Miriam Lordwith Pat Rabbitte
Bizarre - Enda Kenny.
Peculiar - Trevor Sargent.
Byzantine - Pat Rabbitte.
Wallpapergate is an acronym waiting to happen. An
embarrassment of consonants are in place. Just a few vowels are
needed now to elevate the strange story of Bertie's rented house to
the minor Gubu league.
The Taoiseach's curt insistence yesterday that the Mahon tribunal is the only place to air the matter of the £30,000stg in cash, given by his landlord to Celia Larkin to refurbish the house they rented from him in 1994, will not stop the questions.
Not least because his remark that the cash also related to "a stamp duty issue" has mortgage holders throughout the land trying to work out what this might have to do with a semi-d that was purchased, by somebody else, three years before they moved in.
What to do, when you have an acronym in search of adjectives and vowels? At times like this you thank the Gods for the likes of Pat Rabbitte, the walking thesaurus of Irish politics.
He was on the campaign trail in Dún Laoghaire yesterday, with candidates Éamon Gilmore TD and councillor Oisín Quinn. It was May Day, the sun was splitting the tastefully hewn south Co Dublin stones: perfect conditions for the Labour leader to drop a few polished pearls and watch them glitter across reporters' notebooks.
First port of call was Blackrock. Two shopping centres bisected by a dual carriageway. Pat wasn't in the right mood in the Frascati Centre. He was still getting over his nightmare trip into town a few hours earlier. It had taken him over an hour to reach the Red Cow roundabout, which is a normally just a few minutes drive from his west Dublin home. As a result, he arrived very late for the daily press conference at election headquarters.
So much flesh to press, so little time. He got to work, carrying a big bundle of his Commitment for Change Cards and pressing them on anything that moved.
Ruairí Quinn's wife, Liz, was in the middle of the throng, taking photographs and handing out leaflets. She seemed more excited than Pat. What about her husband's campaign in the hotly contested Dublin South East? Mutiny in the camp? "I'm here for my lovely nephew, Oisín," twinkled Auntie Liz. "Isn't he lovely? I have to do my bit for him as well." Pat worked the crowd in his shirtsleeves, speared passers-by with his commitment cards.
One woman said she was a great admirer. He was wonderful. Loved seeing him on television. Politicians feed on positive feedback. Pat's glasses all but steamed. Then, the letdown. "I support another party," she shrugged with an apologetic smile.
"What's the point in admiring me on television? I'm not there as entertainment, you know," shot back Pat in mock indignation. Not sure about that - he gets bums on seats in the Dáil press gallery.
Across the road, to Blackrock Shopping Centre, camera crews in tow, dodging the traffic. He lit upon two women having a chat. The cameras zoomed in, then they were gone, leaving a mortified woman in their wake when she realised she had been filmed with a jumbo pack of toilet rolls under her arm.
Inside, Pat, inexplicably, walked past a woman sitting on a bench with a double buggy of twins beside her. Does he not know that twins are the gold standard of this campaign? Since Bertie became a granddaddy to babies Rocco and Jay, political leaders are nothing if they don't have a couple of squalling tots to present to the cameras.
Instead, Pat posed with pensioner Richard, who enthralled the company with tales of his three hip replacements and the time his heart nearly stopped. "I'm lucky to be alive," said he, unaware that his heart and current hips were in danger of being steamrolled by the advancing media.
Finally, beside the escalator, the chance came for Pat to supply the missing vowels and adjectives to complete our mini-Gubu.
Calamity of calamities. The Labour leader decided to be circumspect. "I am satisfied to leave the Taoiseach's Byzantine financial arrangements to the tribunal," he declared. There are more important issues to bring before the people during the election campaign.
Mind you, mused Pat, he hadn't expected the Taoiseach would contribute to the stamp duty debate in such a novel fashion. "It's the first time I've heard of stamp duty due on houses that are rented." That's all he would say.
Eamon Gilmore was canvassed. He concurred: the tribunal is the place for the investigation to take place.
Not for the first time, Rabbitte was playing it clever. When the Opposition tried, unconvincingly, to force the issue of Bertiegate, they took a beating in the polls and Bertie's popularity soared. So Pat just dropped the tantalising thought about stamp duty. The media can do the rest and, if the public bites, then they might consider getting stuck in.
Or maybe, just maybe, Pat doesn't want to cheese off Fianna Fáil. He is adamant that Labour will not go into coalition with the party after the election, but if the numbers don't add up for the Rainbow, they might just have to do the selfless thing in the national interest . . .
A lady from Clonmel had a question. "If we give a number 2 to Labour, how can we be sure we'll not be putting Fianna Fáil in?" she asked Pat. "I give you my word," he intoned gravely. "Here, take my card."