by Donal Conaty
‘I don't think I've met him,’ I said.
‘Oh you'd know if you had,’ Mr Cowen said. ‘He likes to sing and tell jokes too, but he never joins in when I'm singing. He just watches and waits. If he wants my job that badly he should bloody well ask for it.’
Mr Cowen turned around to pick up his drink and I took the opportunity to ask him if he thought the bailout would work and that the Irish economy would recover. ‘Of course it will,’ he said. ‘We are where we are but we'll be where we'll be when we get there. Obviously, we're after going backwards but the brakes have been applied and going backwards has been brought to a halt. We'll be going forward now going forward. It has to be acknowledged that forward is better than backwards. Forward is the future and backwards is the past. Onwards and upwards, eh? Do you know any songs?’
Confused, I left him singing on his own and went back to the party. The Minister for Finance grabbed me as I entered the room. ‘I bet you can't guess when I'm spoofing?’ he said to me, breathlessly.
He backed me up against a wall and started making wildly contradictory statements. ‘You'll never guess,’ he said.
It was a strange party trick but there's no denying he was good at it. Neither I nor the people who joined us were able to tell the difference between when he was spoofing and when he was telling the truth. Unfortunately neither was he.
‘It's his great gift as a politician,’ Dermot told me. ‘He has no idea when he is telling the truth and he has no idea that he has no idea when he is telling the truth.’
‘I noticed that he sheds a solitary tear every time he mentions the word “Ireland”,’ I said.
‘I taught him that,’ Dermot said proudly. ‘Great, isn't it? Works wonders on the plain people of Ireland. They lap it up.’
It was only as I walked back to the hotel that I remembered I had promised Dermot I would do the Department of Finance reports for Ajai for him. Oh well. I was pretty sure they wouldn't be done otherwise.
There were extraordinary scenes in the office the following morning. Everyone was in on time, quietly sitting at their desks, glued to their monitors. They appeared to be somberly working away. Could it be that the reality of their country's situation had dawned on them? Had they realised their mistake in not bothering to negotiate and letting the ECB back them into a corner on defaulting? It wasn't too late. I approached Dermot.
‘You know,’ I said. ‘At the first review the IMF would be quite happy to support you if you wanted to default on the banks. That is provided you adhere to our ... I mean your ... budgetary strategy.’
Dermot looked at me blankly.
‘How could you? How could you talk about money at a time like this?’ he said indignantly, and his eyes returned to the screen.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Has there been some terrible tragedy? Has the Government fallen?’
‘Government? Your priorities are shot. It's Leslie Nielsen. He's dead.’
I've always liked Leslie Nielsen but he clearly didn't mean as much to me as he did to the Irish civil service. As I went from desk to desk I saw that all the staff were reading the news of Leslie Nielsen's demise and not working as I had naively assumed.
Suddenly, Dermot stood to his full height and addressed his staff in a grave tone I hadn't heard him use before. ‘Leslie Nielsen would not want us to be sad,’ he said. ‘He dedicated his life to farce, and we must honour that.’
‘Liam,’ he said to one of his assistants, who jumped to attention, ‘phone Mitchell's and get them to deliver champagne without delay. Charge it to our account. It must be here when I come back from the bathroom. Tom, get some inflight magazines and Nurofen Plus. Seán, call all the other departments. Tell them to cancel their meetings and divert all calls. We're having a wake!’
The Chiefs of Staff of every government department attended the wake, including David Mulcahy, the head of the Department of Justice who I had walloped the other day during the march. He was very good about it I have to say. He gave me a bear hug and congratulated me warmly on my appointment. It was revealing to see all the department heads together. They clearly all shared the same expensive taste in clothes and accessories but there was also an obvious hierarchy. As the Chiefs of Staff of what were considered the two most important departments of government, Dermot and Mulcahy were deferred to on all matters by their colleagues.
I had a lot of paperwork to do so I left the senior civil servants to their ‘mourning’ and got on with my work – making sure that their country could be governed efficiently and effectively on budget. Every now and again I looked up and saw them gathered in small groups, gesticulating wildly and waving inflight magazines in the air. I couldn't see what they were doing but I could hear frenzied shouts.
‘Can you fly this plane and land it?’ I heard Dermot shout.
‘Surely you can't be serious?’ someone else in the group replied.
‘I am serious ... and don't call me Shirley,’ Dermot yelled, causing uproarious laughter among the group.
I'm not sure that I will ever acclimatise to this country.
I went for a quiet drink on my own after work. I needed some respite from the madness and wanted to break the monotony of another night alone in the hotel. I didn't speak to anyone as I nursed my drink but I overheard a conversation about the IMF, the bailout and the European Union. People here really are furious with the Government for squandering the illusion of wealth that they had promoted for so long. Just before I left to go back to the hotel the conversation shifted to discussing the snow that was still falling steadily outside. This presented another opportunity to be angry with the Government. People here, I was beginning to realise, could be angry with the Government over pretty much anything.
Back at the hotel Dermot had left a note inviting me to join him for dinner. I couldn't face it, so I phoned him and explained that I had an important call with Ajai scheduled.
‘Booooorrrrriiiiinnngg,’ Dermot bellowed down the phone.
‘Needs must,’ I replied.
I lay in bed and watched I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. It would solve a few problems if I could introduce evictions in the Department of Finance. Then, as I flicked through the channels I came across an Irish version of The Apprentice. I hope Ajai never gets to see it. Judging by the contestants, it could be a long time before we get our money back.
On Friday I once again found myself working alone in the Department of Finance. The Budget was due to be delivered on the following Tuesday and there was plenty of work to be done before it was published. Despite this everyone had gone Christmas shopping. It's a tradition, apparently.
‘That's our money they're spending,’ Ajai said when I told him on Skype.
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but if it's any consolation they probably spend a lot less when they're shopping than they do when they're “working”.’
‘Did Dermot go shopping too?’ Ajai asked.
‘Errr.’
‘Don't you know where he is? You're supposed to be keeping track of him.’
‘I know where he is, Mr Chopra,’ I said. ‘He went to a rugby match in Wales. He and one of the junior ministers took the government jet.’
‘Are you serious?’ said Ajai.
‘I know. I'm sorry,’ I said. ‘I couldn't go with him. Somebody has to prepare this damn Budget.’
Ajai hung up.
I worked through the weekend making sure that the Budget would indeed meet its target of frontloading €6 billion of savings for the exchequer. I had to phone Dermot from time to time to clarify some of the items of spending. He came back from the rugby on Saturday morning but he was not happy as Leinster had only managed a draw with Scarlets.
‘Isn't a draw away from home a good result?’ I asked him.
‘Oh, I suppose it is for Leinster,’ he said. ‘But it's rather dull for me.’
After my third call to him, he told me not to disturb him again.
‘I'm having an X Factor evening,’ he explained. ‘This cou
ld be Mary's last night. You're welcome to join us.’
I declined his offer and looked again at the Budget submitted by the Department of Education. The information was sketchy at best – it was a one-page document. Spending was divided into three areas: Staff, Buildings and Stuff. I googled the Department of Education and then I remembered that the Minister was the woman who scared the living daylights out of me at the England-not-getting-the-World-Cup party. I noticed I had started to sweat ever so slightly. I thought about asking her for a more detailed budget submission, then I put my head in my hands and decided I should avoid any further communication with her at all costs. I approved her budget in full without considering whether it had made any savings. If necessary, savings would have to be found elsewhere.
I was just about to leave when Dermot phoned. He was quite emotional.
‘Mary's out of the X Factor,’ he said. ‘They shafted her. Bloody Brits. Eight hundred years of oppression and now this! I think we should cancel the Budget as a mark of respect.’
‘I don't think Ajai would approve,’ I said. ‘He's not a big fan of the X Factor.’
I was surprised to see everyone in the office again when I arrived the next morning. They were all hyped up about the Budget and some of them had gathered around my desk to look admiringly at the document.
‘Are you really going to cut ministerial pay?’ one of the clerical officers asked. ‘You won't get any directorships,’ he warned me.
Dermot arrived with the Finance Minister in tow.
‘Did you do all this from scratch?’ Dermot asked.
‘How else would I do it?’
‘We usually just take a bit of Tipp-ex to last year's one and change the numbers around a bit, but each to their own.’ He turned to face the Minister. ‘What do you think, Minister? Is this what the good old days were like?’
‘I'd say it is surely,’ the Finance Minister replied with great certainty and fervour.
‘What good old days?’ I asked.
‘You know,’ Dermot winked at me. ‘The good old days. When the British were in charge and we had nothing to do and all day to do it.’
He tapped the heavy document with his index finger and looked me in the eye. ‘Is there anything I need to know?’ he asked.
‘You could always read it,’ I said.
Dermot laughed a hollow laugh. ‘There's nothing I would rather do,’ he said. ‘But there simply isn't the time. So spill the beans, why don't you?’
‘There are no big surprises,’ I said, ‘though I did slash your salary.’
‘Did you indeed? My wife will be very upset with you.’
‘Aren't you?’ I asked.
‘Not at all. I'm amused. She gets my salary. I live on my expenses.’
I was joking when I said I'd cut his salary, but Dermot was deadly serious.
The next morning was Budget day and the office was tense with anticipation. We walked to the Dáil with the Minister carrying the Budget document and Dermot's coat. On the way they introduced me to a strange-looking man who shook my hand vigorously but didn't speak English or any language I could understand.
‘Who was that?’ I asked when he had left.
‘That was Jackie Healy-Rae,’ Dermot told me,‘a man who will have more influence on this year's Budget than the IMF and the EU combined.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ I said crossly. I had worked hard on the Budget and was feeling tired and a bit underappreciated.
‘We'll see,’ said Dermot.
I had to marvel at the way the Minister delivered the Budget as though he wasn't reading it for the first time. It is undoubtedly a talent that he can speak with such authority on subjects he doesn't understand. ‘You should have met his father,’ Dermot said. ‘The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.’
I was so familiar with the Minister's words – after all, I wrote them – that I began to drift off, but I soon came back to my senses when I realised they had dropped a zero on my adjustment to ministerial salaries. Suddenly I was completely alert, conscious that Dermot might have made major changes to the savings in the Budget. In the end he had not adjusted it by much. He had, however, looked after the politicians and the senior civil servants. I made a mental note to be more vigilant.
We went for a few drinks that night to celebrate the Budget being well received (albeit grudgingly). I left early but Dermot told me the next day that a few of them went to withdraw money from a cash machine and it kept giving them more than they had asked for.
‘You should have stayed with us,’ he said. ‘You could have made a few quid.’
Naturally he was disgusted to hear on the news later that all of the money given out incorrectly by Bank of Ireland cash machines would have to be repaid.
‘It's so unfair,’ he said. ‘They gave us the money! Why should we pay it back?’
‘Why indeed?’ I said.
A few hours later Dermot came over to my desk shadow boxing, ducking and weaving. ‘The gloves are off,’ he said, as he made a seamless transition from boxing to karate and performed an elaborate Jackie Chan manouevre on my Greek yoghurt, which splurted all over my desk and my keyboard.
‘What are you talking about now, Dermot?’ I asked as I rescued some documents from around my desk.
‘The Taoiseach put the boot in. There's no one better when he's riled. We're on an election footing.’
‘We?’ I asked.
‘Yes, we,’ he said. ‘Sure aren't we all in this together?’
It seems that the politicians had a bit of a falling out and the bailout is going to go to a vote in the Dáil next Wednesday. This sort of thing happens wherever we go. We tend to indulge it as it never affects the bottom line. It's important to maintain the appearance of business as usual while people digest the fact that the IMF are now in charge of their finances. At the end of the day, when we come in there's no getting rid of us. Still, as a matter of course Ajai decided to withhold our approval of the bailout until after the Irish politicians had voted. The look on Dermot's face when I told him was priceless.
‘You're withholding the money? Are you mad?’ he said, aghast.
‘You ask for our help then have a vote on whether or not to accept it? Are you mad?’ I replied. I was enjoying the conversation.
‘But that's just politics,’ he said. ‘You know what politicians are like. It's not as if they're going to vote against it.’
‘I'm sure they won't,’ I said. ‘But, as you like to say: you're playing senior hurling now.’
I laughed, but Dermot didn't. I think I might have ruined his afternoon.
‘Anyway, what are you giving out to me for?’ I waved the business section of the newspaper at him. ‘You approved those AIB bonuses. When were you planning to tell me about them? Ajai is fuming.’
‘Now that's below the belt,’ he said. ‘Some of those poor unfortunates lost their second homes in the property bubble. The bonuses give them a chance to get back on their feet. That will be good for everyone in the long run.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, just to annoy him. ‘I'm going to get a sandwich.’
When I came back I found the words ‘Fuck the IMF I've a horse outside’ scrawled on my desk. I had no idea what it meant but I knew that the backlash had begun. Dermot was all over me, promising to find the culprit.
‘There will be a full investigation I assure you,’ he said.
‘Don't bother, Dermot. It's fine,’ I said.
I knew it was his handwriting, and he knew I knew. I sent an email to all the staff detailing what the stabling, feed and veterinary costs of keeping a horse amount to. Such luxuries would be beyond the reach of any Irish civil servant in the future, I guaranteed them. That was bound to annoy him.
Of course, the vote on the bailout passed in the Dáil and our executive board approved the billions for Ireland. Unfortunately I had to accept a couple of extravagant arrangements for the support of some independent TDs. Ajai wouldn't like them but that seems to be how business is
done here.
Later that very day I caught Dermot and the Finance Minister rifling through my desk. They were utterly brazen.
‘The bailout money – where is it?’ Dermot demanded when he saw me.
‘We itemise all requirements and then you draw it down,’ I explained slowly for the hundredth time.
‘But it's the weekend,’ the Finance Minister said.
‘No it isn't. It's Wednesday,’ I told him.
‘Never mind what day it is,’ Dermot said. ‘What if we give you Noel Dempsey's seat in Meath? You'd be sure to be elected on the first count. The people love the IMF. You can do no wrong.’
I shook my head. I was never sure when Dermot was joking.
‘Why don't I just buy you boys a drink instead?’ I suggested.
That seemed to placate them.
I had a few drinks with them and then went back to the hotel to get some sleep. Ajai Skyped me in the middle of the night.
‘What the hell is “Jackie the Redeemer”?’ he asked.
I groaned inwardly. ‘It's a statue of Jackie Healy-Rae,’ I explained. ‘He's an independent TD in Kerry. He voted with the Government to help pass the bailout package in the Dáil.’
‘That idiot? I saw him on the news when I was there. I thought he wanted a hospital,’ Ajai said.
‘He does, and a university and a statue of himself overlooking the lakes of Killarney modelled on Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro. If it's any consolation I think he was joking about the university.’
‘Never mind the university,’ Ajai said. ‘Is the statue in Rio gold-plated?’
‘No, Ajai, it's not. But it doesn't have a flat cap either. He insisted his cap has to be gold-plated and the statue has to be bigger than Christ the Redeemer.’
Ajai groaned; somewhere in Africa a finance minister suffered a heart attack.
I decided to get all the bad news over with.
‘We also had to OK a casino modelled on Sun City to be built in some backwater in Tipperary,’ I told him.
‘At least casinos generate income,’ Ajai said. ‘Any good news?’
‘Not really, Mr Chopra,’ I said. ‘Every day there's a new crisis. It was bank bonuses yesterday and whether or not there would be enough grit to deal with the latest snow storm today. I suppose these things keep them occupied while I try to balance their books.’
