An increasingly irrelevant Dáil threatens the purpose of democracy

KO-KO and Pooh-Bah were the only courtiers who mattered in Titipu. Ko-Ko was the Lord High Executioner, the most important member of the court. He had an unfortunate background, having been taken from the county jail to be elevated to his high position.

Pooh-Bah was the Lord High Everything Else. They both served the Mikado loyally, despite that personage’s rather odd temperament, and of course both owed their status in the Court to him.

The Mikado was a Gilbert and Sullivan skit, of course — their take on the pomposity of court life. There were hidden messages in the operetta, too. Ko-Ko, despite his status, wasn’t much use to anyone unless he could find someone to execute and Pooh-Bah spends most of the play dropping hints about what he would be willing to do in return for, well, a bribe.

Courts were worth satirising in those days. In many ways, they still are. You can see the pompous relics of what the British court used to looked like every year at the opening of parliament in Westminster: Black Rod banging on the locked door of the Commons, bishops and judges wearing silly coats that look like frocks, everyone who can fit into a wig looking as foolish as they can.

All the ancient courts had them. Chamberlains, viziers, grand viziers, ladies in waiting, gentlemen of the bedchamber — the lot. Many courts had concubines too, and were often served by indispensable eunuchs. There were courts where great learning was necessary to get to the top, but in many cases, flattery and sycophancy was the way to get on, and conspiracy and intrigue the way to stay there.

But at least these are all hangovers from ancient history. Courtiers have no recognisable place in a modern democracy. That sort of stuff is reserved for the monarchies of old, when status depended on title, when patronage was always in the gift of the king, when hundreds of loyal courtiers knew that obedience to the monarch was the way to maintain your position. Thank God all that stuff is gone now.

Except, of course, in Ireland. We must now be unique in the world: a functioning parliamentary democracy whose parliament, instead of belonging to the people, resembles an ancient court more and more every day. With each passing moment, our parliament grows more complacent, more out of touch, more irrelevant to the concerns of the people it used to represent. For four and a half years out of every five, the institution slumbers, and enjoys the patronage of a government which will feed it large amounts of pap daily.

I worked in the Houses of the Oireachtas for 17 years, and was proud to do so. I worked with, and still know, great people there.

But as an institution, it is slowly and steadily sinking into a morass of servitude. Far from being an institution that the government of the day is afraid of — as it ought to be — Dáil Éireann is almost on the verge of extinction as a democratic institution.

And why? Money and patronage, that’s why. As someone who has argued passionately over many years that politicians deserve to be decently paid, so that politics could be a full-time job, I never thought I would see the day when our political institutions would be undermined by too much money, and too much patronage. A democratic parliament ought to be a place of constant cut-and-thrust, a place where the opposition is always gunning for the government, a place where no one is secure or content with their lot.

But how could they not be? The average Dáil member now earns €0.5 million during every Dáil term. Two terms in opposition is enough to make you a millionaire. And that’s just the basic salary, the taxable bit. The figures carried in this newspaper at the beginning of last month ought to be grounds for a democratic revolt — in the interests of restoring the necessary hunger and vibrancy to our most important democratic institution.

A “special secretarial allowance” of €34,485 a year; “general expenses” of €5,482 a year; a telephone allowance of €6,348 a year; a “maintenance grant” of €8,888 for constituency offices; an allowance of between €2,745 and €8,782 for travel within their constituencies, as well as a generous rate per mile to travel to the Dáil, and an overnight allowance of €139.67.

Only a fool of a TD wouldn’t be able to double his or her after-tax income. There’s no good reason why a single term wouldn’t make you a millionaire.

So why rock the boat? Why try to hold the Government to account? Why not resign yourself, after every election, to a full five years of highly comfortable living, courtesy of the absolute ruler that is the Government? And especially now that you can tell yourself that you’re not an ordinary deputy any more.

Just as the old courts used to reward a gentleman-in-waiting by elevating him to sit outside the king’s bedchamber, nowadays a deputy, if they’re good, can become a chairman, a vice-chairman, or maybe a convener of an Oireachtas committee. Of course, it doesn’t have the same status as sitting at the king’s right-hand side in the cabinet room but every one of these posts carries extra money and a few little perks. And there are 22 committees. Imagine it: 22 committees, with few powers, no capacity to initiate anything and no possibility of ever achieving real change. But 22 committees equals a potential 66 jobs.

SO, just like in the old days, you mightn’t have much to do at court, but if your title was impressive enough, you could persuade yourself that you mattered. The rest of the world might see you as approaching a eunuch, but at least you’d be a very well paid eunuch.

This would be funny if it wasn’t so serious. In nearly every other democratic jurisdiction I know, parliament does matter. Even governments with secure majorities have to cope with democratic institutions where tough questions are asked, where the possibility of its behaviour being investigated on a non-partisan basis is real, where the job of commanding the support of a majority is a full-time one.

Here, we have almost arrived at a point where the majority can be taken for granted, and accountability is largely ignored.

It’s not healthy. In fact, it’s a recipe for corruption. I know when I use that word I’ll be accused of labelling all our TDs as corrupt. I’m doing nothing of the kind. But a functioning, assertive parliament, which is taken seriously by the people, is vital in a strong democracy.

A parliament that allows itself to grow fat and lazy on the back of government patronage is heading down a dangerous road. Whether we know it or not, that’s where we’re going. And democracy is a bit like the water in our kitchen taps. We take it for granted every minute of the day but, boy, do we miss it when it’s gone.