Looking at different photos of Bertie over the years, did you notice the way his nose seems to be getting longer? Did you notice that at all? I must say, I thought it was only my imagination until Wrinkly Joe sent me a text about it this morning. Remarkable. A prodigious proboscis, enhanced by constant lying.
Jesus, it looks like Miriam really boned him up the arse in the separation, doesn’t it? Fifty grand savings? Thank you Bert, I’ll ‘ave that my son! The ‘ouse? Yep, I’ll be ‘avin’ that too, guv’nor. And twenty thousand knicker for the girls’ education: in this ‘ere bag, thangyaverrymuch. While we’re at it, I’ll ‘ave that there ministerial salary, and all the expenses too, and while you’re at it, Bert, let’s have the socks, the underpants an’ all. Ta, luv!
What the fuck?
My friend, Gonad the Ballbearian, has represented many people, of both persuasions, in what we have come euphemistically to call Family Law cases. Meaning, in reality, you-fucking-bastard-I’ll-have-your-fucking-giblets cases. But Gonad makes the interesting point that in his experience, most of his male clients are paralysed by guilt, while most of his female clients feel they’re the victims.
Whatever the facts, Bertie handed over everything, and slept on the floor of his constituency office in Drumcondra, which he didn’t own. The Minister for Finance of this country was kipping down every night in a sleeping bag on the floor of a dingy old office, because he had nowhere else to go.
What about all these great friends who had the whip-around? Did none of them have a spare house he could stay in for a while? All these wealthy businessmen? Nobody had a house, or a flat, or even a guest bedroom where Bertie could have a bit of dignity, not to be sleeping in his suit on an office floor, presumably without anyplace to have a shower the next morning. Did he shave over a toilet bowl, and did the Ministerial limo wait outside for him all night, while he snoozed in said sleeping bag? Where did he do his laundry? Did the Minister for Finance arrive into some fucking laundrette on Dorset Street with a black bag full of sweaty jocks? There ya go, Boss. I’ll be back after the Budget.
Go back to Miriam for a minute. I hear that their relationship was tempestuous. Could this have been the reason Bertie capitulated to all demands? Was he determined to avoid publicity no matter the cost? I mean, after all, it’s a well-established fact that if you fling mud, some of it sticks.
Anyway, whatever the facts are, it seems to me that Bertie is well and truly caught. It boils down to this: he took money while he was the Minister. He didn’t pay it back. He stayed in the job. And by the way, what’s all this about going to Manchester while he was still a minister, and getting paid to talk about the Irish economy? Eight grand? What?? And incidentally, while I’m at it, in the early nineties, Bertie managed in two or three years to SAVE fifty grand, which was a house and a half at the time. How long would it take you to save fifty grand even today? Would you ever be able to save that much money? I don’t know, but I can tell you, it wouldn’t be possible for me, even in today’s money. Remember, this was a guy who was put to the pin of his collar due to an acrimonious separation. He saved the money when he was Lord Mayor of Dublin. Was the pay that good? I don’t know what his salary was, but the average industrial wage in 1990 was, I think, less than 10 thousand. That’s pretty intense saving, almost on a George Redmond scale. Incredible.
One other thing: isn’t it amazing that his millionaire daughter couldn’t send the twelve lads back their 50k, just in case Dad got hung out by the bollocks? What’s that all about?
One final thing. Miriam’s a bit of a dog, isn’t she?