Another TD says they are doing the job the priests used to do, writes Kathy Sheridan
Well, wasn't that a short-lived rebellion? Remember it? The one that fizzled for all of oh, 12 hours last week when four "dissident" FF backbenchers yanked the pikes from under the thatch, rose up to defend their people from marauding ministers, got some priceless coverage on the 9 o'clock news, then rolled over to have their tummies tickled by Charlie and Bertie?
The really damnable part of it is that at first, people actually believed them. That wasn't the people's fault. The amount of prime coverage given to the four suggested that something pretty serious was afoot, that at last the heartsick calls for integrity, adult behaviour and a smidgen of credibility in the political system were coming from a corner that could not be ignored.
We know what happened next. Nothing. Things were said or promised. Suddenly, the "dissidents" emerged from behind closed doors like puppies on Prozac. "Charlie and Bertie came out with their hands up," said a loved-up one by way of explanation to this baffled writer. And therein lay the truth of the rebellion - or most of it anyway. The goal of the Peoples' Champions was to just, like, you know, get a bit of respect from the boss men, be noticed, be kept in the loop, be armed with the ready-packaged ripostes for when the stuff hit the fan and the people were getting edgy.
It was even hinted in some quarters that the little uprising had been stage-managed by party handlers - and, indeed, the "dissidents" didn't look overly apprehensive heading off for the promised Killarney show-down.
Sickeningly for anyone who actually cares about politics any more, all it yielded was a further widening of the credibility chasm between people and politicians. And that was before we heard about the €900 million at the weekend.
TDs such as the "dissidents" are entitled to defend their image. As the dual-occupation deputy disappears, the fragile seat is all that many are left with. For some, probably more than we imagine or give them credit for, it represents a call to public service. For many, it is the means to a livelihood and/or the fulfilment of some neediness - the need to be needed, the need to be seen by ordinary folk as a force up in Dublin, the need to believe that they too can aspire to the power trip.
For all, minding the seat becomes their life's mission. However, give or take say 80 of the Dáil members who are occupied in front bench, opposition or committee work, what are the other 80 or so for? When not engaged in machinations to keep the seat, what do these tribunes of the people bring to the exercise of democracy?
"What we are is lobby fodder," says one, "baled and packaged." Another says they are doing the job the priests used to do.
"I have two full-time employees, working flat-out on constituency work. None of that is research; it is entirely reactive. Mostly, I am a State-paid buffer between the public and the Civil Service."
And there we were, thinking there was an Ombudsman for that, never mind advice centres and all that malarkey.
One who describes his €69,000 basic pay as a "vocational rather than a professional salary", ends up reflecting that he's not even worth that. In his five-seat constituency, he says, they are not so much competing as duplicating. This is because the requests from the less well-off which comprise much of the correspondence will often be directed at all five (plus senators, councillors and party henchmen).
The fall-out in paperwork, time, telephone and stamp money from ministerial, Civil Service and local authority staff can only be marvelled at. And remember: each of those acknowledgements, updates, reminders and results, sent to each of those representatives, is then forwarded to the original petitioner, complete with chest-thumping covering letters.
One particularly bright and reflective would-be rural TD, boiled in oil by the system, despairs of it. "What is a TD? Is it just a doormat with a name on it? Who designed this system?" The "system", in short, is where a council official tells Johnny Public that sure enough, he's eligible for a council house, but adds, "now you have to get a politician to help push you up the list". (True story.)
So, Johnny writes to 10 public representatives, and in the race to secure the 14 votes of Johnny's tribe, Gerry Politician's happens to be the first positive news out of the hat. Thirty years hence at Gerry's funeral, Johnny's tribe will still be ululating over the great man who "got us the house".
What is this if not a gigantic, systemic deception? But by whom, on whom? Is Johnny dimly aware that by voting for Gerry, he is choosing the one most likely to be the doormat, the Prozac puppy, neutered into obedience by every side?
Is Marian Harkin a more powerful voice now that she represents Sligo-Leitrim in the Dáil than when she was the feared, ubiquitous outsider from the Western Development Commission?
"I'm a politician," sighs our would-be deputy. "I get problems and I pretend to solve them. End of story."
In this column last Thursday, the reference to newsagents charging a handling fee for Vodafone mobile call cards emerged from the editing process as 40 per cent: it should have read 40 cents.