by Simon Bourke
The car was the same as all the others; dark in colour, of German origin; but this one was flanked by four motorbikes. And, for those who doubted the occupant’s importance, a pair of squad cars bringing up the rear, just in case.
It drew to a halt and out he came, emerging from the back-seat to dazzling white light and the sound of camera shutters clicking ten to the dozen. “Over here, over here,” they shouted, phones hovering above their heads, determined to capture the moment and relive it for eternity.
He waved deferentially and made his way to the media scrum. Microphones were shoved in his direction, the lights became more intense. The star attraction was finally here. “Do you not feel the cold?” one reporter asked, in reference to his attire; shirt and tie, suit jacket cast lazily over his shoulder as if out for a stroll on a mid-summer’s eve. “Not at all,” he replied, impervious to such trifling things as the weather.
And with that he was gone, sauntering inside to greet more fans, to press more flesh, to leave more admirers in awe.
If Monday night’s leaders’ debate was judged on entrances alone then An Taoiseach would have won at a canter. The man who entered the Concert Hall at the University of Limerick was far removed from the downcast figure we have become accustomed to in recent months.
Momentarily imbued with the spirit of Cary Grant, of James Dean, or any matinee idol from Hollywood’s golden age, our leader had suddenly, at this late stage in the game, acquired some sex appeal. I know, crazy isn’t it? But this was a new Enda, an Enda that women wanted to be with and men just wanted to be. A bad boy. The only thing that would have made his arrival badder were if he’d climbed down from one of the motorbikes himself, dressed in leather, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.
Was this flippant attitude a sign of things to come, a precursor for a night of foul-mouthed missives and lecherous jibes?
Well, no, not really.
Instead, at least in Enda’s case, we got exactly what we expected: Tiresome mantras, pomposity and the latest round of bickering with partner-in-crime, Michéal Martin.
An Taoiseach ended this chilliest of nights wearing even fewer clothes than he’d arrived in, having proved himself to be all mouth and very little trousers. Ably abetted by faithful lapdog, Joan Burton, he took the art of talking without actually saying anything to new heights, his rehearsed rhetoric now so familiar that those at home could join in, reciting the lines word for word in joyless unison.
And yet, despite this lukewarm performance, and those which preceded it, Enda Kenny will, in all likelihood, remain at the helm of Irish government come the end of the month. The public will have spoken and will have gotten what they wanted.
It brings to mind an ordinary looking bloke, with an ordinary job, and an ordinary car who just happens to have an incredibly attractive girlfriend. We see him there, the country’s fate in his hands, and we ask ourselves: “How did he manage that? How did this bland, thoroughly unremarkable man fool a nation not once, but twice?”
For those of you still in search of an answer, hang round the entrance at his next public appearance. It’s a sight to behold.
