilmore. ‘I'll have you know he is much smaller than me.’

  ‘Let's put him in Finance. Noonan might not even notice him.’

  They agreed that Mr Howlin would be appointed to the new position of Minister for Public Expenditure and Reform.

  Then the two party leaders set about sharing out the other Cabinet positions.

  ‘I have to give something big to Bruton,’ the Taoiseach said. ‘All the kids in the party like him for some reason.’

  ‘Why not give him Enterprise?’ said Mr Gilmore.

  ‘In the middle of a recession that is only going to get worse? That's a great idea! Fair play to you, Eamon,’ the Taoiseach replied, delighted with the idea.

  ‘No bother, Taoiseach,’ said Mr Gilmore. ‘But what will I do with Rabbitte? I have a pain in me arse with him.’

  ‘Why not give him Communications?’ Dermot suggested. ‘He never shuts up anyway.’

  ‘Right,’ said the Taoiseach, ‘how about Varadkar for Transport?’

  ‘Is he even old enough to drive?’ asked Mr Gilmore.

  ‘If he's accompanied by an adult,’ Dermot volunteered.

  ‘That leaves Frances Fitzgerald,’ the Taoiseach said, scratching his head. ‘Another woman.’

  The Taoiseach, Mr Gilmore and Dermot looked blankly at each other for a moment as they considered what to do with Ms Fitzgerald.

  Suddenly the Taoiseach stood up. ‘Ah lads,’ he said. ‘We've been missing the obvious. We'll make her Minister for Children. Women love children.’