Willy-nilly rows and hard truths of Dáil life

From the ‘people-get-paid-to-do-this?’ department comes a study published in the respected academic journal Personality and Individual Differences.

Written by Ulster-based Professor of Psychology, Richard Lynn, the paper sets out the average penis sizes of 113 nationalities.

Lynn has previously made some controversial claims about the intelligence levels of various races, but this hard data is bound to hurt many men in their special place.

Then again, we all know that size isn’t important: at least when it comes to the influence the male organ can have. In so many spheres of life, but particularly the professional, disputes can often be traced back to no more than (symbolic) willy waving. And of all the professions, politics is possibly the most prone to it.

There is that cliché that politics is showbiz for ugly people: and like most clichés, it contains a large dollop of truth. Whispered gossip about womanising government ministers, past and present, is commonplace. You’d gasp in amazement if I were able to tell you: not so much because of the marital infractions, but simply that anyone would, as the young people say, go there.

But beyond the sexual shenanigans are the phallo-centric attitudes which inform how many of our politicians, er, perform. And in the old boys atmosphere of Leinster House, female politicians, if they are to succeed, have to wave their political willies just as much as male colleagues.

Just like Lady Gaga or Elton John, your average government minister is driven by ego and is constantly on the hunt for perceived slights or insults. They plot and bitch about their colleagues, and when not suspecting a conspiracy, are actively conspiring themselves. Róisín Shortall and James Reilly clearly infuriated each other. He seemed to act like he resented agreeing anything with anyone, and so didn’t; she, when she’d finally had enough, timed her resignation and radio interview to do the maximum amount of damage. And according to some reports, more may come from her, all with the aim of damaging Eamon Gilmore.

Of course, none of the players in the latest political psychodrama will admit to emotion having anything to do with what’s transpired. Shortall has already presented her resignation as one based on principle, while Reilly – if he ever gives an interview again – will probably spin the usual I’m focussing-on-the-health-service guff.

Yet if you walk into a bookshop today and choose a political biography at random, you will find a series of stories about people who didn’t like each other. Sometimes those dislikes could be contained. Sometimes those dislikes triggered political failures: with consequences for people in the real world. Even – or especially – in Dáil Éireann, the personal is the political. And one can’t help but wonder if there had been a little less emotion, might we have a better functioning Department of Health?

I know what you’re wondering. Apparently we’re the second smallest in Europe. You can insert your own punch line here.