The Burke Ethic

I have answered in relation to my accounts and I have no intention of answering further.
I m not getting into the question of other contributions now.
I have no intention of getting into the figure.
I m not going down that road with the deputy.
Ah yes, another day of full and frank disclosure in Oireachtas Eireann. Last week, the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Ray Burke, bared his soul to Leinster House about the #30,000 cash donation he received from a building firm in 1989. His performance was nothing less than a three-hanky melodrama in which at least the tears, if not the answers, flowed freely.
Resentfully, bitterly, Burke threw up his statement to the Dail like it was a sickness, spitting and hacking it out between great coughing sobs. The gist of his oration was that he was an excellent fellow whom the business community were morally obliged to support financially, no favours asked or granted, and that the rest of us were a low-down mob of insolent curs for even suspecting that there might be anything untoward in the relationship.
Throughout, Burke demonstrated his consummate ringcraft; he filibustered like a pro, quoting from Fine Gael evidence to the Beef Tribunal and the transcript of the De Rossa libel trial, reading out letters from journalists, answering questions that he wasn t asked. When he did address the issue, his every comment came wrapped in the flannel of pedantic verbosity.
In an inspired move, Burke diminished the magnitude of the 30 grand contribution by constantly referring to it as a sub . He was, I assume, using the term as an abbreviation for subscription but he was well aware that, back here on Planet Earth, a sub has other, more prosaic connotations; to ordinary citizens, a sub is an advance on wages, a little something to tide you over til Friday and keep you in essentials like sliced pans and pints of porter.
I m being judged by 1997 rules for a contribution that was received in 1989 when there were no rules in place, he proclaimed, heaving the quivering musculature of his face into what he supposed was a grimace of pained resilience. Ah, sure, way back then, the country was little more than an uncivilised wilderness.
Repeatedly, Burke warned the other members of the Dail that the candour of his statement about his financial affairs was setting an unfortunate precedent that they would all live to regret. He had been the victim of unsubstantiated charges from every crank in Christendom. He was reluctantly answering these charges now only to reassure the public and, in particular, my constituents that I have done nothing wrong.
Every time, he used the word media , Burke pronounced it with the effect of somebody picking something distasteful up by the corner between thumb and forefinger.
I have been the subject of allegations, innuendo, he declared, with a spontaneous stab of the finger in the air that he d probably been rehearsing for weeks. I have been accused of everything other than starting the Chicago fire and being involved in the shooting of Michael Collins in the last couple of weeks.
Soundbite delivered, Ray paused for a moment and stared off into the distance with a faraway, almost visionary look that he knew would carry well on the evening news. Ray likes meaningful pauses. He should be careful, though. The pauses during the question-and-answer session were so long, so stilted and so common that I believe the estate of Samuel Beckett would have a very good case if they sued for plagiarism.
There may be a bloodlust today for my neck, but who will it be next week? he asked portentously at one point, glaring around like a man who knew something damaging about everyone in the room.
But you could see that his colleagues, on all sides of the House, felt that the point was well made. A red flag had just been waved in front of the horns of their fevered little egos. The comic-book thought bubbles were almost visible above their heads: He s right! We will not be subjected to a Spanish Inquisition.
Perhaps this is why their questioning of Burke was so feeble and diffused.
The opposition shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Their faces fell and seemed to smash in a rubble of folds and wrinkles at the base of their chins. The fires had been extinguished, the heat had gone. Roasting old Ray wasn t going to be the fun they d hoped it would be.
These guys just don t get it, do they? Our TDs can no longer afford the luxury of sulking or feeling sorry for themselves. Sympathy for their difficult plight is a depleted resource. We are tired of being straws blown hither and thither in the flatus issuing from the anuses (anii? Ed.) of politicians. We are tired of being treated like gombeens.
The entire political profession now raises a stench in the public nostril, and they have no-one to blame for this but themselves. The routine acceptance of enormous cash donations from vested interests has coarsened and corrupted the political system. Nobody trusts them any more.
As far as most citizens are concerned, the definition of a straight politician is a politician who hasn t been caught yet. This is grossly unfair, of course, but it s entirely just. Getting annoyed about it is like getting annoyed about gravity. That s just the way it is and there s nothing anyone can do about it.
The only thing the electorate now wants to see is justice taking its course. If a few sensitive feathers have to be ruffled along the way, then tough titty.
Bertie Ahern has seen his popularity boosted in the wake of the McCracken Tribunal, not because he is an especially noble or stirring leader but because he has given the distinct impression that he is prepared to be the first Taoiseach to actively strive for the jailing of politicians who can be proven to have engaged in illegal activities of any kind. If he reneges on that covenant, his popularity will vanish like yesterday s snowfall.
Bertie knows this. That s why he kept his head bowed like a sleeping drunk while Hambo whined like a chainsaw about having to reply to all these offensive and intrusive inquiries.
Ray Burke insists that he has done nothing wrong and, thus far, there is no evidence that he has. But we would be even bigger fools than the political establishment already think we are if we didn t have our suspicions.
Towards the end of Ray Burke s exercise in soul-baring, he began to blubber. He had been extremely tense and nervous throughout the whole 90 minutes but when he started to talk about how media accusations had tarnished the memory of his late father, Paddy Burke (also a TD), he lost it altogether and began to cry. His voice cracked several times and he frequently dabbed beneath his glasses with a handkerchief.
Now, perhaps I m just a callous bastard with a heart of pure granite, but whenever I see a politician weep in public I am seized by an uncontrollable urge to laugh like a hyena at a tickling festival.
Politicians are inveterate publicity stuntmen and jacks of all parades. They barely breathe a breath without calculating its electoral implications and how it will play back in the constituency. With that in mind, I personally find it impossible to take their displays of raw emotion without the aid of a large saltmine.
If Ray Burke was crying for anyone, it was for himself. Twelve minutes (I counted) after he had broken down in the Dail chamber, Burke was schmoozing in the Visitors Bar, glass in hand. He was surrounded by Fianna Fail deputies who were queuing up to slap him on the back and congratulate him. n