FOR THE returning exile, this year’s Christmas in Ireland was very, very different. Right from arrival at a snowbound Dublin airport that looked more Siberian than Irish, surprises were in store. The shock of the Irish “cold snap”, however, was as nothing compared to the sense of nationwide psychological trauma generated by recent events of a national bad husbandry nature.
Returning periodically to Ireland over the last 26 years, one has become accustomed to “change”, especially and most obviously during the halcyon days of the Celtic Tiger. The “change” in question usually seemed to be underpinned by a growing self-confidence, an equal measure belief both in the “good times” and prodigious house prices.
Obviously, and painfully, that is no longer the case. Watching RTÉ TV one night over the Christmas break, it was enlightening to be taken on a magical mystery tour, starting with economist TK Whitaker in the 1960s, moving on to the rise and fall of radio presenter Gerry Ryan and finishing off with a programme charting the history of the Irish sports anthem, The Fields of Athenry.
Ken Whitaker, a man justly credited with a pivotal role in the development of the Irish economy, served as a reminder of a poor, black and white era when nothing was more devastating than The Troubles. The career of the talented Ryan for a large part coincided with the Celtic Tiger, whilst The Fields of Athenryhas been a recent witness to both Irish victory and failure. Unspoken but fundamental to all three stories was the basic question – how did (the Republic of) Ireland move from being a poor, conservative, almost backward Catholic country to become first a wealthy, godless Celtic Tiger and, more latterly, a disillusioned, international bankrupt.
There was almost a sense that the Irish have dreamt it all, in that they have awoken from a wonderful dreamtime when clever men carefully planned the economy, when radio presenters with a social conscience talked the nation through some of its worst moments; and when Munster and the Irish rugby team simply could not stop winning trophies.
Now the Irish have awoken to find themselves in full technicolour nightmare – skint, dealing almost daily with paedophile priests and in a rare old state of political chassus.
It might seem glib to say that things could be worse but, of course, they always could. While comparisons to conflict zones like Baghdad or Sudan are obviously out of line, just think of somewhere a bit nearer home. Namely, Italy, Il Bel Paese from where your correspondent writes.
One of the observations most often heard by Irish commentators, and indeed by the “man in the street”, refers to the sense of shame that many Irish feel about the manner in which the Celtic Tiger years were mishandled. But, lads, when it comes to shame, frankly you are in the halfpenny place.
The other day, Rome daily La Repubblicaopened a message box (Vistadafuori@repubblica.it) for Italians living abroad. Very quickly, the messages were arriving at a rhythm of four per minute. Many of them expressed discomfort, shame, embarrassment, anger or worse with the alleged "Sultan Nights" antics of, yes, Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi.
For those of you who have had more edifying things to follow in recent weeks, let us just say that, if reports, phone taps and prosecutors’ dossiers are to be believed, then Mr Berlusconi is currently doing a pretty good imitation of second century Roman Emperor Commodus. The accusation is not so much that he is “fiddling while Rome burns” (that was the Emperor Nero), no, it is more that he is “partying” while the “sick man of Europe” continues to stagnate. (Among other weird and wonderful things, Commodus allegedly maintained a harem of 300 boys and girls with the whom he “indulged in lengthy orgies and reveled in decadent luxuries”.
Among the accusations currently levelled at Mr Berlusconi is that he housed and maintained many of his party girls in an condominium outside Milan). Mariano writes from Denmark to say that his boss considers Italy “part of North Africa now”. Giulia writes from France to say that she fights a daily battle for “credibility”. Pierluigi has a hard time in Brussels, complaining that he is fed up being stopped in the corridor every day by Polish, Lithuanian, Belgian, English, German, French, Slovene etc colleagues all wanting to know the latest about Silvio and his girls. Emilia from Barcelona says that “people here find it difficult to believe that Italians have chosen to be represented by Berlusconi”.
In short, be grateful that all you have to explain to the world is a not-so-balanced set of national housekeeping books. Just imagine if you had had to explain away “Sultan Nights In Clara, Co Offaly”.