Such was the landslide, it was bound to happen. It was inevitable, given the “whatever it takes” nature of constituency politics in Ireland, where parish trumps policy and ideology is something to do with horoscopes, like. He kept his mouth shut, grafted away on the council, then got stuck on the ticket for ballast, and took the last seat without reaching the quota, for Fine Gael or Labour. Which is grand, except for the fact that he is actually a Fianna Failer.

Now ssssh, don’t be shoutin’ that around the place! He’s not like a spy or anything, nothing like that. He’s just a constituency grafter who has never had a political thought in his life, and now he’s sitting on the government benches. When he saw “change” on his leaflets, he thought they were talking about the €11.30 left in his current account. Now he’s in the Dail, the Dail! Around him, some of his colleagues seem a bit upset that they are all voting for stuff they said they were against in opposition, but it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He’s in favour of whatever the whip tells him he’s in favour of, and can’t see what some fellas are getting upset about.

Of course, like so many Irish people do in their places of work everyday, he’s terrified that he’ll be found out. So he looks around him at the fellas who seem to have been around here for years, and does what they do. He keeps his mouth shut, does his constituency work, does what he’s told, knowing full well that it will be a miracle if he’s reelected. But maybe if he’s a good boy he’ll be looked after when he loses his seat. Now, where’s that manifesto: It’s just the right size to stop his table wobbling.