The Eighty-Five Billion Euro Man

by Donal Conaty

  ‘Right,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘All that remains is to decide what position to give Paddy.’

  ‘Ah come off it, Taoiseach, you can't appoint Paddy to a post,’ Mr Gilmore said.

  The Taoiseach looked hurt and offended. ‘Why not, Mr Gilmore?’ he asked. ‘I might make him Tánaiste instead of you.’

  ‘You could all right,’ said Mr Gilmore angrily. ‘If he existed.’

  Mr Kenny looked extremely upset. ‘Paddy exists,’ he cried. ‘Paddy is real.’

  Fortunately Mr Gilmore realised his mistake and made a good recovery. ‘I meant if he existed as a TD. If only Paddy had a seat, he would make a marvellous minister.’

  We were about to leave work later that evening when the new Minister for Finance, Michael Noonan, stormed into the Taoiseach's office in a fury. He was not happy with having to share his department with Brendan Howlin. Mr Kenny looked scared and he kept a chair between him and the Finance Minister, just in case Mr Noonan attacked. ‘What do you think you're doing cutting my department in half?’ he demanded as he attempted to grab the Taoiseach by the scruff of the neck.

  ‘I can do what I like. I'm the Taoiseach,’ said Mr Kenny nervously, pointing to his badge.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Noonan. ‘You are the Taoiseach. But watch your step, Enda, because I've had Taoisigh bigger than you for breakfast.’

  Something about the way he said it made me think he meant it literally.

  Mr Noonan turned to leave, glaring at Dermot and me as he walked to the door. He stopped in front of Dermot, fixed him with an unsettling gaze and suddenly did the gnawing action of a rat like Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs. ‘Don't cross me, bucko,’ he said, poking Dermot in the chest. Poor Dermot needed sedatives after that and the Taoiseach decided that the security arrangements for his office should be reviewed.

  A couple of days later Dermot and Mr Kenny were discussing the appointment of junior ministers.

  ‘Fifteen sounds about right, don't you think?’ said Dermot.

  ‘But I promised the people I would only appoint twelve,’ said the Taoiseach.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dermot. ‘That's why you must appoint fifteen.’

  ‘I don't understand,’ said Mr Kenny.

  ‘Don't worry, Taoiseach. Allow me to explain,’ said Dermot. ‘These are difficult times are they not?’

  The Taoiseach looked at Dermot for guidance and then guessed the right answer. ‘Eh, yes,’ he said.

  ‘And in these difficult times the public's expectations must be kept in check,’ Dermot continued. ‘You mustn't give the people false hope, Taoiseach. If you start keeping election promises now they will expect you to honour all of your promises. They will expect you to achieve all of your goals. What sort of government would do that, Taoiseach?’

  ‘A good government?’ This time the Taoiseach guessed incorrectly.

  ‘No, Taoiseach,’ said Dermot. ‘A fantasy government would do that. The government of Cloud Cuckoo Land. It has never happened and it never will.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Taoiseach.

  ‘Good,’ said Dermot. ‘Taoiseach, your role is to manage the expectations of the people of Ireland. It is vital that you keep those expectations low. You can do it Taoiseach. You are good at it. After all no one ever thought you would amount to anything, did they?’

  ‘No,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘They didn't. Apart from Paddy. Paddy always believed in me.

  NINE

  PADDY WANTS A

  BETTER BAILOUT

  The two new Ministers for Finance couldn't have been more different. The actual Finance Minister, Michael Noonan, or Dr Lecter as Dermot called him, arrived first. Of course we had already had dealings with Michael Noonan in the Taoiseach's office but his formal arrival in the Department of Finance was a more managed affair. An advance nurse came to the office first to make sure our slippers had arrived and that we were wearing them. Fine Gael HQ had informed us that we would have to wear slippers in the office at all times as Mr Noonan hated to be woken unexpectedly. So it was no surprise that he was asleep when he was wheeled in by two more nurses.

  ‘Are all phones on silent?’ one of the nurses whispered. Liam, Dermot and I nodded in unison. Dermot had persuaded the new Taoiseach that he should return to the Department of Finance to help the new ministers acclimatise. Although Dermot had had no time for Liam in the past, they now appeared to be almost joined at the hip. The pair seemed to be constantly conspiring and giggling.

  All mobile phones were indeed on silent and the land-lines had been fitted with lights that flashed for incoming calls.

  ‘If anything should cause him to wake suddenly, don't loosen his ties until he calms down. Usually a nice cup of tea with one sugar and some buttered Rich Tea biscuits will soothe him. He often drifts off again after that,’ one of the nurses told Liam.

  Liam looked at the slumbering figure of the Minister for Finance as his head lolled to one side and he dribbled saliva on his shoulder. He was snoring steadily but, strangely, his eyes were wide open.

  ‘Jaysus, his eyes are open. How do you know he's asleep?’ Liam asked the nurse nervously.

  ‘Oh, don't mind his eyes,’ the nurse said. ‘They're always open. There are two ways to know if he is awake. If Mr Noonan wakes calmly, his snoring gradually becomes quite erratic until he wakes and asks for biscuits. If he wakes suddenly, he will be confused and agitated and he will try to kill you.’

  Minister Howlin couldn't have been a greater contrast. He came skipping into the room, sat in a swivel chair and spun around several times, his short legs swinging freely as he did so. ‘Have you a camera phone?’ he asked me. ‘Take a picture of me.’

  ‘Shh,’ we all said in unison but it was too late. Mr Noonan sat upright in his chair, fixed his eyes on Mr Howlin, put his hands out as though to strangle him and said: ‘I am going to kill you, ya little upstart.’

  ‘You're after waking him up,’ Dermot remonstrated with Mr Howlin, but the new minister couldn't have cared less.

  ‘Somebody give the old fool a biscuit,’ he said.

  Liam approached Mr Noonan tentatively with two buttered Rich Tea biscuits and a cup of tea. Mr Noonan glared at him but grudgingly accepted the offering.

  There was a general air of relief in the room at how well Liam's first dealings with the new minister had gone but it was short lived. Liam was walking over to Dermot and me with a broad triumphant smile when Mr Noonan's cup hit him on the side of the head, cutting his ear. ‘This is not butter, ya fucking eejit,’ Mr Noonan bellowed.

  I got Liam a tissue to stem the flow of blood from his ear as Dermot attempted to placate Mr Noonan. ‘Now Minister,’ Dermot said. ‘These are difficult times. That spread has 5 per cent butter. That is the best we can afford in the current circumstances.’

  ‘Lenihan had Jammie Dodgers. I want proper butter,’ Mr Noonan bellowed. ‘I bet he had his biscuits buttered on both sides too.’

  ‘Those were different times, Mr Noonan. Mr Lenihan lived beyond the country's means. I am sure you don't want to do that, do you?’ Dermot responded soothingly.

  ‘I want proper bu ... ’ Mr Noonan began, but he abruptly started snoring as he fell asleep as suddenly as he had woken.

  Dermot sent a visibly shaken Liam for a lie down and then turned his attention to Mr Howlin, the Minister for Public Expenditure and Reform.

  ‘So, Mr Howlin, you are the Minister for Spending,’ he said. ‘How nice for you. Weir's have the summer Rolex range in if you are interested.’

  ‘Spending and Reform,’ Mr Howlin corrected as he spun ever faster on his chair. ‘I spend but you pay. Your civil servants won't like that.’

  ‘Ah, Minister,’ he said. ‘I am quite sure my erstwhile colleagues will be only delighted to be reformed. Will it hurt? Should they fast for twenty-four hours beforehand?’

  ‘You may be sure it will hurt,’ Mr Howlin said. ‘But you shouldn't be here, should you? You're a TD now, shouldn't you be on a junket somewhere?’r />
  ‘The junkets will have to wait Minister. I am helping the Taoiseach adapt to the pressures of government. One of the things he has kindly asked me to do is to act as liaison between you and the civil servants you are so eager to reform. Won't that be nice?’

  Minister Howlin stood on his seat, puffed up his chest and rose to his full height. ‘You'd better not interfere with my reforms, Dermot Mulhearn. Don't stand in the way of Hurricane Howlin!’

  ‘I wouldn't dream of it, Minister,’ Dermot assured him. ‘Please don't huff and puff and blow our house down.’

  Mollified, Minister Howlin sat back in his seat and attempted to reach the desk beside it.

  ‘Does this seat not go any higher?’ the Minister asked as he desperately struggled to reach the desk.

  ‘That's not your seat or your desk, Minister,’ Dermot said. ‘When we found out that both you and Minister Noonan would be joining us, we commissioned matching furniture for you. Yours is the same as his in every detail but three quarters the size.’

  Dermot and I left the Minister skipping around the office, stealing pens and generally making a nuisance of himself, and went to check on Liam's well-being. He was resting in the Senior Civil Servants’ Recreation Room.

  ‘That was quite alarming,’ Liam said. ‘The new minister is volatile, isn't he?’

  ‘Oh, you should have seen Bertie's rages,’ said Dermot. ‘They were a force of nature, truly awesome to behold. Noonan is nothing by comparison.’

  ‘Well I wish you were still here to handle him,’ Liam said.

  Dermot shot Liam a look of disdain. ‘Pull yourself together, Liam,’ he said. ‘To all intents and purposes you are the Chief of Staff of the Department of Finance. It is time you started acting like one. Michael Noonan will not present us with any problems. All you have to do is gain the trust of his nurses and get them to adjust his medications as you see fit. That shouldn't be too much of a chore now, should it?’

  ‘No, Dermot,’ said Liam.

  ‘That's more like it,’ said Dermot. ‘Now start acting like a Chief of Staff. Go shopping. Have a nice long lunch somewhere. Order yourself a new car.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Liam.

  As Liam opened the door of the Recreation Room to leave, Minister Howlin fell flat on his face on the floor in front of us. He had clearly been jumping up in an attempt to reach the door handle.

  ‘What's going on in here?’ the Minister asked as he picked himself up off the ground. ‘What sort of conspiring and conniving are ye up to?’

  ‘Now, Minister,’ Dermot said. ‘This room is for senior civil servants only. I am afraid you can't come in. The unions wouldn't like it. You won't be able to reform the civil service if they are all out on strike.’

  ‘I'll do what I like,’ Mr Howlin said as he left. ‘If you have a room like this, I want one too.’

  ‘Of course, Minister,’ Liam said. ‘I shall immediately put the construction of a ministerial recreation room out to tender.’

  ‘It's him we have to watch, not Noonan,’ Dermot said, thinking aloud. ‘That little shit actually thinks he is going to reform the civil service. That is what happens when you give someone a job they're not expecting to get – unrealistic expectations.’

  The following morning Dermot and I flew to Brussels with the Taoiseach for a meeting of the European Council. The Taoiseach was still very wary of Mr Noonan and made Dermot promise not to tell him or Mr Howlin that we were travelling to Brussels with him. ‘The less they know the better,’ the Taoiseach said. ‘Noonan is terrible for holding a grudge.’

  Dermot and the Taoiseach spent the entire flight in earnest conversation. I heard snippets of the discussion as I sat immediately behind them with Paddy.

  ‘You have to show them who's the boss, Taoiseach,’ I heard Dermot saying.

  ‘I do?’ asked the Taoiseach.

  ‘You do,’ Dermot replied.

  ‘Dermot,’ said the Taoiseach, ‘who is the boss?’

  ‘You're the boss Taoiseach,’ Dermot said patiently.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the Taoiseach. ‘I keep forgetting. It's all happened so fast.’ He turned to face behind him and winked at Paddy. ‘Paddy has to remind me several times a day, don't you Paddy? I'd be lost without you.’

  ‘You're a great man, Paddy,’ Dermot said to the empty seat beside me. ‘So, Taoiseach, do you know what to say?’

  The Taoiseach looked out the window for a moment, composed his thoughts and replied. ‘We want to burn the bondholders,’ he said. ‘We have inherited a mess that is not of our making. We want the EU and the ECB to lower the interest rate on the bailout.’

  ‘Very good, Taoiseach,’ said Dermot.

  ‘And Paddy can't come in?’ the Taoiseach asked.

  ‘It would be better if he didn't,’ said Dermot. ‘It would be better if you don't mention him at all, Taoiseach. Keep things simple for Monsieur Sarkozy. He is a simple man.’

  President Nicolas Sarkozy of France and Chancellor Angela Merkel of Germany sought the Taoiseach out at the summit to offer their congratulations on his triumph in the Irish general election.

  ‘Enda, mon brave, congratulations on becoming Taoiseach of your bankrupt little country. You must be very proud,’ President Sarkozy said generously.

  The Taoiseach patted the diminutive French president on the head. ‘By God, you're small,’ he said. ‘I have a toy Finance Minister at home who is bigger than you – and he's tiny.’

  Before Mr Sarkozy could respond to the unexpected insult, Mr Kenny turned his attention to the German Chancellor. ‘Ms Merkel,’ he said with all the confidence he could muster, ‘Paddy wants a better bailout.’

  Dermot raised his eyebrows and glanced at me uneasily. Ms Merkel exchanged a bemused look with Mr Sarkozy. It seemed Mr Kenny's nerves had got the better of him. Faced with the daunting task of standing up to the German and French leaders he had forgotten Dermot's advice and reverted to relying on Paddy. Instead of being firm he was being cocky and offensive.

  ‘Paddy can - how do you say? - fuck off,’ said Monsieur Sarkozy. ‘And you can fuck off with him.’

  Ms Merkel was the calmer of the two European leaders. ‘We have given you billions and angered our electorates by doing so,’ she said. ‘If Paddy wants a better bailout, Paddy has to give something in return.’

  The Taoiseach paused for a moment to consult with his imaginary friend. ‘As a Mayo man I pride myself on being a canny negotiator,’ he said eventually. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your corporate tax rate,’ Ms Merkel replied.

  The Taoiseach considered his options. ‘Would you settle for Achill Island?’ he asked.

  ‘Don't be ridiculous, Enda,’ Ms Merkel said. ‘We already have all the good bits of Achill.’

  ‘I promised the good people of Ireland that I would never surrender our corporate tax rate,’ the Taoiseach said. ‘It is very dear to the hearts of the Irish people. Ever since Fionn MacCumhaill hunted on the plains of Royal Meath we have been proud of our ability to facilitate tax dodging by international companies. It is part of who we are.’

  ‘Enda, who cares about Fionn MacCumhaill? The fact is you're broke.’ Ms Merkel said. ‘I am sure the good people of Ireland are no different from the good people of Germany or France – they don't believe their politicians’ promises, do they?’

  ‘I suppose not, Angela,’ the Taoiseach said. ‘May I call you Angela?’

  ‘No, Enda, you may not,’ said Ms Merkel, and she turned her back to Mr Kenny.

  We had a post-mortem on the flight back to Dublin.

  ‘Well that didn't go according to plan, did it?’ Dermot said.

  ‘There was a plan?’ I asked.

  ‘Don't be a bore,’ said Dermot. ‘Of course there was a plan. Enda was supposed to be resolute and not for turning, like Mrs Thatcher.’

  ‘I think you may have been expecting a bit much from him,’ I said as I glanced at the Taoiseach who had confided to me on the way to the airport in Brussels that
he wasn't sure if he wanted to be Taoiseach any more.

  ‘Well what do you think we should have done, clever clogs?’ Dermot asked me.

  I sighed. How often had I tried to get him to read the Memorandum of Understanding before it was signed? ‘All you can do now is soldier on,’ I said. ‘If you are fortunate, and the Portuguese are not, Portugal will apply for a bailout.’ There's strength in numbers. You never know, they might even employ someone who can negotiate for you as well as them.’

  ‘Don't be bitchy,’ said Dermot. ‘You might be right though. It might be time for Portugal to get a bailout.’

  Morale was sinking ever lower in the Department since Minister Howlin's arrival. He somehow managed to offend every civil servant he came across. He blatantly stole snacks off people's desks and openly threatened the staff with reform if they so much as looked at him. Several clerical officers took to stooping when they walked past him, as they feared being reformed if they appeared taller than the Minister.

  Dermot was right – Mr Noonan turned out to be much more manageable than Mr Howlin. In general, he was very subdued, although he did have an annoying habit of throwing chalk at people he thought were talking in class. On one occasion he caught me on the cheek with a piece of chalk as I discussed the quarterly review on Skype with Ajai.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Ajai asked.

  ‘Oh, it's just the Finance Minister,’ I replied. ‘He was a teacher before he became a politician and apparently he used to throw chalk at pupils to get their attention.’

  Ajai looked momentarily confused. ‘So,’ he said. ‘We're going to be there next week for the review. What should I expect to find?’

  ‘It's a mixed bag, Mr Chopra,’ I said. ‘They have been quite enthusiastic about cutting services but they somehow generate costs while doing it.’

  ‘How is that possible?’ Ajai looked irritated.

  ‘I don't know; it's like a gift they have, a sleight of hand that introduces two costs while cutting one. By the time you track down the offending cost and eliminate it they have generated two more. Two weeks ago they agreed to move a section of the Revenue Commissioners to cheaper offices. It created a saving of €230,000 a year. Then they gave all the staff involved €10,000 each and three days’ extra annual leave for the inconvenience of having to move to an office around the corner. I have it all documented. I think they just find it difficult to change old habits.’