The sad case of Frank Dunlop's equine investment - "vaporised on the fields of Carlow", as a tribunal lawyer put it, before the poor animal acquired even an identity - brings to mind that old 1970s song about being through the desert on a horse with no name, writes Frank McNally.
I never thought much about the lyrics before, beyond a rumour that the "horse" in question was of the variety rock-stars smoked. This would certainly explain lines like the one in the opening verse: "The first thing I met was a fly with a buzz. . ." (Which in turn makes you wonder what the fly was smoking.)
Now I realise that the song is about going back to nature and finding yourself. By travelling through the wilderness on an anonymous horse, paradoxically, the songwriter reclaims his own identity. Or as he puts it: "In the desert, you can remember your name/ 'Cos there ain't no-one for to give you no pain. (La-la, la, la-la-la-la, etc)" In all the years of the Mahon tribunal, happily, no witness has yet failed to recall his own name. But it must have been a close-run thing on occasion. Certainly there have been spectacular memory lapses, Mr Dunlop's included; although at least the former government press secretary recovered from his amnesia while still on the stand.
I was in Dublin Castle that exciting day when - having been asked to "reflect overnight" on his answers - he arrived to deliver chapter and verse on payments to politicians. Clearly he had been through the desert in the intervening hours. As he tied his vaporised horse up outside the hall and brushed the sand off, it was clear that he had found himself.
Cynics may wonder about the clarity with which he could recall even the most piddling amounts paid to councillors then, and contrast it with his cavalier attitude now towards a doomed horse purchase that cost him the price of a house. This was not just a $64,000 question, remember: it was a £64,000 one (and in 1992).
But the desert changes a man. Mr Dunlop's indifference to the fate of his investment is in many ways admirable, echoing as it does the advice of W.B. Yeats: "Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman pass by."
If they achieve nothing else, the tribunals have demonstrated the urgent need for reform of the Leaving Cert. Time and again, we have seen witnesses - including many of Ireland's highest achievers - failing to remember major events in their own lives, when questioned under pressure. Yet an 18-year-old's whole future may be marred by an inability to recall obscure details from a school text during his one and only visit to the witness stand.
The appalling memory lapses at Dublin Castle would be even worse were it not for the success of the tribunal's continuous assessment system. Only last week, John Bruton became the latest witness to have a Proustian - or Dunlopian - moment, when he changed an earlier account concerning his knowledge of a councillor's alleged demand for money.
As the former Taoiseach explained, Mr Dunlop's evidence had "prompted recollections" that he (Mr Bruton) "didn't have access to" when he gave his first responses to the tribunal. He continued, in similarly exquisite language: "It gradually came back to me that Mr Dunlop had said something to me that was not inconsequential." Mr Bruton's words evoked those cruel days in Leaving Cert exam halls when many of us experienced what we now realise were just temporary access problems vis-à-vis the answers required.
Like tribunal lawyers, the exam paper would be badgering us about events that had happened, in some cases, years before. And we would be trawling the back-streets and alleyways of our memories for answers. But everywhere we looked there would be signs saying: "No entry", "Emergency access only", or "Turn back now!" The system was brutal and adversarial. Here's a typical exchange that occurred during questioning in my Honours English module.
Exam paper: "I want to bring you back for a moment, Mr McNally, to the autumn of 1978. Do you remember a series of meetings - in October or November of that year - with a man called Shakespeare? William Shakespeare?"
Me: "Yes, vaguely."
Exam paper: "How would you describe your relationship with Mr Shakespeare? Were you friends?"
Me: "No, definitely not. He would have been one of a number of Elizabethan poets that made representations to me at that time. I didn't know them personally."
Exam paper: "Can you name any of the others?"
Me: "There was a Spenser. There might have been a Marlowe, too. They were in some sort of consortium, in the iambic pentameter business. Shakespeare did most of the talking."
Exam paper: "Indeed. On which point, I'd like to introduce a document entitled 'Sonnet no 116', dated 1594, in which Mr Shakespeare expresses concerns to you about the effects on his activities of what he calls 'time's fell hand'. Are you familiar with this document?"
Me: "No. I've never seen it before in my life, except just now when my solicitor showed it to me."
And so it went. Later, the blockage would be removed and you would regain full access to your memory. Gradually, it would become apparent that Mr Shakespeare had indeed said something to you that was not inconsequential. But the exam would be over by then, and it was too late. Nobody had advised you to reflect overnight on your answers.