Ardfheis sketch: What a sickener of a weekend for the Opposition. It's no fun being a party leader in this country if you're not Bertie Ahern. Spare a thought for poor Enda and Pat, asks Miriam Lord.
In an attempt to steal some of the limelight from the celebrity Taoiseach, Fine Gael fielded a double act after Bertie delivered his keynote speech, when the cuddly Bruton brothers performed a knockabout routine on Ryan Tubridy's chat show.
Amateurs. Bertie announces he is going to have a baby. No, not him, it just feels like that. It's his eldest daughter Georgina, who is married to that famous pop star that all the mammies love. News that Bertie is about to become a granddaddy made all the radio bulletins yesterday. Furthermore, the Bertie baby might well occur just in time for the general election.
The man is on a roll.
Murder must have come to mind in certain political households on Saturday. Watching the faithful fall at the feet of Blessed Bertie, towering political paragon and all round decent skin, must have been a very painful experience for non-believers.
The besotted roars and ecstatic cheers of the Fianna Fáil grassroots will have been matched by much weeping and gnashing of teeth in Fine Gael and Labour quarters.
What's an Opposition leader to do? Bertie Ahern has grown in stature since his difficulties last month. The public is behind him. In the eyes of his party, he can do no wrong. He is their rock, their guiding light, their Taoiseach and their ticket to a third term in Government. They adore him.
Saturday's ardfheis had the air of a post-election victory bash about it. Like we had gone to sleep and awoken to find Fianna Fáil back in power with an overall majority and Bertie being fast-tracked to canonisation. There could be many explanations for this surge in confidence. There could be, but there's not. There's just the one: Bertie.
Taoiseach and talisman, he stood before over 5,000 of his footsoldiers in the packed, sweaty ballroom of Dublin's Citywest Hotel and basked in their adulation. But in a most humble way, of course. Bashful Bertie doesn't do arrogance.
It was a day for treating the troops to some galvanising fighting talk and boosting morale with a mix of politics and porter. The feeling was upbeat to begin with. Delegates, dizzy from surviving a political tailspin, brought with them a mood of elation which wouldn't have seemed possible a while back.
Enthusiastically marshalled by a giddy band of Ministers, delegates queued up to ridicule Enda Kenny and Pat Rabbitte. As leader of the main Opposition party, Enda was the butt of most of their jokes.
There was an edge to these gags that betrayed a growing mood of arrogance. The punchlines didn't seek to score political points off a real political threat, rather, they mercilessly lampooned the Fine Gael leader as harmless and ineffectual. When measured against the massive asset they have in Bertie Ahern, the Soldiers of Destiny believe Enda just can't compete.
The jibes at Pat Rabbitte were more pointed. Underneath the swaggering, Fianna Fáil know they may need Labour after the next election, whatever about deputy's Rabbitte vow never to do business with them. The party also needs to poach votes from left-leaning voters. And so, Pat became the fearsome bogeyman while Enda was the nice but gormless lightweight.
"We are the party of the working man" declared Minister for Education Mary Hanafin, dressed in designer white and looking like she would faint at the sight of a pint of stout.
There were plenty of working men at the ardfheis. Working women too, and students and farmers and professional types and the rest. This must be what Fianna Fáil mean when they say their party is "a broad church". Certainly, during the main event, many enraptured delegates looked like they were undergoing a religious experience.
Minister for Arts John O'Donoghue is resident comedian at these gigs, and he delivered a gag a minute address which had the grassroots in hysterics. Nodding in the direction of W C Fields and Groucho Marx, John unloaded a string of one-liners in deadpan fashion. But his well rehearsed hang-dog expression couldn't hold up when he got a laugh, a little self-satisfied smile breaking out every time he scored a hit.
The job of number one warm-up man belongs to Brian Cowen. The Minister for Finance got a standing ovation before he started, and looked a bit embarrassed. He flipped his hand up and down in a flustered salute. "You're makin' me nervous," he growled happily.
Brian's passion for Fianna Fáil shone through as he spoke. Carrying the troops along with him, he could have been on the stump outside a church gate, speaking with such force and ferocity we feared he might burst into tears or spontaneously combust.
He gave Bertie, "one of the most noble politicians I know", a mighty introduction. The simmering footsoldiers bellowed approval. Suddenly the moment was upon them. A side door opened. Music boomed from the loudspeakers. "Whoo-Hooo!" Bertie strode stagewards. "Whoo-Hooo!" went the music.
An elderly man in the middle of the hall danced, waving his walking stick high in the air. The ladies swooned. The guys cheered. The Ministers wanted to be him. It was a dull speech, but they cheered him to the rafters, and then some. He looked great. Preened and powder-puffed in a charcoal grey suit with a stripey tie and pink-tinged shirt. His audience looked at him with awe and affection.