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It would seem somehow that Michael Clifford (Irish Examiner, April 7) does not fully enjoy or endorse the paltry and pathetic Dáil pantomime (both intra- and extra-mural versions) currently running in Kildare Street. He is certainly not alone.
The protracted Folies Bergéres cabaret act ensuing daily and nightly during this epoch of tawdry tribal detente, features distrust, disingenousness, and debilitated disgust in copious dollops. The ‘will-he won’t-he’ theatrical offerings of thwarted political camouflage is being played out 24/7 across the land.
By now, 40 days and 40 nights have dripped agonisingly past, while the elected-anointed cower in the desert of dreams, contemplating navels, dispensing smokescreens, and merely angling for self/party alone.
No locusts or honey to be seen, only ‘lucres’ and money — loads and loads-a-money on their salaries, expenses, subsidised food and beverages, etc.
Meanwhile the country suffers slowly along in silent despair — the ghosts of 1916 past writhing in frustrated disbelief..
Biblical transfigurations we have had none, no Damascene conversions, nor miraculous-muds to make the blind see.
Just muddied waters and foggied dues. The apocalypse will arrive long before any authentic statesmanship appears on the horizon.
The four horsemen of the apocalypse are readying their steeds, as we dilly and dally.
The sure thing is, the citizenry audience are turning off it in droves, tuning out to enact their own ‘cynic players’ theatre-of-the-absurd’ — that burgeoning rabble of rejectionists, the doughty doyens of the popular masses.
Their new play is being clarioned as ‘stop-their-salaries!’ — a tragi-comedic farce with grimly-focused underlying themes of selfish greed, manipulative Machiavellianisms, and a ‘let-them-eat-cake’ mantra-motto.
Why stoop so low, as to coalesce in grand-style? Why do the honourable thing for the betterment of us peasants throughout the land?
Sure, there are ministerial grandeurs to be fleeced, lofty pensions to be preened and so many prime perks to be cajoled out of the public purse, before any government policy documents are drafted.
Worthy work is the curse of the political gentry ... and how. They say that politics is the art of the possible. They should be saying that possible is the art of prevarication. Where is John the Baptist when we need him?
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