DÁIL SKETCH:DERMOT AHERN, and the way he might look at you.
The Minister for Justice has a unique effect on Opposition deputies. Drives them pure mad.
And that’s before he opens his mouth.
It’s a fail-safe recipe for pandemonium.
Dermot – he’s the Government’s red rag in residence – switched on his peculiar charm yesterday morning. He knows well what he’s at. They know well what he’s at.
But they can’t resist.
It’s the cocky combination of aggression and condescension that gets to them every time. “I ask Deputy Burton to restrain herself!” roared the Ceann Comhairle, as Labour’s finance spokeswoman spontaneously combusted.
Pat Rabbitte was rolling in his seat like a Victorian laughing sailor, tut-tutting so much his head nearly fell off. “This guy is unreal!” he chuckled.
The normally meek and mild Richard Bruton took a turn and launched a verbal attack on the Minister, who couldn’t have looked more smug had he been granted the freedom of Hackballscross.
It didn’t knock a feather out of Dermot, but Fine Gael’s jobs spokesman was fit to explode.
Ahern was speaking on the economic crisis, informing the House: “We are proceeding from a platform which is stabilising . . .” Is his Government hoping to discover oil?
That would please the bondholders.
Then he unburdened himself of a little homily on the value of consensus. “I urge the parties opposite not to run from the constructive approach set out by the Taoiseach in the past few weeks.”
Little gasps started rising from across the floor. “We all know that parties want to stick to talking about change and leadership while avoiding all definition of change and leadership, and that too is very understandable.
“However, it is not tenable at this time.” The lecture continued: “There is a gap of billions of euro to be filled. It is not rocket science.”
Joan Burton was gulping for air. Richard Bruton, and him an economist, swooned.
Pat bounced around on his springs, like Dermot had fed the entire €15 billion gap into his laughing machine.
“They have brought the country to ruin and now the Minister has the cheek to lecture us about rocket science.”
Dermot implied the Government had selflessly opened up the books for the Opposition and it was now up to them to row in with proposals.
“In fairness, I believe many on the benches opposite are up for that challenge and are working hard on policies which Government must and will examine in a considered and serious way. The Labour Party produced proposals yesterday . . . I have looked at them and the Government will do so also,” he dripped with exquisite condescension.
In fairness, he then proceeded to rubbish Labour’s efforts.
Joan had a fit of the vapours.
Where were the proposals in the Minister’s speech, demanded Richard.
“Unreal!” chortled Pat, his head rolling dangerously.
Sure didn’t Labour propose a strategic bank modelled on an example described as “Germany’s dumbest bank”, continued the Minister, prodding away with his pointy stick.
"The Guardianpraised the proposal yesterday," spluttered the incandescent Joan.
“Oh, the truth is bitter,” mused Dermot, with a little smile, as he continued to pick holes in Labour’s proposals.
“You clearly can’t do tax arithmetic . . . you’re innumerate,” bellowed Joan.
“Innumerate,” guffawed Pat.
Dermot finished with a final dig. He dug out a newspaper clipping from 2007 – “Does the Minister often consult the archives?” smirked Pat – and it showed that the Government hadn’t been alone in predicting the economy would soon turn the corner.
A number of eminent economists and property consultants had been interviewed for the article, which, he said, “makes interesting reading as it shows that collective amnesia regarding what took place over the Celtic Tiger years era is not confined to the Opposition benches.”
Joan bridled.
“My record on property tax breaks is clear,” Dermot snarled. “You should check the record.” Amid bleats of the Minister being the man “who was up every tree in north Dublin,” Joan was stretchered off and Pat’s neck snapped.
Dermot smiled as the Ceann Comhairle struggled to impose order and Bruton rose to his feet. He tried to remain calm.
He said he had listened with respect to the contributions from the Minister, but instead of proposals he heard an attempt to distort the past by using obscure quotations in an attempt to distort Opposition views.
He wanted constructive dialogue, but instead found himself entering “Deputy Dermot Ahern’s warped world”.
The Minister murmured sweetly that he gave credit to both parties for producing proposals.
Richard was raging. They wouldn’t listen when Fine Gael warned him the wheels were coming off.
“Now that the Government is in a hole of its own creation, you want to pretend you are listening to the Opposition, when out of the other side of your mouth you produce this bile” [and he spat out the word] “which you seem to have stored up in your locker and have a go at everyone.” He was on fire.
“Minister. What world are you living on? Do you ever get out of the comfortable seat of your Mercedes and listen to people on the ground speak of what is happening in their businesses or on their streets?”
Dermot was rubbishing everything and offering nothing in its place.
“I’m sick of the plans you produce.
“I’m depressed,” said Richard. Twice. His colleague, Brian Hayes, was depressed too.
“We must smash the cosy consensus. This place has been a dosshouse, effectively, for the past 10 years or so, where people cannot speak their minds.”
One of the people who questioned budgets during the boom years was Richard Bruton and he was told by Bertie Ahern “to go off and commit suicide”.
Brian noted that Bertie “is now writing in Polish publications, telling us what should be done in Poland and what should happen in Gambia. Where is he today? He is an elected member to the parliament of this country and he is not here – unless he takes his opportunity between now and 5pm to speak. Where is he today?” And a voice rose up behind him. It was Fergus O’Dowd.
“He’s in the cupboard.” Then the fire brigade came in and hosed everyone down. Except Dermot Ahern, who is too cool for comfort.
