‘Matters have been distorted, to create an ugly, black caricature of the man I am’

HE left office as he had lived it – detached from reality and gilt wrapped in grandeur. For a man so used to gold- plated service at the taxpayers’ expense, John O’Donoghue proved well able to serve himself when he needed to.

Bombastic and powerful as it was, his speech dripped with self pity, injured pride and partial memory loss.

It was the day they dragged old Johnny down, and he wanted the House to be forever haunted by the echo of his final, furious denial of wrongdoing.

His speech switched repeatedly between its twin masters: rewriting history and seeking revenge against Eamon Gilmore. The latter given added piquancy by the chamber’s random topography, leaving the Labour leader and the Ceann Comhairle facing each other directly across the floor like gun slingers engaged in a lethal shoot-out.

Mr Gilmore looked uncomfortable as O’Donoghue returned again and again to accusations that Labour denied him a fair hearing by tabling a no-confidence motion.

In the real world this means he wasn’t allowed the chance to dispute a couple of minor receipts from his €700,000 wanderlust bill to the taxpayer in front of a secret cabal of deputies at an Oireachtas committee he chairs.

At times his hands shook with rage as he stared accusingly at Mr Gilmore, but his half hour of hubris could be distilled down into “the guidelines made me do it” and “we were all in the same trough: why me?”.

The wave of attacks on Mr Gilmore drew broad smirks from the Government front bench as the collective noun for the cabinet became a Smugness of Ministers.

Mr O’Donoghue concluded he had been laid low by “weakness, not menace”. He insisted he had done so much for an ungrateful nation – he didn’t quite invoke the L’Oreal defence, but that’s what he meant: “700 grand? Because I’m worth it.”

No mention of the five-star trips to Melbourne and Paris that just happened to coincide with glittering race meetings. No real apology for the arrogance of elitist entitlement he came to symbolise. No acceptance that that is why he had to go.

As he resumed his seat, strong applause from the FF benches saw Mr Gilmore momentarily ponder his position before joining in, though an attempted standing ovation by Beverly Flynn left her out on a limb once more.

The mid-afternoon melodrama proved too much for many deputies, who used a 15-minute break to revive themselves in the private members’ bar. Mary Coughlan summed up FF’s view regarding the verbal assault on Gilmore in typically eloquent style on her way in: “It was a kick in the goolies,” she told Senator David Norris. For the next hour as the Dáil was left Speakerless, the Ceann Comhairle’s robes lay folded and draped across the office holder’s chair. For FF it might as well have been the crime scene chalk outline of a slain hero’s body, for voters it symbolised the vacuousness of a body politic that continually treats them with contempt.

Seamus Kirk was then elected Speaker – not because he is the best man to restore the reputation of parliament and dispel its sleaze-splattered hue, but because he is FF chairman and will be automatically returned in a tough five-seater.

It was an act of cynicism redolent of our times, coming just days after the unfocused and uncosted new blueprint for Government failed to make Fianna Fáil and the Greens look re-energised or re-mandated.

Instead, it saw the coalition partners clinging on to one another like two drunks staggering along the road trying desperately to prevent each other from smashing down on to the pavement – and being forced to endure the voters’ wrath.

As drawn out and undignified as it was, O’Donoghue’s forced departure has given the Dáil the chance to shed its “in office: out of touch” image. But yesterday’s events do not inspire confidence that change will be either swift or radical.

The Bull’s career is dead – the bullshit isn’t.