He doesn’t go anywhere without his rosary beads, given that a substantial amount of his time isn’t spent in the Seanad chamber but going to the funerals of the relatives of his electorate, county councillors. Out come the beads, after he arrives tactically late, and then it’s up to the front of the church to ensure that no one is left in any doubt about his piety. There isn’t a bishop he isn’t on golfing terms with.
Every few months his parliamentary researcher, a unibrowed young man with body odour issues and an office holder in Youth Defence, will concoct some sort of statement for him to suggest that the EU/IMF/The Late Late Show is encouraging murdering babies or “the gays”. Misinterpreting rulings from Europe is now a speciality, although on Europe he plays both ends, voting for whatever the treaty the party whip tells him, and then voicing his concerns in “Alive!”
Of course, when he got his secretary pregnant at the Ard Fheis, she was on the first plane over to England, and F**k the rights of the unborn. Sure, in the eyes of his enemies it looked like a straight forward case of rape, but in his mind, the little harlot took advantage of his inebriated state and seduced him. After all, she hadn’t put the chain on the door of her room in the B&B, nor blocked the handle with a chair. Sure, that was practically inviting him in, wasn’t it?