PRESENT TENSE:WHAT IS IT about the Irish and a television camera? Why is it that when we see one we invariably a) wobble in front of it and wave gormlessly, or b) stare at it as if faintly convinced that it is stealing our soul?
And what is it about the foot-soldiers of political parties that when they see someone being interviewed by a camera crew they are compelled to force as many of themselves as possible into shot? You will see this during any election campaign, when the taoiseach will visit somewhere and, as he is giving a tight-lipped response to some pesky reporter, half the cumann will have squeezed into frame, their ties wrenched halfway across their fat necks, their combovers dancing in the gale.
One of them will be the local candidate, hoping to get a bit of reflected glory from the taoiseach, as if the voters might see him on the box and think: “I always hated everything he stood for – but now that I see his head growing out of the taoiseach’s left shoulder like some kind of tumour with a toupee, well, I’m suddenly impressed.”
You might already know where I am going with this. Last weekend, David Davin-Power delivered a live report from the Fianna Fáil Ardfheis. He popped up on screen surrounded by a platoon of the soldiers of destiny. All, except one, were men. Some stared blankly at the camera. Some stared inanely at Davin-Power. One bearded chap magically disappeared and reappeared. Another was in shadow, so that if they had replaced David Davin-Power with Brian Cowen there would have been a strange Last Supper vibe to this already surreal scene.
Strangely, these people came in a variety
of sizes. Tall, medium and miniature soldiers of destiny. It’s as if, in order to get everyone
in shot, some were on their knees and others were standing on chairs. Actually, what it most resembled was one of those reports
you see every Christmas, where the reporter stands in a shed stuffed with turkeys, only in this case, it looked like the turkeys had been hypnotised first.
If you didn't see the news clip, then you should watch the footage online. Then find the version on YouTube for which someone has added the Deliverancebanjo music. And a closing caption that reads, simply, perfectly: "God help us."
There was more of this kind of thing on the radio too. When RTÉ's This Weekspoke to a few of the delegates, you could have sworn the reporter had wandered into a convention of Ireland's Least Subtle Pat Shortt Impersonators. There was a general sense that everything was grand and there was nothing about the economy that a few pints couldn't fix.
These slices of radio and TV would be comic if it weren't for one crucial and unsettling fact: these people run the country. They're the ones with the ear of the Taoiseach. The ones who have just spent a weekend discussing the future of this benighted island – yourfuture – and yet, at the first opportunity, acted like people who are easily distracted by shiny objects. After that, you wouldn't trust them with a pair of scissors, never mind the economy. How would they react of they saw an iPhone? They'd probably try it for witchcraft.
So, this isn’t just about how the Irish can’t see a reporter talking to a camera and resist the urge to wander into shot. It’s not about how at every major GAA match there are adult men whose greatest thrill comes not from winning the provincial title for the first time in 75 years, but from shoving aside a 12-year-old so that they can bob about behind Marty Morrissey on the 6pm news. It’s not about how in the 21st century they still treat the bloody thing like it’s some magical box brought here from the distant future. It’s not about how they arranged for candidates to get into shot because they reckon that it is enough to win them a few votes each.
It’s about the calibre of people who were at the ardfheis last weekend and who see it as their manifest destiny, duty and, let’s be honest, right to be the main party in this country. They may not all be like that, but that there were enough of them to form a forest of Fianna Fáilers around David Davin-Power should be enough to give all of us the shivers.
shegarty@irishtimes.com
