What the dogs in the street already know about this government

Question: Who knew that Katharine Zappone was a shoo-in to get the job of Special Envoy for Freedom of Opinion and Expression.

Answer: They knew, we knew, everyone and his mother and the dogs in the street and their mothers too knew. Piglet, Pooh (more on them later) and the animals in Dublin Zoo knew.

Recap for those of us who have no idea what’s going on: Taoiseach Micheal Martin, Tánaiste Leo Varadkar and Minister for Foreign Affairs Simon Coveney got themselves in more trouble than they thought they deserved after it was revealed Coveney brazenly bypassed normal procedures to appoint his chosen candidate Katharine Zappone to the aforementioned special envoy job. Not content with leaving the cronyism at that, Zappone had a posh outdoor soiree for 50 chums at the Merrion Hotel (where a room could set us back a month’s rent for one lousy night) and invited Leo, Simon and lots of others. Meanwhile, the Taoiseach allegedly didn’t know about her new job until it was raised at cabinet which is fishy because don’t you think Coveney would have briefed him beforehand – even though he is from a different party? (N.B: party is not the same as soiree, though both can get you in trouble if you’re not au fait with the right ones…) Leo alleged that he didn’t know about Zappone’s job either but he has form when it comes to fibs and lots of people on Twitter who don’t like him called for his resignation. To add yet another layer to this sad, sorry tale of cronyism, didn’t the Attorney General get involved to tell us all that, actually, Simon, Katharine et. al were not in the wrong and we should just forget about it all and here’s an idea: now we can have up to 200 people at outdoor events so aren’t we all fair and square again now?

How stupid do all these party people think the likes of us are??? Answers on the back of a monogrammed napkin, please. They are clearly making it up as they fuck it up. It is not a joy to behold.

The Covid rules didn’t apply to them, and not just because they are so too-faced it wouldn’t matter whether they wore a mask or not. This was about entitlement and cute hoorism. As usual, the party poopers from the opposition benches started yelling about how great they were that they didn’t go, probably because they weren’t even invited. Would they have gone if they were invited though? Was there an open bar? What kind of person would refuse an open bar on principal? A Sinn Féin TD? Like the rest of us, politician and plebeian alike, they’d take a free drink from the Taliban itself if it was offering, like.

But to go back to the initial question, the one that was finally, definitively, without reasonable doubt answered for us today: who knew about this.

Short answer: everyone.

Leo Varadkar maintained all along that he did not know about Coveney appointing Zappone, and today he posted the pics to prove it. Yes, an actual government minister put out screenshots of a text message conversation he had with Zappone about the party. All they proved, however, is that he is one of these people who (a) doesn’t use emojis and (b) texts sentence by sentence instead of just getting it all out in a nice paragraph. In other words, his texts are rather leaky…

At least Katharine texts in full, coherent paragraphs. Had she not been sort of forced to refuse the special envoy job in the end she would have made a fine example to all those bad people who text like Leo. That should be something the next envoy of freedom of opinion and expression bans outright. If you’re going to text it, get it out in one go or forever hold your piece.

I wonder if Leo asked Katharine if she minded him posting those screenshots of their conversation in an effort to save his bacon, because, at first glance it looked as if she referred to herself as “Piglet.” In a bizarre, but easily explainable twist, Zappone greeted Leo with a text that read “Hi, Leo from the Piglet!” She meant the Dublin restaurant, but the Great Unwasheds’ minds went straight to Pooh, as they do. Who was Tigger, Eeyore etc in this scenario, they wondered, eager to lean into the ridiculousness of it all.

Whatever about Zappone as Piglet, Leo as Pooh and sad-eyed Micheal as Eeyore, Simon Coveney is definitely Tigger. Silly ol’ Tigger, you couldn’t trust him as far as you’d throw him. He said the other day before some government committee or other that he didn’t tell anyone in cabinet about Zappone. She didn’t lobby him for the role either, and everything was above board and everyone should just let him away with a spring in his… spring, like the beloved cartoon tiger.

Unfortunately for politicians, they tend to be held accountable for more things than goofy talking tigers are so Simon couldn’t spring his way out of this one quite as easily as he might have liked. Earlier today, he told reporters that he had deleted all of his correspondences with Zappone so they couldn’t see if he was telling porkies about her or not.

Unwisely he said he deleted his texts because his phone was hacked and deleting texts is apparently something he does the whole time in case hackers get to them. Yeah. Sell us another sausage. This was starting to look less Winnie the Pooh and more Animal Farm. Not a peep from the Attorney General btw. And that, comrades, is when Varadkar decided to wade in to the pigpen and prove how pure he was by publishing his texts, thereby stabbing his fellow party member in the back. What a godawful mess.

I don’t know about you, but I do know this: everyone now knows, thanks to Varadkar, that everyone in government – except possible poor ol’ Eeyore Martin himself – that Zappone’s appointment was a fix. And here’s another thing I know: this government has got to go. The Irish people don’t deserve its horseshit.

To lighten the mood somewhat and to leave you feeling less like Eeyore and more happy and wonderful like Tigger, I’ve taken the liberty of rewriting Orwell’s seven Animal Farm commandments for the #MerrionGate era.

“The Seven Commandments After #MerrionGate:
Whatever goes upon two legs, wears a Blueshirt and publishes your private text messages to save his skin is an enemy.
Whatever goes upon four legs in a scramble to recover your legitimacy is a friend/ Attorney General.
No Merrion attendee shall face consequences.
No politician shall sleep with a free conscience.
No TD shall drink alcohol without first performing thorough damage limitations.
No Minister shall kill a story because it makes them look like a hypocrite.
All animals are equal, some are less equal depending on what they know or don’t know.”

Did that work? Any issues just complain to the relevant envoy. They’ll probably be inventing that any day now.

Terms & Conditions

I’ve a few conditions. I won’t list them today as then I would have to get into terms and I don’t want to be writing about terms and conditions.

But anyway one of the conditions I have is very bad. Absolutely chronic and although it’s not terminal for me, it can make other people around me feel as though something terminal is imminent for them.

I suppose, in a way, it’s quite a handy condition. There’s worse.

I’m not the only one who has RBF – it’s been written about before – but I’m not sure if it’s ever been pointed out by fellow sufferers that it’s a sneaky syndrome because it tends to interact with other afflictions. (RBF – that’s Resting Bitch Face, btw, is a chronic condition that flares up in me when I’m feeling a bit shite)

Unlike RBF, there is a clinical name for “feeling a bit shite” but I don’t care to use such terms when describing MY conditions.

There’s too many labels around these days I think. I go to bed for a while and shut up.

Usually, when I emerge from the bed and re-enter society I can be a bit green around the gills for a few days afterwards. In other words, I have a fierce bad case of RBF and if you didn’t know who I was and you passed me on the street you might say: “Jesus yer one looks miserable.”

You’d be half right.

Sometimes people cross the road my RBF is so bad. I can’t help it mostly.

Yesterday I went into town after a few days of Ts&Cs and I hit for the bookshop for a bit of retail therapy. It was a fine afternoon spent in one of my favourite shops browsing quietly and ignoring absolutely everybody except the books whose blurbs called to me. Trouble was too many of them started calling to me and I have only a finite bank balance so I went to pay before I let myself get tempted by yet another rogue tome.

Even in full health, I wouldn’t be known for my quick reflexes so when the nice man behind the till called “next please” I hesitated for a few seconds and a woman darted in front of me with a great welcome for herself.

And what a welcome. She was a loud type and I might have looked at her askance on account of it. Ok, I probably glared at her (accidentally) and she possibly felt the burn of my stare (even with the mask) like the branding of two hot coals on her back, because it suddenly dawned on her that she had skipped the queue.

“Oh dear I skipped the queue I think,” she breathed, all clammily chummily at the nice man behind the desk, “I can feel I’m getting daggers here!”

Well, I can tell you the RBF ramped up by about 500% when she came out with that. We RBF sufferers cannot stand passive aggression in any form.

The nice man told her she was “entitled” and, of course, she agreed. He meant it positively.

Not two metres away, I stabbed my PIN 1-2-3-4 on the cash machine, purchased my books, and left without looking at her purchase pile – probably self-help books; she looked the type.

I’ve no doubt she got a receipt.

One can never be too careful of the Ts&Cs.

United Ireland: are you mad? Not as mad as I am.

I’m just after half-watching a programme aired by our national broadcaster, here in the South of Ireland.

(I threw in that last bit to piss people off. You’ll have to excuse me if you are one of these people who gets pissed off by the phrase “South of Ireland” — it’s just that I don’t get out much these days so pissing people like your good selves off is one of my few social outlets. Anyway. I digress… Digressions, by the way, are another unfortunate by-product of my lockdown isolation, but I’ll try to keep those to a minimum too… Count yourselves lucky you don’t have to live with me. In my home in the South of Ireland.)

The reason I only half-watched the programme was I don’t really care about a United Ireland. This is because I am still relatively sane. The kind of people who want a united Ireland above all else are the kind of hopeless romantics who still watch Disney princess movies into adulthood. They are to be pitied and even feared. They are young and old, right-wing and left-wing, rich and poor. The only thing they have in common is they are all deluded by some kind of romantic notion of Irishness that never existed. As someone pointed out, the only time Ireland was ever united was when it was under British rule. Hah! I do love irony. Ever since we got the Brits half out, some of us have been obsessed with a naive, fairytale, W.B Yeats-style, Gaelic-speaking, tribal Ireland that is about as realistic as Tír na nOg.

I have other things to care about, such as whether I will ever get a job or whether I will ever be able to afford to rent a house/apartment. At the moment, I am unemployed — and believe me, it is not for lack of trying to get a job. A united Ireland is about as much use to me as a bicycle is to a fish. The lockdown really put a spanner in any of my attempts to get on the career ladder. Had I not done a Master’s, I might have qualified for the pandemic unemployment payment by now, and then I’d be raking in €350 a week for watching sitcoms on Netflix. But unfortunately, this pandemic couldn’t have come at a worse time, and my Master’s was cut short, and my career, or any semblance of it, was plunged into obscurity. I think the likelihood of me becoming financially independent might be possible by the time I’m thirty. It all depends on what the virus does — and, more importantly, what the government does. They ain’t doing a whole pile so far. They can either capitulate to the atavistic fringe element of romantic looney Gaels or they can pull their heads out of their arses and start implementing policies that serve Irish people. I’m sick of the political discourse in this country being dominated by Gerry Adams’s balaclava’d “antifa” — yeah, right; pull the other one — fanboys on one side, and neo-liberal shills who care only about maintaining the status quo and massaging each others’ egos on the other. The latter, by the way, are the reason our health and housing systems are fucked. We haven’t had a decent government in my lifetime, certainly.

Our country contains a multitude of people and perspectives — and not all of them are good. See above. Why the hell would we add the DUP into the mix for (Protestant) god’s sake? I think the Shinners sometimes forget that a so-called united Ireland would involve, by geographical necessity, the most ardent loyalists and Queen fans. (No, I’m not talking about the band here, sadly). The DUP have already told us they’re not a big fan of the whole united Ireland idea — probably because they are British, as they say. Why don’t we leave them to it? They have a right to be British if they really want to be — although someone should tell them that Geri Halliwell’s Union Jack mini-dress has not been considered remotely fashionable by anyone since, well, the day before she wore it.

To amalgamate, or “unite” two dysfunctional, disparate Irelands would be to undo all the progress that has been made since 1994. (Nothing to do with my being born, by the way. There was a ceasefire). Sinn Fein’s rhetoric of a united Ireland for the Irish people of tomorrow is nonsense; if I manage to retain what’s left of my marbles until the end of this lockdown I will be one of the Irish people of tomorrow, and what I want is a job, a house, good healthcare, to be able to provide for myself and my family, and go on a few adventures now and then. It seems like a lot to ask for when I see places stricken by famine, war, and poverty, but, Jesus, as Brian Lenihan once said, “We all partied.”

Tell that to the people living in hotels and on the streets in what is supposed to be a good country. As for me, it’s been so long since I was let out I don’t remember partying at all. Perhaps I’m coming down with the same type of amnesia as the United Irelanders. Ah well, the lucidity was nice while it lasted.

The news is making us miserable, edgy and tired

Ireland is a nation of moaners and whingers. If complaining was an Olympic sport, we would win gold every time.

Perhaps it’s the weather, or perhaps it’s a by-product of the years of societal oppression and joy repression courtesy of the Catholic Church – either way, we love a good whine. We are so good at it, in fact, that our infamous black humour is well-renowned all over the world. In that sense, we have achieved the impossible, turning a negative into a positive.

Whereas the Americans are almost annoyingly positive all the time, we Irish don’t have great expectations of ourselves or anyone else, which makes us relatable and even a bit loveable, like Eeyore.

Our national talent for never looking on the bright side of life, to paraphrase Monty Python, has stood to us recently as we endured lockdown in its various stages and levels of severity.

You’re miserable, edgy and tired. You’re in the perfect mood for journalism.

Warren Ellis

The news on Sunday night that Chief Medical Officer, Tony Holohan, was recommending a national Level 5 lockdown – that’s the one where you can hardly skim a stone – fairly put the kibosh on it all. The nation was stunned; we weren’t expecting such a strict lockdown so soon. Somebody on Twitter – where else – said that if Holohan really cared about public health he wouldn’t have delivered such a recommendation on a Sunday night, a time when most are highly strung thinking about the week ahead and what horrors it might bring.

Speaking personally, I tend to do most of my worrying from 8pm on a Sunday to 2am on a Monday, so I agree with part of the Tweeter’s statement. (As my nearest and dearests can attest, I don’t restrict my complaining hours; complaining is a 24-7-365 gig.) I would not be so negative, however, as to allege Holohan doesn’t care about public health. It’s kind of his job, and he seems a very empathetic sort. So, his heart is in the right place even if his call for a move to Level 5 was far too abrupt.

With Holohan cracking the whip, and anxious to avoid another strict lockdown, I decided to submerge myself neck-deep to wallow in that cesspit of negativity, Twitter. I read all of the takes – most of them miserable, for misery loves company. I only emerged periodically to rehash some of the takes I agreed with aloud to my parents, who seemed to be taking the news like a pair of slowly sinking stoics on the Titanic long ago. “Sure if we do go into Level 5, we do,” seemed to be their attitude. I looked at the dog to see if she might start a one-man orchestra, but she snored away oblivious. Lockdown means more walkies for her.

Some people, like me, seemed very critical of NPHET; others were critical of the people criticising NPHET. For a lot of bleeding-heart liberals criticising NPHET seems to be akin to killing puppies or eating Walker’s crisps – things you don’t do in Middle Ireland. I wondered did Tony Holohan and the Robin to his Batman, Ronan Glynn, suffer from vertigo such was the height of the pedestals they were being put on by many. On Sunday, I wasn’t particularly interested in reading about how fantastic NPHET is; I was in the depths of despair at the thought of going into Level 5. I was also enraged that most people thought NPHET were right – why aren’t these people complaining more, I asked myself.

On Monday, when the government decided to half-listen to NPHET’s advice and bring us all into Level 3 – an acceptable compromise – even more people joined the moan-fest. Smooth operator Leo Varadkar spoke to Claire Byrne on RTE about the government’s reasons for half-listening to NPHET. He was convincing, to a point, talking about the need to balance all public health interests, not just coronavirus, but he made a hypocrite of himself when he declared to Claire that NPHET members would never have to suffer the consequences of losing jobs under Level 5 restrictions. He also spoke about poverty, despite the fact his government continuously side with property owners over cash-strapped renters. (Not to complain, or digress too much, but I have been unemployed during Leo’s tenure as Taoiseach, and getting social welfare was like getting blood from a stone. To add insult to injury, there was no complaints department at the dole office.)

Uproar ensued because if there’s something Ireland loves as much as complaining, it’s a good fight. Over-caffeinated political correspondents typed feverish tweets claiming that the government was now at odds with NPHET, and there was no going back. They ignored, however, the fact that Varadkar said he has a very good working relationship with Holohan et. al. They just disagreed on the need to go into Level 5. I don’t know if it’s a hangover from silly season or what but manufacturing “a big split” between the government and a health advisory board in the middle of a pandemic is not a very nice thing for the Irish media to do. Especially as it isn’t true. Of course, everyone lapped it up, and soon it was as if Varadkar had literally stabbed Holohan in the back.

The whole thing turned into a soap opera with everyone shouting at each other while the pol corrs clapped their hands with glee. Normally I like pol corrs, but I think some of them desperately need a night off to attend the Abbey en masse when theatres re-open because they’ve forgotten what real theatre is supposed to be like. The public isn’t much better.

We need to stop complaining for once in our lives and take some personal responsibility for ourselves in our own situations. Cocoon if you need to. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Adhere to guidelines issued by epidemiologists (remember NPHET are not epidemiologists) as best you can. (Actually, this is more or less what Holohan said in a recent statement.)

Finally, a mention must go to Health Minister Stephen Donnelly’s response to a pol corr asking who would be responsible for further coronavirus deaths going forward. In a moment of pure, beautiful smart-arsery, Donnelly said, simply: “The virus is responsible.”

With public representatives like that is it any wonder we are the way we are?

Seeing the glass as half empty is more positive than seeing it as half full. Through such a lens the only choice is to pour more. That is righteous pessimism

Criss Jami, Killosophy
Watching the news in 2020 with a face on you like an otter eating a watermelon

Golfgate: they can’t swing this one

Golf is a mug’s game. Just ask Dara Calleary. His tenure as Minister for Agriculture was going fine for a few weeks until he agreed to go to an Oireachtas Golf Society event in Clifden the day after the government announced new measures prohibiting large gatherings.


Now, as we know, Calleary wasn’t the only government representative present flouting the rules – but his head was the largest to roll. Unlike his disgraced predecessor, Barry Cowen, Calleary resigned straight away. It was a case of jump, or be pushed. At this rate, Micheál Martin is going through more Ministers than Stalin. (At one point, Stalin also led a triumvirate government, but I think the comparison ends there. Martin doesn’t enjoy purging his Ministers.) It’s all terribly embarrassing for this ‘new’ government, but to be honest, nobody cares about their feelings anymore.

Public sympathy is thin on the ground for this crowd of, well, eejits, who didn’t pause to think about the consequences when they packed their polo-shirts into their overnight bags for a golf party in a hotel.


The blithe insistence of Calleary and other experienced politicians like Phil Hogan and Jerry Buttimer on flouting their own government’s rules shows an appalling lack of judgement. Did they not know they would be caught in the act? It’s difficult to look dignified in a bright pink Ralph Lauren shirt panting as you swing a golf club in the air hoping for the best. I am not sure whether the 81 people attending the event are guilty of arrogance or ignorance – or both. They might as well have written “there’s one rule for ye and another rule for us” on the new social distancing safety measures. What’s next, a cough in the face?


I know that these politicians are on holiday, but they have to obey the rules and be responsible citizens just like everyone else does. The virus doesn’t know the difference between people who eat in McDonald’s, wear tracksuits, and shop in Lidl and people who eat oysters at golf dinners and have large salaries. Your bank balance, your education, and your accent don’t really matter when you’re exposed to tiny molecules of a virus that can be very dangerous for many. Like most people, the men and women who attended the Golf Society event probably weren’t in the at-risk category and if they contracted the virus they would make a good recovery. We are annoyed about the hypocrisy. This is not about being a kill-joy – I’m delighted the pubs, cafes, and restaurants have begun to open again because I missed them sorely. It is about holding people in positions of power to account.


That EU Commissioner Phil Hogan had the audacity to blame the hotel at which the event was being held for not enforcing the measures just tells you how out of touch these people are.

https://twitter.com/PhilHoganEU/status/1296748599934685184

I wonder how many of the attendees had health insurance, and I wonder how many of the people working at the hotel have health insurance. Blaming low-paid hospitality workers for one’s own lapse in judgement is cowardly and morally reprehensible. When Phil Hogan made that statement, did he think of the workers? (Nah, he thought of his own neck on the block.) Many have been out of work due to the pandemic and are only returning now. They’re having to work twice as hard to make up for lost time and lost money; they are being taxed to the hilt for years to come because of the money we all lost during lockdown. We all have to make sacrifices – as NPHET keeps saying – and politicians are no different.

5 Reasons political correspondents deserve our love and understanding

Further to my recent ramblings on the fallibility of our politicians, I wish to add a special little article dedicated to that most controversial of journalistic professions. I’m but a babe, fresh out of journalism college, but even I can see that the job of Political Correspondent (or pol corrs, as they are known in the trade apparently) is a tough one.

Now, I’m not saying pol corrs are perfect, fabulous, wonderful people – that is a job for their long-suffering spouses. But it would be remiss of me if I didn’t jump in to defend them at a time when a lot of them have been criticised for feeling sorry for Éamon Ryan after he was outed on social media for sleeping during a vote.

So, here are 5 reasons why pol corrs deserve our love and understanding.

They NEVER sleep.

Unlike a lot of politicians, pol corrs don’t have the luxury of falling asleep in their chairs. They spend long hours in government buildings every day listening to politicians. And as we know from their media appearances, politicians are a noisy bunch; they speak out of turn, they shout at each other, they drone on and on and on and on about obscure pieces of legislation that, more often than not, nobody really cares about. It’s the pol corr’s job to sit in the uncomfortable press box all day and listen to these Dáil sittings just in case anyone says anything newsworthy. Or falls asleep, as Éamon Ryan did. (He isn’t the first to do so, and he certainly won’t be the last). Even if a poor sleepy pol corr was tired enough for a nap, they wouldn’t be able to sleep on the wooden benches in the press box. Perhaps it’s just as well. But it’s not just Dáil sittings, pol corrs are essentially like baby monitors for politicians; if there’s a hint of trouble or scandal you can bet everyone in the country is logging into Twitter to check what their fave pol corr is saying. This brings me to the next reason why the cratúrs deserve our understanding…

Their job is VERY competitive.

Perhaps the main reason pol corrs don’t sleep is politicians are so damn unpredictable. They have no discernible schedule for doing something idiotic. That, coupled with the 24-hour news-cycle (thank you, internet), means pol corrs are expected to be permanently on the ball waiting for whatever the next big political scoop is. They compete to tell us all the news like teacher’s pets in school, only the teachers in this scenario are newspaper editors, and the pets are, yeah, the pol corrs. Journalists are usually hoors for a bit of gossip so, in times of scandal, the sports desk, the culture desk, etc will be deserted in a newsroom as everyone gathers around some glee-ridden pol corr’s screen. After the scandal is reported, whichever lucky pol corr has been lucky enough to break the story will be inundated by tweets. A lot of these will be from fellow journalists congratulating them, but most of the buzz is generated by the public who can’t resist indulging their schadenfreude tendencies.

It’s thankless work.

You’d think that people might be more grateful – or at least more well-disposed towards political correspondents, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. These past few days I have noticed some pol corrs get almost as much abuse as the politicians they’ve been reporting on. We’ve been through how little sleep these guys and gals get, but despite the fact they probably get about five hours kip a night if they’re lucky, they are not lizards. They are human beings, and it is sometimes difficult to be both human and a journalist at the same time. The same goes for using Twitter, but that is another story for another day. It is natural for pol corrs, who have more insight into the lives of politicians than you or I, to sympathise with the plight of a disgraced politician. Expressing compassion for someone who falls asleep in the Dáil is not a hanging offence, as many would have it. It is simply a tired journalist expressing their valid view that sometimes politicians do dumb things. Take it from someone who has seen it all.

They have seen it all.

Senior pol corrs work very closely with government ministers, and lots of them have direct lines to people working in government. Don’t freak out; this is how news gets reported. But while they are close to politicians, pol corrs can never be too friendly as it is their job to hold politicians to account. This must be very strange for both the pol corrs and the politicians, but it’s a relationship that has evolved to work, however (dys)functionally over decades. A lot of the things pol corrs know to be true cannot be reported or released into the public domain for legal reasons. Ireland has very strict defamation laws, for instance. Pol corrs know the difference between rumour and journalism, and they are always very careful never to confuse the two. This cannot be said about some so-called civilian journalists who think they can do the job better than the pol corrs. Leave it to the professionals. They’re not biased; they just appreciate that good reporting takes time and deserves nuance.

They know stuff.

Do you remember the by-election of 1962 in West Clare when two sheep with a surfboard tried to get into the polling station causing national outrage? No? Well, there’s a good reason for that which I’m sure you can discern, dear reader, but humour me. I’m trying to make a point here. Pol corrs would remember that; they could tell you who was running, what number SPF sunscreen the sheep were wearing, how the people voted, what President de Valera said about the whole ordeal. (He said nothing about the sheep by the way, what a prude…) Pol corrs have an encyclopaedic knowledge of our political system. Not only do they understand the very intricate workings of the system, but they also understand the reasons why it is the way it is – ie complicated – and the psychology of the Irish electorate. Next time you are at a party with a pol corr, ask them to explain PR-STV to you and your guests. Hours of entertainment will be had. You’ll be nodding off into your vino faster than Éamon Ryan was a couple of days ago. Maybe then you’ll understand, which is exactly what the pol corr wanted all along…

That’s politics baby: politicians are human too.

Stop the presses. It may come as a surprise, but our elected representatives are only human. They mightn’t always show it, but every single one of our politicians – whether liked or loathed – has a soul, a family, feelings, and a reputation.

And politics is a profession that can seriously hurt all these. When Oscar Wilde said “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about,” he was not thinking of an Irish politician.

The first rule of Irish Backbenchers Club is you’re in deep doo-doo if your name is all over the news. Even the Taoiseach is probably happiest when ignored – although Micheál Martin does seem like an exceptionally sociable chap.

No, Irish politics, no matter what level you’re at, is a difficult system to work through. No matter how cynical one may be, we have all seen talented public representatives at work; they are usually in it to try and make the country a better place. Theirs is often a thankless job, and yet they persist.

They persist even as they see their fellow politicians, who may only be in it for the money, the glory (hah!), the prestige, progress on through party ranks to ascend right to the top. That’s not to say, however, that all senior politicians are money-grabbing envelope pushers. It depends on the person.

Some are in it for the power and the salary and some aren’t. I would hazard a guess that 50% are in it because they genuinely want to represent their chosen cohort of the Irish population – whether that’s anti-vaxxers or pro-higher-taxes, every voter’s interests need representing.

Not every politician’s policies are going to appeal to everybody. There are so many politicians I would never vote for because their positions on important issues are completely different from the stances I’d take. For instance, Jack Chambers, Fianna Fáil’s Chief Whip and Minister for Sport and the Gaeltacht. I’m mystified as to why a young man his age would be so vocally anti-choice; he campaigned against the repeal of the 8th amendment and he got quite an amount of hate online for doing so.

Well, he’s in government now and seems to be popular among conservative FF backbenchers – who are arguably a little suspicious of more liberal Micheál Martin, so people like myself who wouldn’t vote for him just have to suck it up. That’s how democracy works.

From other quarters, Sinn Féin’s Mary Lou McDonald and Michelle O’Neill were criticised heavily over their attendance at IRA member Bobby Storey’s funeral. On one level, they shouldn’t have been there because of the pandemic travel restrictions; on the other, they made people feel uncomfortable because they attended a terrorist’s funeral.

Mary Lou McDonald said she would have attended even if she was Taoiseach, which was a rare piece of honesty from a Shinner if you ask me. I see no problem in her attending Storey’s funeral; the two were good friends and it is normal to go to a friend’s funeral. (Whether it is normal to be friends with a terrorist is a question for another day and one which Sinn Féin seems intent on evading… not that most young people care, which is a bit worrying.)

Bobby Storey might have been a criminal to me and those who think as I do, but he was a person and a friend, and his death was sad for his family and friends. They deserve to mourn his loss with dignity.

Speaking of dignity, let us move not so swiftly, but definitely soberly, on to the case of Barry Cowen. Taoiseach Micheál Martin was shocked to discover his newly appointed Minister for Agriculture was banned for drink-driving a few years ago. Cowen, understandably eager to keep his job, was a bit slow to furnish the Taoiseach with the full details so, Martin sacked him.

Political journalists were having a field day on Twitter at Cowen’s expense to the extent that I kind of felt bad for him. I mean, I relate to a man who had a few pints but never bothered to get his proper drivers licence far more than I relate to some of the holier-than-thou Greens who like lecturing us about compost heaps and eating beef.

I mean, feck off!

There are some relatable Greens though, not least, Éamon Ryan, the party leader who is hanging on to that title by a hair. Rather hilariously, Ryan fell asleep during a voting call on a bill proposed by the Soc Dems on increasing the living wage.

A piece of video footage, which was like something written by the writers of The Thick of It, showed Éamon being called by Jack Chambers several times, before he eventually woke with a big sheepish grin on him.

Ryan, like Cowen, was widely condemned by everyone. It seems no voter in this country has ever made a mistake, and poor Éamon must be wrecked what with the new ministerial portfolio and his leadership of the Greens being contested by Catherine Martin – who was wide awake by the way.

The thing is Ryan voted against the motion to increase the living wage, which was ironic because he was asleep on the job himself. Irate tweeters were quick to point out the hypocrisy of him earning €100,000 while the workers he was supposed to be representing might be lucky to earn a quarter of that.

The lesson there for Éamon is if you’re going to have an accidental nap, at least have the decency to vote for a wage increase, man.

The lesson for Jack Chambers is to let sleeping Éamons lie for jaysus’s sake.

In the scheme of things, dodgy friends, bad driving, and sleeping on the job are sins a lot of people are guilty of. Is it right that we hold our politicians to such impossibly high standards? They can’t maintain them as we have learned time and time again. It isn’t doing anybody any good getting outraged every time one of them fucks up so why don’t we give them a break?

Yes, holding our elected representatives to account is important, but why can’t we do that on polling day instead of bitching about it after the fact? Politicians themselves are also the biggest mud-slingers of us all; the lefties hate the centrists and the Shinners hate the Blueshirts and on and on it goes.

Perhaps it’s futile for me to wonder why we can’t all just agree to disagree. It’s just not in our nature. As Dwight Schrute from the US Office said: “That’s politics, baby!”