Draw Breath

Well, so much has been written on Irish blogs about last week's election, with (amongst some dross) more excellent analyses than I could name here, marvellous titles and downright bitterness. And then there was the spectacular logistical and technical achievements of the Irish Election blog and Politics.ie (noticed across the Atlantic too).

Anyway, I really didn't have a huge emotional investment on the election: I wasn't particularly supporting any team, though the team I supported second-least won (more on the team I supported least below). I'm not convinced that a FG-Labour victory would have made an enormous difference to the country, even if I'm with Simon McGarr in thinking that 17 years out of 20 is more than enough for any political party, even if they are Ireland's version of Congress. And, despite what I said before, I do sometimes wonder what would happen if someone leaked photos of Bertie eating a puppy with one hand and personally poisoning our water with the other: Taoiseach for life, I'd say.

So, I'm neither pleased nor displeased in party disposition terms. That said, I do think that the history of the 29^th Dáil can tell us some highly discouraging things about the one we're about to have.

Here's an exercise for you: putting aside your viewpoint on their particular merits, think about the (sort of) landmark initiatives that the Oireachtas enacted since 2002. What can you think of? Here's my list:

• the Criminal Justice Act 2006 (though how landmark it is is open to question),
• the Garda Reserve,
• the Central Bank and Financial Services Authority of Ireland Act 2003,
• the centralisation of the country's arcane health system and the establishment of the Health Service Executive under the 2004 Health Act,
• the Disability Act 2005,
• the smoking ban and finally
• the decentralisation programme.

I can't think of anything else. The National Development Plan was enacted in 2000, so bulldozing ancient sites doesn't count. I know a list like this will inevitably be bizarre, but correct me if you think I've left anything out.

Two things strike me about this list though: first is the strange fact that a lot of the initiatives came from the Department of Health and Children, which had hitherto been an almost entirely fire-fighting department. The second is the number of Acts that were either initiated or brought through by the Progressive Democrats. The Central Bank and Financial Services Authority of Ireland Act and the Smoking Ban were largely Fíanna Fáil affairs, and the health service reforms were also kicked off by Mícheal Martin (who was simply a good health minister). Decentralisation was drowned at FF's parish pump.

Every other action I can think of was down to the PDs.

I don't think I'm being too mean in saying that everyone else had, um, a pretty responsive approach to government.

And this brings me to one conclusion about governance in Ireland. FF under Bertie is no longer a party of action. I'm not making a particularly bold statement in saying that the party lacks any ideological drivers, but I think it's a bit more than that. I think, like Bertie, the party is a bit lazy. Hence the sleaze for one thing: people are morally lazy.

But they're legislatively lazy too: there is very little appetite for making full use of government, even on the occasions when there some sense of what government might be used to do.

As a result, the ideologues get to run large parts of the show. For the PDs this was great news. McDowell obviously enjoyed being Justice Minister (a post designed for loons no matter who's in power). And I think that Harney was, even if I regard some of the reforms to be objectionable, continuing very important work in trying reconstruct the health service almost entirely, despite significant resistance.

Given this, what beckons for the next Dáil? If it's a FF+PD+independents, my guess would be: not much. The PDs are decimated and will be lucky to get one ministry. And even if they do, they'll be facing a FF behemoth that is electorally fat and happy. The independents will be satisfied with the odd filled pothole, interpretive centre and hospital. So what are they going to do after they abolish stamp duty (I'm waiting with baited breath on that one)? What will happen then?

I suspect we'll have a period of quiet government, waiting for the crises to come their way. Think Dubya without 9/11.

Of course, that might be better than some of these people having ideas.

…a trip to Mount Argus.

Apparently Charles (sadly not Charles J.) used his saintly magic to cure "perforated, gangrenous appendicitis with generalized peritonitis that was multi-organically compromising and included extenuating and prolonged agony."

I can't find out whether the miraculous cure took place in the 19^th Century, in which case I'd hazard a kidney-stone, or in the last number of years, in which case my guess might get me sued (and what a fun case that would be). But there you have it. At least people will be vaguely social democratic and polite where I'm going.

Update: The crucial cure apparently took place in 1999. Lots of witnesses, so the conspiracy to defraud theory is probably not wise. Still, let's just say that I'll take a shrug of the shoulders and "it's just one of those strange things" over an imaginary friend theory any day.

My polling card for the General Election arrived today. I was all the more glad to receive it when I saw that the address area comprised my name, the apartment block and Dublin. No street. Funnily enough, the copious amount of election literature coming through the postbox has, in every case not only arrived correctly addressed, but also in duplicate.

I'm in New England now. Boston is, um, somewhat cooler than Dallas, much to everyone's shock and surprise. I'm hanging around with Mel and we're both heading for a little work in New Hampshire in a little while.

Sarah Carey's latest Sunday Tribune column is well worth the read. I'm not particularly surprised at the line the High Court took – it seems like a fairly simple reading of the Constitution. But it does make a total nonsense of the equality indirectly granted to the unborn (by virtue of the clause on the 'equal rights of the mother'). That was always going to be nonsense but the D case simply casts the profound mess that it is into stark relief.

At the same time, I've more sympathy with politicians who are avoiding the issue. Putting this foolishness in the Constitution was divisive enough. Imagine the bitterness that would ensue from trying to remove it.

As is so often the case in politics, and much though politicians hate to say it, recognising the dimensions of a problem is not the same as formulating a solution. With this one, my guess is that we're stuck fast.

Haruki Murakami’s book of short stories, Blind Willow Sleeping Woman is making for fascinating reading. Oddly enough, there is strong cinematic potential to the stories despite the fact that a lot is left unspoken.

In the introduction to the book, Murakami compares writing novels to planting a forest, but writing short stories to planting a garden. He says that though writing a short story is a relatively quick process, revisions can be endless. This is echoed by the writer Claire Keegan in the Irish Times Saturday Weekend supplement this week, where she says that she could re-draft a single short story 30 times. Does this mean that the short story writing process is harder than the novel? if so, should we rank the quality of a short story higher than a novel?

Another morning in Texas. I still can't get used to the scale of the place. In some ways these low density towns seem like a terrible waste of resources (and fuel) and in other ways, well, they give a rather nice sense of dislocation from European towns.

Greetings from Texas. I got in at all hours last night on the first part of a whistlestop tour of the US. Off to Boston over the weekend and then to Washington DC.

As always, the people here are wonderful and friendly. I only hope I don't bewilder them when I deliver a short paper tomorrow on the Parades Commission (being rewritten now in the light of this week's events).

Just one thing: reading Martin McGuinness's speech in yesterday's Irish Times, I noticed that the transcript, as is also the case on the BBC, has him beginning "I am proud to stand here today as an Irish republican who believes absolutely in a united Ireland."

But listen to the speech (you can listen to all the speeches here). What McGuinness actually said was that he "believes in the unity of Ireland." Which is a very different thing, symptomatic of Sinn Féin's slight shift from a united Ireland policy to an all-Ireland policy.

And it's very welcome. Nothing like the recognition that politics is the art of the possible to actually develop a politics that works.

As I said over a year ago in my Blogspot incarnation, I'm an advocate for NHS reform (though without an entirely thought-out position of my own). I'm glad to see that the BMA has a new report advocating some reforms. I'll have to read more than the executive summary, but my instinct is that a return to 'core' values and services is a good idea. I'm more sceptical about independence for the service, or at least about how that can be realised without replacing current problems with new ones.

Still, it's gratifying to see a stab at good strategic thinking.

Via the BBC.

Poor old Bertie. It's been quite a week for him: a fouled up announcement of the election (whatever happened to the Council of State?) to the rising controversy over his finances to Vincent Browne's spectacular grilling (and put-down of P.J. Mara) at the Fíanna Fáil manifesto launch to the PD's self-serving ('vote for me: I'm not with stupid!') wobble and subsequent statement.

What's happening to him? There's a reason Bertie has been Taoiseach for ten years and that's that he is a smart and sophisticated politician. This week has been precisely the opposite of that.

My suspicion is that we ought to take pause before condemning him outright, however. Which isn't by way of endorsement. I simply think that we need to view and judge Bertie in the context of his personal situation and given what we know about Irish politics at the time when all the financial dealings went through.

First, he obviously had some severe domestic troubles, as so many politicians do. His marriage fell apart and he was likely in financial dire straits as a result. Political marriages are just that: political. If you're in politics and your partner has another hobby, then things are likely to get rough for you both. So, let's just say that we should feel for people whose private lives are in chaos.

Then there's the money. Well, of course we don't know the ins and outs of this, but here's a guess.

There are obviously degrees of corruption in Irish politics. We can pretty much know, for instance, that Haughey, when he took gifts, probably didn't give outright favours in return. He simply regarded himself as a man deserving of large cash gifts from wealthy friends.

Then there are others who were engaged in more classically corrupt activities, such as, in the opinion of the Second Interim report of the Flood Tribunal (pdf),¹ Ray Burke.

And where does Bertie sit in all this? Well, I'm not with United Irelander in thinking they're all a shower of crooks (though the tax man might be twitching his moustache). Rather I think that Bertie was probably in financial difficulties in the wake of a marriage breakdown, and also in a situation where monetary largesse was flowing around those on the political and social inside track. And he took the gift. Probably, if my guess (and this is all only guesswork) is right, without Haughey's preening sense of natural entitlement.

Not that this means we ought not to judge him. Or that what he seems to have done is not open to judgement. On the contrary. But it strikes me about Bertie (and has done for a long time) that he's less corrupt and more morally lazy. He took the gift(s?) because it provided an easy route out of a difficult situation. And, given the political environment at the time, he probably did so more or less thoughtlessly

The problem is that ethics have a price. Most often they take work and sacrifice. In 1980s Fíanna Fáil political circles, they had a financial price too.

I hope that if I was ever in the situation I wouldn't take the gift. But, though I can hope, I'll never actually know.

¹ See Chap. 4.02-4.11; 4.78. For background on the flood tribunal see good old Wikipedia.