Leaders of Irish empire gather at Farmleigh
But as the family silver twinkled beneath the glistening chandeliers, who would have guessed the lavish ceremony had began in such desperate circumstances?
The lonely heart ad had read: “Small country, beautiful but down on its luck, seeks rich suitor, preferably Irish descent, for good times, maybe more...”
And how the would-be romancers had flowed to Phoenix Park to embrace the bosom of the auld country.
The nervous groom, Brian Cowen, appeared distracted as he prepared to greet the guests. He was clearly anxious to get down to business and the big issue — jobs.
Any jobs, a new shoe shop assistant’s job in Kildare, just something to justify the €300,000 he’d got the taxpayer to plough into this no expense spared event.
It was billed as the summit of the Irish Empire — business royalty representing the 70 million souls across the globe for whom this island is forever emerald.
The sumptuous surroundings of Farmleigh was intended to send an electric convulsion of “synergy” through their ranks as they mingled in “break-out groups” and forged a dynamic path to recovery for the Republic amidst priceless tapestries and antique objects d’art.
All had gathered in the magnificent ballroom, its ceiling dominated by three enormous chandeliers whose crystal caught the sunlight perfectly and dappled those below with its delightful beams.
The room hushed, the Taoiseach was about to welcome them, then a voice boomed out: “The toilets are situated in the conservatory and at the end of the hall...”
Oh dear, not quite the start one hoped for, but at least it was more to the point than the Taoiseach’s actual contribution, which was a string of cliché held together with a poor delivery.
“Blah, blah, blah one hundred thousand welcomes, blah, blah blah, innovation, blah, blah, blah, tough choices…”
Imagine if he had actually stunned everyone and told the truth: “Lads, help me out here, I’ve blown enough on this gig to keep John O’Donoghue in luxury freebie holidays for the rest of his life! I’m desperately trying to make it look as if I care about mass unemployment — even though we’re virtually the only nation in the western world not to put a jobs stimulus into place. Throw me a bone here for Jaysus sack lads! C’mon boys, I need a dig out.”
And just in case Mr Cowen was not his usual Prince Charming personified, he had back-up in the form of tour de force Tánaiste Mary Coughlan.
She was obviously meant as the light entertainment for the event, as she was billed as leading discussions on the smart economy.
This, just a day after she attributed Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution to Albert Einstein.
The assembled press had hoped for some kind of classic calamity Coughlan explanation for this sadly not untypical faux pas, like: “Of course I know who Charles Darwin is — he invented the light bulb, didn’t he?”
But sadly, she was not allowed to talk, and unlike other ministers, was denied the chance to walk through the delightful grounds and instead unloaded right outside the Farmleigh steps.
As her black Mercedes swept down the driveway, her dry cleaning was cleary visible hanging in the back window. Classy.
Bob Geldof tried to be diplomatic as he left, but you could tell he was not that impressed when he spoke for the nation and dismissed all politicians (and journalists) as “scum”.
Ever eloquent, he described the behind closed doors discussions as at times “brutal”, yet wondered what real outcome, if any, would emerge.
He then mused on how Ireland was now as depressing and inward looking as when he wrote about its banana republic tendencies three decades ago.
Wistfully lamenting the return of those times, he bemoaned the fact the boom had illicited “a brief moment of vulgarity” in the country which ran counter to its core beliefs.
Labour leader Eamon Gilmore was also reflective when he left the conference of billionaires and business giants, as he jokingly mused: “I was certainly the poorest one in there.”
So was it a back-slap fest, or the real deal? Asked for the 10 new big ideas to emerge from the day, press handlers were lost for words. Maybe choosing the beef over fresh salmon at the executive buffet counts as a decision?
Less than a mile away, the new poor and the wretched queue in their hundreds for bread line handouts from the Capuchin monastery in Smithfield — will this lavish love-in ever touch their pitiful lives?
