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The Chassis underneath the Stasis
It’s a couple of years since I observed somewhere or other that, if Enda Kenny chose to have an election in the springtime of 2016, he would fight it not against Micheál Martin and Gerry Adams but against Pádraig Pearse and Joseph Mary Plunkett. So it has come to pass, although this meaning of the outcome, like most of the others, has been overlooked or fudged in the moronic cacophony of the pol corrs, who have managed to achieve a quite astonishing feat of anti-journalism by reducing an unprecedented moment in Irish politics to a succession of quasi-routine news days. I had been hoping to stay out of it. Having deliberately abstained from voting for the first time, and for the most part reading and listening to nothing but the dogs’ and street-criers’ accounts of the fallout through my open window, I imagined the whole thing would be over by now and we restored to our normal state of non-government by showroom dummies. When I heard the outline of the outcome – some five weeks’ since, at the time of writing – I immediately perceived that the arithmetic presented an insoluble conundrum for virtually every one of the 158 freshly-elected deputies, not to mention those we laughably call leaders. What has astonished me (somewhat) is that almost nobody mentions the impossibility of the arithmetic. Most of the commentary since February 27th appears to have consisted in speculations, hints and musings about likely alliances, ‘exclusive’ information about possible seductions, lists of demands and breathless whispers of phone calls and texts, all delivered well into April as if it were still February. But there is no possibility – other than a theoretical one – of a workable government being formed out of the present Dáil arithmetic. This is so obvious that we should be deeply concerned by the fact that it has not become conventional wisdom and given rise to the rather urgent question: what now? When the pol corrs have not been talking up the talks about talks aimed at a minority administration of Fianna Fáil or Fine Gael supported by the other, or a National Government of the two, they have been murmuring about the feasibility of various permutations of independents and others in conjunction with either FF or FG. But it must surely be obvious that this latter category of administration is conceivable only at the most theoretical and abstracted level of conjecture, since it would require the harmonic incorporation of between half-a-dozen and a dozen discrete and differently-minded entities (imagine a menagerie of wildcats, badgers, rats, ferrets, foxes and, sitting in the middle calling for order, Willie O’Dea). Since most of the swollen ranks of the raggle-taggle technicolour brigade have been elected on the basis of either local grievances or broader anti-austerity platforms, no government dependent on their continued concurrence could hope to last anything more than a few weeks. The first time a contentious issue cropped up, the mavericks would be tripping over one another to be first out of the door. In the old days, mavericks were simply bought off, but those days are gone. There are far too many, and what would the IMF say? And in case you have not already guessed this from the track records of those predicting it, there never was the slightest prospect of a National Government. Fine Gael, having peddled a localised relapse of the Celtic Tiger as a national ‘recovery’, is hoist on its own rhetorical petard: it cannot now claim that conditions exist for the declaration of a national emergency. A minority government of either of the theoretical options is almost equally improbable. Two words: Tallaght Strategy. The dismal political fate this phrase invited upon the head of its architect, Alan Dukes, speaks to us of the perils of statesmanship in a context where Darwinian principles obtain. Nearly three decades ago, Dukes thought to gain himself a place in history by doing the decent thing and placing the national interest before party-political advantage, supporting the then minority Fianna Fáil government in a programme of austerity that would have made Claire Daly choke on her own fulminations. Perhaps Dukes foresaw the electorate rewarding his selflessness, or perhaps he had a more Machiavellian intention, but in any event history records the electorate as computing something to the effect that martyrs should seek their rewards in the next life. Fine Gael failed to cash in and Dukes became political toast. Kenny and Martin may not be Pearse and Plunkett, but they didn’t get where they are today without functioning memories and finely tuned instincts for the meaning of past events in the present. Neither of them wants to end up like Dukes, wandering the post-political landscape, the lost soul of a former contender. This is why all the continuing talk of ‘horse-trading’ is simply smokescreen: they must SEEM to be trying to form a government, but both of them know that, whichever of them ended up supporting a minority government led by the other would have signed his own political death warrant. There is, in other words, no horse. The abortive Fine Gael proposal for a “partnership government”, rejected as Village was going to press, was no more than an attempt to deny the result of the election. Any such arrangement would amount, in effect, to the nullification of electoral contests, since it would mean that in future any number of parties and candidates could engage in all kinds of debates and disagreements during an election campaign in the knowledge that, once the election was over, they were free to carve up the cake between them as though nothing had been said and nothing had occurred. The idea of a ‘rotating Taoiseach’ amounts to a satire on the office: why not – as an alternative to two periods of 30 months – simply have a night shift and a day shift on an alternating weekly basis? I have never been one for attributing a mind to the electorate. We