Who Can Govern? The answer might just surprise you... but it probably won’t

Tumbleweeds blow through Dáil Eireann. The Ceann Comhairle rocks gently on the porch, a straw hat over his face, while a pig snores loudly and a newly elected TD plays innocently in a puddle. Beneath the earth, a thousand civil servants beaver away at the day-to-day governance of the country. But who cares about them, the mugs? We are a country without a government, a nation without a king. And there is nothing to report on.

While journalists are, eight weeks after election, straining to find new ways to cover nothing, TV3 has produced Ireland in Crisis: Who Can Govern? (Monday, TV3), a brave attempt to stir up hysteria with talking heads.

It's the most boring crisis I can remember. Micheál Martin and Enda Kenny thoughtlessly enter a meeting room together as though it were but a Sex Box (Monday, C4) while analysts agonise over the prospect of Brexit (picture Godzilla with Nigel Farage's cigarette smirk and Boris Johnson's hair) with no government. On the plus side, it's been a great era for fetishists aroused by tired people in suits walking towards microphones.

The producers of this programme have come up with a moderately diverting but largely unrevealing approach to the problem. It’s an hour of competitive cynicism, handwringing and blame throwing, in which politician and pundits recall their memories of several minutes ago, and we watch archive footage of politicians going in and out of meetings there last week.

It's basically a nostalgic clip show that could have been called Remember Slightly Earlier in the Week or Reeling in the Minutes. Though it does successfully evoke the sounds and moods of early 2016. Watching it is to recall the music of Zayn Malik, the quaint comfort of the iPhone 6s and the televisual pleasures of BBC's The Night Manager.

Ah, but I was young then and full of hope.

We revisit the arrogant hash Fine Gael made of their election campaign and slogan (Keep the Recovery Going/The Vengabus is Coming) and party members loyally and bravely suggest that they weren’t in the room for that meeting.

We see dejected outgoing TDs such as Fine Gael’s James Bannon literally walking in the wilderness (some woods) with a sweater cast casually over his shoulders (people say there’s no difference between FG and FF, but a Fianna Fáil TD would lose their party membership for wearing a sweater over their shoulders).

Labour's Pat Rabbitte is here, on his ongoing mission to secure a legacy of sulky unlikeability (he is the Katie Hopkins of outgoing politicians). He tells us that the country is "ungovernable". Then he tells us that First Dates is terrible. Then he gives us the finger and mouths the words "Go f*** yourself".

We, the ungovernable
There's plenty of footage of the "ungovernable". There they are ungratefully protesting and being politically engaged and giving a damn, alongside protest-enhanced politicians such as Joan Collins and Paul Murphy.

It’s suggested that our rudderless position is down to the growth of the independents. An indignant Michael Healy-Rae fills the screen. His cap appears to grow as he talks (it grows whenever he thinks of Kerry) though I may be hallucinating. It’s been a tough month. I also see Michael doing a jig on a car bonnet while a magical hill satyr (Danny) plays an accordion. Actually, this really happened. “Maybe it’s not every day a group of politicians play a bit of music on the bonnet of a jeep outside of Dáil Eireann,” says Michael. “And why not? Why shouldn’t we?”

God help me, but the Healy-Raes seem positively statesmanlike these days.

What of the hereditary parties of government? Frances Fitzgerald dog-whistles subsonically to the Fine Gael rank and file, her hypno-eyes spinning as she projects leadership potential. Fine Gael’s former director of elections Frank Flannery looms up like a tax-efficient slice of ham, lamenting the party’s lack of “emotional intelligence” (presumably from a PO box in Panama).

The real winners
But Fine Gael are only the biggest party in the State. It's clear who the real winners are. Fianna Fáil have successfully returned from their secret base on the moon and are back in the hearts and minds of the people like a parasitical fungus. They have nothing against Fine Gael ("Some of my best pals are Fine Gael," says Timmy Dooley) but why would they bother sharing government when Fianna Fáil own the future? There will be other elections.

We see a delighted Micheál Martin and Michael McGrath competing in a celebratory piggy-back race and disturbing footage of the newly elected Fianna Fáil horde walking across the concourse of Dáil Éireann where, off camera, they fall upon a wounded deer and consume it greedily.

"Holy shit," say the whole country, realising what they've done. "There were only about three of them five minutes ago." But Fianna Fáil are like the rabbits in Father Ted or the Tribbles in Star Trek or the Irish in the minds of racist 19th century New Yorkers. Leave them for five minutes and they will multiply and wreck your garden/space station/country.

Sadly, you only understand this now as you are slowly surrounded by the red-faced, funeral-attending, hand- shaking mass. “How’s the mother?” they say in unison. In the political vacuum, no one can hear you scream.