Biggest George since Best enters the Dáil

THE tingle of anticipation was electric. He would soon be among us – the biggest George since Best, the best George since the dragon – surely, Ireland would never be the same again.

Those in the gathering crowds wondered how the magnificent Mr Lee would make his fabled entrance into Leinster House. Would he just descend from the sky? Would he gallop towards it on a sturdy white stallion with his raised sword of truth glistening in the sunshine?

Or, like Moses, would he be found in a reed basket wrapped in swaddling clothes by the banks of the Liffey before leading us all to the Promised Land of counter cyclical endogenous growth theory?

In the end, there was no parting of the Red Sea for the starting of the Blue shirt, but a garda did order all vehicular activity on Kildare St to cease.

Then the cry from the multitude went up: “He’s at the gates! He’s at the gates!” Dublin South’s chosen one – the only regret being that the pond was at the back of Leinster House and he would not be able to walk across the water towards us. The FG parliamentary party had gathered to greet him and all but laid palms ahead of him as he rode in upon what they saw as the ass that is Government economic policy.

He was no longer just George, he was John, Paul, George and Ringo all rolled into one – well, maybe Enda was more Ringo, but you get the idea – and the photographers engulfed him, touching the hem of his garment (a natty pinstripe number) as he lit up their lenses.

“Look behind you!” one shouted, Enda seemed startled, perhaps fearing the call was intended for him and a knife had already been plunged into the back of his leadership by the young upstart.

But no, all eyes were still on George, even the vibrant hues of Olivia Mitchell’s radioactive tan could not compete for attention as George announced he wanted to make things better. Yes! He would heal us! It is the sixth day since George’s ascension into the Dáil and his re-ordering of heaven and Earth – on the seventh day he must surely rest.

Now Mr Lee is firmly ensconced as the strife of Brian, the Taoiseach is clearly in no mood to join the adoration, perhaps musing to himself: “He is not the Messiah, he’s just a very haughty boy.”