Even Breakfast Roll Man was on the credit crunch muesli by the end of 2008, when we said goodbye to Bertie and hello to recession, writes Joseph O'Connor
YOU CAN probably remember November 2004. It was in that month that the sages at The Economist published a comprehensive report into which country enjoyed the best quality of life. Mild contentedness wasn't enough. They were looking for Happyland. Not you, gloomy Sweden. Finland, feck off. Norway? Yeah, right. Denmark? Duh! In the end, the stunned victor was beckoned to the front of the class. Come on down - Irlanda Libre!
November 2004. Like, 200 weeks ago. We awoke to the thrilling revelation that we were happy. Many Irish memoirists were shattered to hear it, being rendered so miserable by the news that they immediately began writing sequels. But almost everyone else in the country was delighted. We'd always suspected we were special. Now it was official. Look upon The Economist, ye Brits, and weep! That wasn't rain falling from the Irish skies; it was God's tears of joy. All those pessimistic, crestfallen nations that had paternity leave and schools with actual roofs, those icy, northern, socialistic dungeonlands spoilt by little fripperies like MRSA-free hospitals, suddenly realised they had somehow lost the plot. Their lives were gick. Ours were gas.
Five-grand handbags! Apartments in former Soviet statelets! SUVs originally intended for agricultural or military purposes, now being employed to convey euphoric shoppers to "the Moll". If you couldn't buy it, we didn't want it, and if you could, we wanted four of it. Slap it on the Visa card, Baby!
But wait. What's going on? What is that strange shimmering sensation, reminiscent of dream-sequences in Australian soap operas? It's June 2008. The ESRI have just spilled the beans. To say things are after going pear-shaped would be to riot in tact. We've boomed and we've busted. We've bloated and bottomed out. Things, in fact, have gone Cowen-shaped. We're feeling empty as an apartment block on an unfinished dual carriageway, lonely as a windswept and tenantless factory in Louth, thwarted as Kenny Cunningham by the referees of fate, sick as a parliament of parrots. Eddie Hobbs and George Lee begin haunting our dreams, rattling chains of I-told-you-sos and dark words of foreboding. Before long, Dublin's beggars are wandering up to passers-by in Grafton Street, saying "Buddy, can you spare me an AIB share?"
2008. WHAT A fabulous year. Everyone became an expert. We all got in touch with our inner banker. Innumerates who, like myself, got an E in Inter Cert maths, suddenly started talking hedge-funds and fluctuations in the Footsie. Bank executives proved initially unwilling to be interviewed in the media, presumably because they were busy purchasing tights to put over their faces as a disguise. But when a few of them bravely condescended to go on the record, it was clear they weren't feeling all that apologetic. The massive salaries and munificent bonus packages were required, we were assured, because you can't have a bank run by any auld gormless poltroon. It takes talent to loan other people's money to property speculators who can't repay it; and such a giftedness comes from God.
In May, Bertie Ahern gave up the big job and joined an international conflict-resolution committee, reportedly also beginning negotiations about the six-figure advance for his copiously detailed and much anticipated memoir (provisional title, I Don't Remember). Well, when I say six figures, it kinda depends on how you look at it. It mighta been five. Coulda been three. A lot depended on the exchange-rate being offered in O'Connell Street at the time. Much of it will be paid in curtain fabrics.
As summer came looming, the crisis deepened. The Dáil responded with impressive commitment to the nation by immediately going on 11 weeks' holiday. (When you have unreceipted expenses of €12,000 a year, you need a damn good rest during which to add them up.) The summer weather was the greatest example of pathetic fallacy since Heathcliff stalked the rainstorms of Yorkshire. The downpour was monsoonal, constant, horizontal.
There wasn't quite a plague of frogs, probably because proper frogs couldn't be afforded any more, but we did endure precipitation on 40 consecutive days, and also Leo Varadkar, TD. That publicity-shy gentleman was called "a fascist" in the Dáil by Junior Minister for Unconscious Ironies, Conor Lenihan, who continued to confound physicists by demonstrating with his every public utterance that nature doesn't abhor a vacuum after all. He italicised his side-splitting remark with a playful Nazi salute and his trademark Fr Dougal grin. But the Wildean badinage was soon interrupted by the Leas Ceann Comhairle (an Irish language phrase roughly translatable as "party pooper"), and thus the politicians were able to return to their favourite pastime: denouncing the uncouth behaviour of young people these days. The second-stage debate on the Throwing My Toys Out of the Pram Bill (2009) should prove compelling, as should the Mammy He Stole My Lollipop Subcommittee.
Faced with mounting criticism, Brian Cowen appeared occasionally over-caffeinated and adopted a Basil Fawlty strategy. "You think I don't know it's bad? I can't get the staff! It's all right for you. But I have to live here." With the Greens trotting in his wake like hapless Manuel trying to erect an umbrella, life in Fianna Fawlty Towers became stressed. The Taoiseach was overheard using unparliamentary language to Sybil, I mean Mary Coughlan, sorry - perhaps the most over-promoted politician since Jim Hacker in Yes Prime Minister. She became annoyed during a playdate in the Dáil when Mr Varadkar (him again!) accused her of earning €5,000 a week. (To be fair, it isn't anything remotely like €5,000 a week. It's a piffling €4,650, plus expenses). And when it came time for the Budget, we soon got to feel like the aforementioned Mr Fawlty's banjaxed car as it received a thoroughly deserved damn good thrashing.
Brian Lenihan's speech attained heights of Shakespearian gravitas: "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears, and all other saleable body parts." Levies and taxes were helpfully characterised as "readjustments". Medical cards were patriotically withdrawn but some had to be given back. The minimum wage was removed but had to be restored. Older readers will recall that Roy Orbison once crooned "Love Hurts". But in Cowenland, love readjusts.
ACROSS THE ATLANTIC, many had been watching the Democratic primaries with a sense of shock and awe. Hillary Clinton claimed to have run through a hail of sniper fire while on a fact-finding trip to Bosnia. This was shortly after she discovered penicillin, personally broke Nelson Mandela out of prison, and persuaded The Edge to join U2. The candidates were finally selected with great razzmatazz and celebration and there was a spontaneous overflow of money.
The Republican contender, John McCain, assured a concerned voter at a town hall meeting that Barack Obama was not "an Arab" but "a decent family man", thereby displaying the subtle sensitivity to sociocultural complexities that the world needs at this troubled time. As his running mate, he chose a longtime trusted friend he had previously met a whole once: Governor Sarah "Moose-alini" Palin of Alaska. She proved a feisty and tireless campaigner and was only very slightly compromised in her ambition to co-lead the free world by reportedly not knowing Africa was a continent. She attracted criticism when it was revealed that her campaign wardrobe had cost $150,000. But it was good to see her wearing something she hadn't shot.
Forgotten but not gone, George Bush, the man who put the "er" back into America, spent most of 2008 looking out a White House window and not being mentioned by anyone, ever. But that great orator is said to believe history will be kind to him in the end - as it very probably maybe will be. During an interview at the Olympic Games in China, he said: "I don't see America as a country having problems." This was a week before the economy collapsed, the banking system imploded, and the greatest number of home-repossessions in the history of the United States began. He reacted by immediately and selflessly visiting the US women's beach-volleyball team, an event during which he was invited by one of the players to slap her playfully on the bum for luck. He hesitated for a moment before declining to do so, perhaps because he couldn't find it to slap. He intends to spend his retirement doing a lot of colouring-in and shaping funny men out of pipe-cleaners.
The winds of change appeared to be sweeping through international politics. Obama's election in November seemed to encourage a resurgent Tory party in Britain. Many thought it healthy, whatever their politics, to see an energetic and intellectually recharged opposition fronted by a dynamically charismatic young leader full of daring new ideas. But that won't be happening here, obviously. Some wondered if Brian Cowen would borrow a leaf from Obama's playbook and perhaps start chanting "Yes We Can" from the back of a lorry when next campaigning, instead of singing one of his melodious folk songs. New times demand new thinking, after all. If the Taoiseach were prepared to learn that little James Brown hip-swivel so beloved by President-elect Obama on vacating a podium, it would doubtless go down a bomb at the next Árd Fheis, particularly if accompanied by a fist-bump with Mrs Cowen.
SEBASTIAN BARRY DIDN'T win the Booker Prize, despite having written the best novel on the shortlist, a thing that used to increase your chances somewhat. There were fine novels from Hugo Hamilton (Disguise), David Park (The Truth Commissioner), Aifric Campbell (The Semantics of Murder), Barry McCrea (The First Verse) Chris Binchy (Open-handed), Deirdre Madden (Molly Fox's Birthday) and a fascinating memoir from Glenn Patterson.
Dubliner Dermot Bolger broke all world records for having a novel reviewed late. His early masterpiece The Journey Home garnered a front-page rave review in the New York Times - the holy of holies of literary apotheosis - a mere 18 years after first publication.
Ireland's football team didn't qualify for the European championships, and the rugby team got hammered by the All Blacks. But the battling men of Munster salvaged national sporting pride, not only by putting it up to the New Zealanders but by decidedly out-dancing them when it came to the pre-match performance of the Haka. Many of us who were forced to learn The Walls of Limerick at school sensed bright new possibilities.
In November, the Progressive Democrats decided to wind themselves up, the electorate having started the process some time previously. It reminded me of my decision to break it off with Angelina Jolie and was every bit as painful for all concerned. It was not mentioned in reports of the emotional final meeting whether anyone had quoted Michael McDowell's haunting remark that stamp duty wasn't really needed by the cash-rich Irish exchequer any more and could therefore be abolished immediately. It's insights as prophetic as this that will guarantee the PDs a place in Irish political history for ever.
Robbie Keane got married. Madonna and Guy called it quits. Daniel Day-Lewis won an Oscar. Beckett's Happy Days wowed the Abbey. His Waiting for Godot played every county in Ireland with the Gate's award-winning cast. Fás executives, meanwhile, came in for a totally unmerited pounding, when the expense-account regime at that fine organisation was revealed. First-class transatlantic travel for senior suits was the order of the day, but to be fair, you do need a good rest before golfing. Some of those Orlando fairways are an absolute nightmare and you can't guarantee that the 19th-hole Chardonnay will be chilled. And if you can't have a $400 manicure at the expense of the taxpayer, what did Pearse and Connolly die for?
Two Fás people were singled out for particular criticism when it was revealed that the combined cost of their flights was €15,000; in fact, they were Ryanair tickets to Luton that had been widely advertised at €6, but they'd made the mistake of bringing a suitcase, reserving actual seats, and opting for a plane that had wings.
All in all, then, it was a truly wonderful year for Ireland. We learned that our politicians can be trusted, our bankers are truthful and our financial institutions are not salivating packs of greed-motivated robbers. And in case we still needed reminding, December's food crisis rammed home the fact that makin' bacon ain't as simple as it used to be. Breakfast Roll Man, that epitome of the boom years, faced a cholesterol-free Advent with totally unresentful stoicism and a serving of credit-crunch muesli. Mmmm! One can only hope 2009 brings as many blessings. Personally, I'm crying with joy.
Joseph O'Connor's novel Redemption Falls is published by Vintage and has been nominated for the International Impac Dublin Literary Award. He broadcasts a radio diary every Wednesday on RTÉ Radio 1's Drivetime with Mary Wilson