D�IL SKETCH:'MINISTER! MINISTER! Are you still there, Minister?" But there was just silence, where Leo Varadkar should have been.

We were gathered around a table at a seance in the Department of Tourism and Sport, trying to contact Mr Varadkar. Or as they prefer to call these things in the corridors of power: an “incorporeal meeting”. Young Leo was out there somewhere in the ether, in a better place.

Nicosia, to be precise.

The air was heavy with expectation. The concentration intense. Waiting for the Minister to send us a message from the other side . . . of Europe.

Come in, Leo! What news of The Stimulus? Whither the new motorways and the inter-urban networks? No sound there came. We could feel his presence, but he was telephonically lost to us.

Across in the Dáil, Enda Kenny was looking behind the radiators.

Nothing. Although he wasn’t looking for Leo. The Taoiseach was concerned about a different incorporeal meeting. The one where the last cabinet tele-conferenced the country into a disastrous bank guarantee.

He can find no record of what happened on that fateful night in 2008. He said he even checked the radiator in case the file dropped behind it. Enda believes Micheál Martin has form in this regard. He is convinced that the Fianna Fáil leader, when minister for health, lost a significant file relating to the illegal charging of nursing home residents by dropping it down behind a rad.

Micháel Martin is so fed up listening to the Taoiseach’s conspiracy theory on the missing report that he doesn’t get too bothered by it anymore. But he wasn’t best pleased yesterday with Enda’s other suspicion that the lack of records on the decision to bring in the bank guarantee is due to some nefarious carry-on by the previous administration.

“Throwing out conspiracies like a man standing at the bar in a pub is quite unacceptable,” Martin thundered at the Taoiseach, disgusted by his “wild allegation” that records were shredded.

Enda was in no mood to apologise. “I’m amused at ya. Honest to God!” he smirked across at an incandescent Micheál, who insisted the previous administration had no questions to answer. If anyone was at fault, it was the Taoiseach, who was dishonouring his office by trying to “smear” Brian Cowen, the previous holder of the office.

Barry Cowen, the former taoiseach’s brother, sat beside his leader, fuming.

The Minister for Health snorted and sniggered. He suggested Barry might ask his brother about the non-existent files.

Dr James Reilly couldn’t have looked more pleased with himself – his Stubbs Gazette embarrassment of the last week taking no appreciable toll on his arrogant bedside manner.

There was, of course, an explanation for Enda’s jaunty performance in the chamber: he was high on The Stimulus.

Earlier in the day, the Taoiseach looked and sounded tired when launching his investment programme on infrastructure. However, after diving into The Stimulus at a briefing in Government Buildings, he was like a new man by the time his stint in the Dáil came around.

The Tánaiste was on The Stimulus too. As a result, Eamon Gilmore divined “a visible sign of recovery”. Brendan Howlin was up to his ears in Stimulus too. He dispensed it in “bundles” – to schools, hospitals and people working on the roads.

“Our national journey continues” declared the Taoiseach, adding that himself and Richard Bruton will be mainlining more Stimulus tomorrow at a press conference on job creation.

Dispensing the new measures like Smarties, they should send everyone off on their holidays when the Dáil rises with a nice warm fuzzy feeling about the Government. At least that’s the plan. Which brings us back to Leo Varadkar, who, while abroad in Cyprus, didn’t want to miss out on the party. So he went down the incorporeal route and treated the media to an out-of-body experience in his office.

Everybody gathered around and waited to hear from him. “Government Infrastructure Stimulus Announcement” it said on a big screen on the far wall.

Advisers waited for a sign. “Fingers crossed!” said one. The sound of a telephone ringing came from the speakers on the table.

The screen didn’t change.

It was all sound, no picture, which some observers reckoned was par for the course. A ring tone rang out. No response from the other side. There was nervous giggling. Then the speakers rang. “Hello?” ventured an adviser. “Hello?” came Leo’s tentative voice. And everyone cheered.

“Can you give us the votes for Ireland, please?” asked a journalist. “Wha?” said incorporeal Varadkar. “Shout if you can’t hear me . . . First of all, greetings from Cyprus.”

His audience burst out laughing. Then Leo went into a lengthy spiel on the restoration of his motorway budget. Then the line broke down. “Minister! Minister! Are you still there, Minister!” Communication was restored long enough for a question and answer session. Somebody asked Leo what the weather was like. He didn’t say.