The row over Celia Larkin and the invitation was big story, granted. But all the fuss about it obscured the good news, reported in our foreign pages on Tuesday, that King Mswati III of Swaziland has not, as originally feared, been poisoned by one of his eight wives.
This was a relief to anyone who read the first report in April, which said: (1) that the king had fallen ill during a "ritual beer festival"; (2) that palace insiders attributed his illness to a "special breakfast" prepared for him; and (3) that his "senior" wife had been arrested at the airport while trying to flee the country.
The report also noted Col Gadaffy was sending 10 of his doctors to help cure the stricken monarch. And the Libyan medicare plan obviously worked, because on Tuesday the king was reported to have made his first public appearance in weeks, refuting the poisoning claims and denying he had fired his kitchen staff and one of his wives. He had been suffering from "gastro-enteritis caused by stress", he said.
Having eight wives is a statistically proven contributor to stress, right enough. The king was silent, however, about his senior wife's alleged jealousy of his youngest wife, whom she accused of "truancy and low grades at school". But while there remain a number of serious questions about this affair (the most important of which is: what exactly is a ritual beer festival?), it does at least introduce some perspective to the Taoiseach's situation.
So did the feature on New York's Mayor Rudy Giuliani, also in Tuesday's paper. As you may know, the philandering Giuliani caused public outrage last year when he announced he was separating from his wife, Donna Hanover. This might have been acceptable in itself, but in what was regarded as a serious breach of official protocol, he announced it to the media before informing Ms Hanover.
The first lady would have been forgiven for issuing her husband with a carefully worded invitation about what to do with himself. Instead, she reacted with dignity and restraint, leaving New Yorkers, who regard dignity and restraint as conditions which can be overcome through counselling, feeling cheated. That, however, was before the second lady reportedly moved into the mayoral mansion, where the first lady still resides. And now the latter is applying to have the former barred, to the cheers of a relieved city. (Incidentally, Tuesday's feature, which was from the Guardian service, began with a metaphor based on the mayor's love of opera, and said the only question left in his "Wagnerian melodrama" was when the fat lady would sing. The piece then concluded with the suggestion that Hanover - who apparently has no weight issues at all - was performing the final aria. For journalism students among you, this illustrates the dangers of pursuing a metaphor to its logical conclusion.)
Anyway, these examples of complex domestic situations from other parts of the world bring me back to the question of the Bertie/Celia invitation. There are serious questions involved, none of which I intend to deal with. But as the letters pages convulse again, I make no apology for occupying the high moral fence on this issue and asking, in the words of the Jack Nicholson character in the film Mars Attacks, before he was humorously assassinated by the Martians: "Why can't we all just get along?"
I BELIEVE the majority of Irish people are relaxed about the Taoiseach's situation, and the occasional protocolic (it's a real word - I checked) problems it causes. In an era when even the GAA's All-Ireland championship series gives people a second chance, most of us wish Bertie and Celia well. And what's more, I believe this fundamentally laid-back attitude is grounded in our history.
By coincidence, I've just read a book about another highly popular Irish leader who fell just short of an overall majority: Hugh O'Neill. O'Neill had complex domestic arrangements himself but, according to Sean O'Faolain's classic biography, this was not unusual: "Women married early in those days, and the men early and often." Even by the standards of the time, however, his arrangements reached an operatic climax in 1591. Just before he embarked on the Nine Years War, O'Neill took time out to fall in love with the daughter of his most bitter enemy and the sister of the queen's marshall, Henry Bagenal. Mabel Bagenal was equally smitten. But Henry took a dim view of O'Neill, who was divorced (or maybe not) from his first wife and recently bereft of his second, and whose loyalty to the crown was highly suspect. So while attempting to foil the pursuit, he moved Mabel from the family home in Newry to a safe house near Dublin.
It wasn't safe enough, however. So one August night, she and O'Neill eloped on horseback, galloping off to the northside suburb of - you've guessed it - Drumcondra! Whence they sent for the Protestant Bishop of Meath to come and marry them, quick. Rather like the Dean of St Patrick's this week, the bishop was reluctant to accept the invitation; but unlike the Dean, he finally did. If you were expecting a more profound conclusion here, you're obviously new to this column.
fmcnally@irish-times.ie
