First as Tragedy, Then as Farce, Then as This Bollocks

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Alternative title: ‘Apres Moi, le gobshite.’

Alternative alternative title: ‘Let them eat novelty socks.’

It’s seems to be a general truth that messianic and charismatic religious movements occur most often in the context of extreme upheaval, displacement and uncertainty. The Native Americans of the post-bellum United States had Wovoka and the Ghost Dance; the nineteenth century Hakkas had Hong Xiuquan and the Taiping Rebellion, and the early twenty-first century neoliberals have Macron and En Marche! (which loosely translates into English as ‘Compliant France’).

As the collapsing centre comes under attack from both left (in the form of Sanders, Corbyn, Melanchon etc.) and right, the collapse in authority and credibility of the centrist orthodoxy has been spectacular, sudden and disorientating. Indeed, the speed of the collapse also seems to have had a traumatising effect on the supporters of the liberal project in general, leading to the strange sort of mass hysteria that finds its logical conclusion in Louise Mensch confidently claiming she is about to have Steve Bannon executed for treason.

After all this, Macron’s victory in the French election must have seemed like a godsend. Here was their hoped-for messiah, someone young, fresh, not associated with the political establishment, but crucially, pro-EU and rabidly committed to market fundamentalism. Indeed, Macron is so committed to the European project that he regularly mugs Greek pensioners in one of the many symbolic acts that he is so fond of. Not only that, but his party managed to score an outright majority in the parliamentary elections, seemingly providing a pretty strong mandate for the messiah.

Colum Kenny was one of those journalists who thought that Macron could offer a model of how to save the sinking neoliberal ship. Indeed, he informs us that Macron’s ‘idealism’ is a worthy model for Irish politics. Tell me more.

At Versailles, Macron appealed to French pride (“fierté”), saying: “The French people demand from us not only efficiency. Efficiency is an instrument! One may be completely efficient in the service of a bad cause. No, it demands that which the philosopher Simone Weil called ‘effectivity’. That is to say the concrete, tangible, visible application of our guiding principles.”

Um, okay. What are these principles exactly?

In a speech that flailed clientelism, corruption, conflicts of interest and cynicism, Macron added that for his government “effectivity” means fidelity to principles, above all to liberty, equality and fraternity.

As a committed supporter of clientelism, corruption, conflicts of interest and cynicism, I am horrified. Also, given that Macron’s program of savaging public sector employment and cutting taxes is set to be most beneficial for the wealthiest ten per cent of households and a disaster for everyone else, his commitment to ‘equality’ at least seems pretty questionable. His weird, authoritarian leadership style does not bode well for liberty and, as far as fraternity goes, having a pint with him would probably be a weird and uncomfortable experience. Actually, Macron’s commitment to the principles of the French revolution doesn’t even seem to extend as far as not having a king.

Irish politicians will treat his words as standard political rhetoric at their peril.

No, they will do so correctly.

What principles guide Ireland today? The import of principles is vague but real.

I’m going to admit I have no idea what this sentence means.

Unsurprisingly, beaten opponents ridiculed Macron, a former highly-paid investment banker at Rothschilds, suggesting that his choice of venue reflected a king-sized ego. They suspect he appeals to principle in order to soften the blow of planned economic changes.

Yes, the only time Colum manages to say something even remotely sensible is when he is mocking the (entirely accurate) opinions of others.

Speaking of king-sized egos, it’s noticeable that liberals who are ready to diagnose Trump (correctly) with pathological narcissism seem far more reluctant to do so in relation to a man who claims his thoughts are too complex for journalists to understand and compared himself to Jupiter. My earlier comparison to Hong Xiuquan is therefore a little unfair, as he only thought he was the brother of Jesus Christ, a comparatively modest claim.

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But Macron has succeeded precisely because he brings more than a centrist technocratic presence to the public stage. He actually inspires, in a peculiar low-key way that captures the unassuming spirit of this age.

Does this age have a particularly unassuming spirit? Can I check somehow? Also, Macron has succeeded primarily by not being Marie Le Pen, something which most people do all the time without even making a big deal out of it.

Reading Kenny, of course, one begins to understand the man’s love of Macron. They are both adept at saying absolutely nothing while talking (or writing) at length, as well as bringing in philosophical and historical references that seem to serve no other purpose than to add an unconvincing intellectual gloss to the warblings of an empty vessel. Indeed, Kenny’s article is replete with quotations and references to Simone Weil which seem to serve no other purpose than to show that Colum Kenny has read Simone Weil. The pretension on display here is nothing short of remarkable.

Macron, a student of philosophy, is keenly aware of history and can appreciate past connections between Ireland and France, from flocks of “wild geese” who landed at the court of the deposed King James II at St Germain to the industries and vineyards that Irish emigrants established across France.

Yes, Macron almost certainly spends a lot, probably most, of his time thinking about exiled Gaelic aristocrats, which will definitely have important policy impacts.

But Macron also understands the selective nature of history, what is and perhaps should be forgotten. His focus is on the future. He grasps the limits of ideology. Public relations and spin do not measure up to historical challenges such as globalisation and climate change.

Colum Kenny is a truly postmodern figure. Within his empty head, sign and signifier zip around randomly until contact is made and they become a column.

If the pride which Macron evoked in his speech at Versailles is more than personal vanity or national chauvinism, then chiming with his clock requires Ireland to prove its own efficacity, to show and not just say that we stand for something more than the reception of agricultural grants or competition with France for London’s nervous financial services.

Okay cool, we’re getting to the part where Colum Kenny tells us what these principles are.

Leo chumming with Emmanuel at a rugby match in the Stade de France (did Hugh Grant star in a rom-com there?) will not cut garlic. To bolster our relationships with the rest of Europe as Brexit bites, we need serious engagement. At least French is the one language both widely and sometimes efficiently taught in our schools.

So we need to speak French? Seriously though, what are these principles?

Unfortunately, at this time of need, Irish citizens looking at our Dáil and Seanad may be inclined to agree with the judgment of Simone Weil on political parties.

Yes, they never come. Though we do conclude with an extra reminder that Colum Kenny has read Simone Weil, probably in the original French. Cause he’s cultured and stuff.

More prominent figures too have become enamoured of Macron. Just a few days ago Bill Emmott, a former editor-in-chief of The Economist, demonstrated that these eejits really haven’t learned anything when he suggested that the solution to Brexit and the annihilation of British neo-liberalism was an insular En Marche! that would (presumably) undo the referendum, stop the Corbyn juggernaut and restore Blairism to its ideological throne.

I swallow my bile, roll my eyes and quote at length:

Even as the UK faces the upheaval of Brexit, nobody is talking about remaking – much less replacing – the established political parties. Many deny that they would even consider such a thing. Former Prime Minister Tony Blair – a pro-European centrist innovator who won three general elections for his Labour Party in the 1990s – took great care in a recent article to stress that he is “not advocating a new Party.”

But Blair, or someone like him, should be doing just that. After all, while the British political system does put formidable barriers in the path of any new party, the chances of success are greater now than at any time in the last 40 years. In a political system still feeling the aftershocks of two major earthquakes – the June 2016 Brexit referendum and, a year later, the humiliating electoral setback of the Conservative Party that spearheaded it – there is a clear opportunity for newcomers.

Already, the Conservatives are locked in an internal battle that they can only try to obscure. In the Labour Party, too, rebellions are erupting. Now is the moment for a new party, styled after French President Emmanuel Macron’s “La République En Marche,” to capitalize on the division, disarray, and distrust in the established parties. Now is the moment for a photogenic young British man or woman to follow in the 39-year-old Macron’s footsteps, making history by casting aside the old guard.

Where to fucking start?

Well let’s go with Bill’s claim that ‘Blair, or someone like him’ should be starting a new party. It is a sign of the centrist media bubble’s impenetrability that they still seem to believe that Tony Blair is popular, despite all evidence to the contrary. Indeed, according to YouGov, Blair is the 2006th least popular of the 2264 public figures whose ratings they track.  To illustrate the public contempt for Blair even more clearly, let’s have a gander at this hilarious graphic:

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In other words, Bill Emmott wants either loathed pariah Tony Blair or a similarly self-serving, money-grabbing, dishonest war criminal to found a new party.

There is, however, as Emmott claims, a ‘clear opportunity for newcomers’. You’re right Emmott. He’s called Jeremy Corbyn and people are very fond of his policies. As for the ‘rebellions erupting in the Labour Party’, they are being crushed underfoot due to the fact that neither the LP membership nor the general public have any desire to see Owen Smith or any of the other cappuccino-perplexed quislings in the parliamentary party drag the party back to the right and unelectability.

The nadir of Emmott’s myopia has to be the call for ‘a photogenic young British man or woman to follow in the 39-year-old Macron’s footsteps, making history by casting aside the old guard.’ Here we see the bitter truth. These people have no ideas. None. The best they can do is package the same discredited politics in a young, photogenic guise. Hence the bizarre enthusiasm over the relative youth of figures like Trudeau, Varadkar and Macron, latter-day Dorian Grays, each of whom has a portrait of a maggot-infested Milton Friedman hidden in their attic.

It should come as no surprise then that a man who believes himself to be comparable to the king of the Roman Pantheon is failing to live up to expectations.

In truth, Macron’s victory and En Marche’s election gains did not really represent much in the way of real depth of support. Tellingly, only 16 per cent of the people who voted for Macron picked his political program as their reason for voting him in. Moreover, the elections which swept En Marche! to power saw the lowest turnouts in the history of the republic, suggesting a stunning lack of enthusiasm for the saviour of centrism. Now, with his poll ratings already starting to fall before the ‘reforms’ have even begun, the brittleness of his support is becoming increasingly apparent.

In the end, Hong Xiuquan committed suicide before being exhumed, beheaded and burnt by Qing forces. Wovoka lived until 1932, but the Ghost Dance movement collapsed under brutal military repression. At this stage it’s beginning, hopefully, to look like Macron may end up joining them on the ash-heap of history, albeit with his photogenic head (and the impossibly complex thoughts therein) intact.

 

Exclusive: John Waters – A Monk’s Eye View

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Introduction

This is a first for the Pleased Middle, a real bona fide scoop. First, some background. About three years ago, the monks of Mount Melleray, as part of some sort of extreme penitence, were compelled to have John Waters as a sort of guest speaker at their annual retreat, giving two talks per day for six days. For foreign readers, John Waters is best described as a mash-up between a morose Peter Hitchens and Harvey Keitel’s character in Bad Lieutenant, though more psychologically unstable than either of those.

A few weeks ago, a defrocked monk, who wishes to remain anonymous, contacted the Pleased Middle Press Corps with his own account of what transpired during that six-day retreat. We thank our mystery monk for his dedication to the truth. Here follows his unedited account of that week.

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About three years ago, while I was still a monk of the Cistercian Order, we were informed that we would have a guest speaker at our annual retreat. This was no surprise, for guest speakers (usually a nun or missionary of some kind) were, and are, a regular feature of the retreat. That year, unusually, our guest speaker was to be John Waters. I was quite excited until I discovered that it wasn’t the transgresssive film-maker, but a less interesting individual of the same name. Nevertheless I felt it would be stimulating for our spiritual development to hear perspectives from a layman, even if he wasn’t the director of Pink Flamingos. As such, I volunteered to welcome Mr. Waters to Mount Mellary and to show him around.

On Sunday evening, Mr. Waters arrived. I greeted him at the gates. The first impression Mr. Waters presents is that of a sexually embittered trad musician whose eyes are bottomless recesses of melancholy. Nevertheless, he managed a smile and thanked me for my hospitality. I inquired as to his journey and was surprised to discover that his drive from Dublin had taken over nine hours. When I asked why, he explained that he usually drove in bizarre, winding and circuitous patterns in order to avoid ‘them’. When I asked who ‘they’ were, he refused to answer. I would later discover that whenever Mr. Waters made veiled references to ‘them’, he was implying the existence of an international conspiracy involving the ‘lavender mafia’, family court judges and Diageo.

I took Mr. Waters to his room and allowed him to get comfortable. He placed his luggage in the corner of the room and produced a length of hard leather. Seemingly ignoring my presence, he stripped to his waist and began to whip himself mercilessly on his back. I attempted to interrupt him, informing the journalist that self-flaggelation was not common practice among Cistercians, and was, in fact, severely frowned upon. He just smiled and told me he would see me at breakfast.

Mr. Waters had agreed to provide two half-hour talks per day. Since the retreat formally began on a Monday, I awoke that day with some excitement as to what I could expect to learn from this layman. I was, alas, disappointed. The columnist’s first talk was a rather laboured piece of exegesis that tried to demonstrate that Patsy McGarry was the ‘lawless one’ referred to in 2 Thessalonians. The second was a rather unusual confession of John Waters’ own sexual proclivities, which was, I must confess, inappropriate and irrelevant, particularly when he asked for audience feedback as to the specific penance recommend for each of the (relatively mild) sex-acts described. Neither of these talks gave me much hope for what was to follow.

Tuesday was perhaps the nadir of the week. John’s first talk was a explanation of how much comfort he had taken from the Book of Job during his own persecution, during which he unironically compared his being called a homophobe on the Brendan O’Connor show to the destruction of the second temple. The second talk was less coherent, simply consisting of random threats of litigation.

Wednesday morning’s talk focused on what Waters described as the ‘continuing progress in Iraq and Libya’ which concluded with Waters anointing a papier maché AIM-9 Sidewinder missile with holy water. During the afternoon talk he described how the Irish Times had personally thwarted the consecration of Russia. When pressed for evidence, he produced an image in which he appeared to have crudely photoshopped a picture of the 1985 Moscow Victory Day parade to depict Fintan O’Toole (in full military garb) standing next to Gorbachev atop the Lenin Mausoleum.

Thursday’s talk revolved mainly around an event called the ‘Electric Picnic’ which I had previously believed to be a music festival, but which Mr. Waters described as a ritualistic cult-celebration. Central to his description was something called ‘Soul-Poison’ which I initially assumed to be some new form of recreational drug and / or musical genre. It turned out to be beer. The afternoon session, however, was a great deal worse, bordering on heretical when Waters claimed that he knew the third secret of Fatima, and that it involved alimony payments.

Both sessions on Friday were a powerpoint-aided taxonomy of the differences between paedophiles and ephebophiles. I wasn’t sure of its relevance to spirituality, though I was certainly impressed by its exhaustiveness and depth of research.

By the last day, John Waters’ health had visibly deteriorated. His hair and beard were tattered and unwashed, with substantial amounts of toffee knotted throughout. His pallor, not great to begin with, had declined to a sort of soupy-greyish blue. Indeed, his skin seemed to hang off his bones like melted wax. Nevertheless, he managed to hold himself together for the first talk in which he quoted extensively and approvingly from John Knox’s The First Blast of the Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of Women. I personally felt the inclusion of a protestant theologian to be rather unusual, even though I am of a somewhat ecumenicist disposition. His final talk was perhaps the most unusual, a comparison of Mao’s China and the UK Family Court system. It concluded with Waters rending his garments and howling in tongues. Most of us became quite uncomfortable at this point and slipped quietly out of the room, leaving Mr Waters to his demons.

John Waters left that night, under cover of darkness. The visit, it was agreed by all, had not been a success. The Abbott, whose idea it had been to invite Mr. Waters, was even worried that he would be excommunicated for his decision. Indeed, he later privately admitted that inviting the director John Waters may have been a better choice.

For myself, it was the beginning of a crisis of faith that would lead me to leave behind the religious life. My encounter with Mr. Waters showed me that searching for meaning in a world where Mr. Waters had a column in a national newspaper was a fruitless endeavour, a Sisyphus-like struggle that was ultimately futile.

Still, some nights, I dream of John Waters, not in his human form, but that of an emaciated buzzard, perched on a telephone pole at a music festival, sighing and shaking his head in disappointment at a world that has ignored, mocked and rejected him. At the end of the dream he flies away, pursued by an eagle with the head of Patsy McGarry.

Alison O’Connor’s Erratic Empathy

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It’s been a trying week for Alison O’Connor, who discovered twitter is mean, a fact that should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever been on twitter. More specifically she is referring to the fact that people responded to this particular tweet with mockery and derision.

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The Jobstown verdict, in which a jury found people not guilty of a silly charge for which there was no evidence (aside from the fertile imagination of crooked cops), has been causing a more general furor among the commentariat. Having ran through a number of possible explanations for how a jury didn’t reach the ‘correct’ verdict (a number of long-prison sentences for causing a government minister to be delayed slightly), they eventually decided on two explanations:

1. The charges were too severe (because they failed to stick).

2. Them social medias is killin’ the judicial systemz (by depriving broadsheet journalism of its monopoly on trial coverage).

It is the existence of social media that concerns O’Connor, whose screed begins blandly enough:

I have always felt that the privilege of being a journalist is that you get to write things that are read by an audience, or if you also broadcast, to say things publicly.

I’ve always felt that the privilege of being a Sheffield Wednesday midfielder is playing in the middle of the field for Sheffield Wednesday.

Alison continues:

But what ended up happening that day in Jobstown was good old-fashioned bullying, just as it is online. There it is an opportunity to express utter contempt for those who do not hold the same “pure position” as they do. To describe it as political expression is nonsense.

A key part of the approach by the militant wing of this protest group was an exceptionally successful campaign to utterly dehumanise Joan Burton. By doing so it made it perfectly alright in the eyes of these people to put the former tánaiste through such an experience.

This experience was being delayed for a few hours in a car, while surrounded by a battalion of Gardaí, with air support. This strikes me as being a fairly liberal interpretation of dehumanisation.

How was she not to know that things might not get out of hand and that the car could not have been overturned?

Yes! Moreover, how was she to know that none of the protestors were suicide bombers? Or that Paul Murphy wasn’t about to rip open the door with his teeth in a bid to devour the women within?

Seriously though, the 180 Gardaí would have been provided some fairly strong re-assurance that the car wasn’t in danger of being overturned.

However, it’s not just Joan Burton who is feeling the brunt of the bullies, but Alison O’Connor herself, who was subjected to a series of accurate descriptions of Alison O’Connor.

The replies covered a wide range. I was called an asskisser, poor little snowflake, unable to handle it, an ignorer of perjury, a liar, a victim, part of the MSM conspiracy (had to look that one up, it’s mainstream media apparently), an attention seeker (trying to get myself on the radio or television), smart arsed, privileged, naïve and unable to see outside my own privileged social set.

All of these things are entirely correct, except for the existence of a mainstream media conspiracy. Most Irish media commentators are so firmly practiced in the art of sycophantic group-think that a conspiracy would represent a needless formality.

The article ends on a defiant (albeit childishly petty) note:

Anyway the good news is I’m off on holidays for a few weeks. Needless to say, given my privileged position, the vacation involves a private yacht, casinos and a bevy of servants. In the event I think I may well take the advice of one of the many who tweeted me in the past few days. It was: “Get off Twitter if you can’t ignore the nutters.”

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There really is little of note in this article. O’Connor is such a blandly typical mouthpiece of orthodoxy that she could be replaced with an algorithm and nobody would notice the difference. However, two things did catch my eye, in the course of what was largely a self-indulgent whine, which are significant in terms of the off-hand, dismissive way in which she mentions them. The first is this:

There are many questions to be asked about the trial, chief among them the decision by the DPP to bring charges of false imprisonment which potentially carried a life sentence. Those on trial have been cleared of the charges, and they were a heavy weight for those six men to bear in the intervening years.

Why then does this, a years-long trial in which bogus charges were inflicted on six innocent people, largely as a result of Garda perjury, merit only one throwaway paragraph? While a heated protest in Tallaght, and people making fun of Alison O’Connor, is deemed to require an entire, indignant column?

None of this is not to ignore the true suffering of the people in Jobstown and other places like it during the austerity years, and their legitimate desire to protest about what they had to disproportionately endure.

It absolutely fucking is. Indeed, to get a real insight into O’Connor’s feelings towards places like Jobstown and the right of their inhabitants to protest one should instead look to this 2015 column, written at the height of the anti-water charges movement:

The anti-water-charges movement has ‘jumped the shark’ in the sincerity of its protests. That is the phrase that comes to mind as I observe the antics of some of the protesters, who have brought the movement into disrepute. I just wish they would shove off and let people, including those employed by Irish Water, or our democratically elected representatives, get on with their business.

This paragraph, in a way, cuts through the bullshit and shines a light onto O’Connor’s real views. Despite a half-hearted, and entirely rhetorical, acknowledgement of the suffering that places like Jobstown have suffered at the hands of austerity, those plebs should ultimately know their place well enough to ‘shove off’ and let their betters ‘get on with their business.’

One of the defining tropes of a declining neo-liberalism is its entirely managerial nature in which politics becomes a competition between competing brands of the same politics. Beyond this ‘debate’ there lies an ecosystem of vapid pundits, the Noel Whelans and Alison O’Connors of this world, who derive their lifeblood from commenting on this shallow, tedious game.

Places like Jobstown really don’t enter into this world (nor, of course, do most places or people). Indeed, for people like O’Connor, Jobstown or Knocknaheeny are every bit as strange and exotic as Timbuktu or Kyrgzstan. When they do enter the world of politics, they are vilified as ignorant bullies who need to ‘shove off’ and let the middle-class managerial elite get on with the job of governance.

Alison O’Connor’s political utopia is a small room wherein she and her buddies discuss the sock decisions of a handful of enlightened despots.

 

John Drennan Wrote a Book and Its Amazon Page is Beautiful

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Among the strange cultists of the Sunday Independent, John Drennan was noteworthy only in the sense of resembling Milos Zeman (in terms of health, physique and intellect) after a two-year long pub-crawl, a truck full of woodbines and a stressful fifth divorce. Within the weirdly insular world of the Sindo, a closed system where everyone who writes for it has convinced themselves that they’re geniuses by (1) constantly saying so and (2) using high circulation figures as a thick, fortified shield against the vagaries of reality, it is entirely possible to never be right about anything and also consider yourself to be the greatest political commentator / restaurant-reviewer / literary critic / fashion correspondent in human history.

Of course, since most of the Sindo commentators see no reason to ever leave the compound, they can pretty much avoid the experience of hubris indefinitely. Not so John Drennan, who ill-avisedly entered the real world, with predictable consequences. This decision also led to the creation of the world’s most amazing Amazon product page.

This is the story of that Amazon product page, a thing of beauty that will, like Milos Zeman, outlive Drennan himself.

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To set the scene, about three years ago the Sunday Independent hive-mind decided that what the country really needed was a new right-wing party, a sort of PDs Mark II. The fact that there was absolutely no evidence for this whatsoever was no problem for the hive-mind, who decided that they would find this constituency of opinion by simply reporting its existence until life imitated art. This was a bold strategy and the hive-mind saw its messiah in the form of Lucinda Creighton, an up-and-coming blueshirt who broke the Fine Gael whip because of her passionate advocacy of bringing the full weight of the carceral state onto the heads of any woman who didn’t want to bring their pregnancy to term. Supported by innumerable Sindo puff-pieces, Creighton was pushed forward as the redeeming angel of the Irish right, and soon began work on a new party. The project attracted the worst people in Ireland, including snake-oil property charlatan Eddie Hobbs, various oddball Falangists and, of course, John Drennan, who became their Director of Communications and Political Strategy, a sort of low-budget Joseph Napolitan.

Unsurprisingly, Renua was a car-crash, pretty much imploding on launch as the more respectable right-wing independent TDs stayed well away, leaving Creighton and a handful of anti-abortion backbenchers whose political and media skills were . . . unsophisticated. Moreover, it was unclear what political space the party was supposed to inhabit, given the overpopulation of the Irish right. Renua failed to attract any significant support, aside from one prominent celebrity. In the end, the project was a complete failure; the Sindo, having spent months hyping it up, ditched Renua almost immediately. Having hoped to run a candidate in at least each Dáil constituency, the party limped into the 2016 general election with just 26 candidates and a set of policies (a three-strike law, a flat-tax) nicked from the US Freedom Caucus that were well to the right of Ireland’s Overton Window. The result was the loss of all their TDs and the gradual abandonment of the party which, despite having no prospect of ever winning a seat anywhere, inexplicably soldiers on.

It was in the heady period between the launch of Renua and the electoral implosion of Renua the that Drennan decided to write a book, which bore the title: The Great Betrayal: How the Government with the Largest Majority in the History of the Irish State Lost its People.

Obviously I didn’t read this book, nor did anyone else including (most likely) Drennan’s editor or immediate family. The timing of its release, just before Drennan left the Sindo to become Renua’s spin-doctor, suggests that it was meant to act as a self-serving attention-drawer to highlight Drennan’s political acumen and vision; a sort of The Audacity of Dopes. This leads us nicely to the Great Gatsby of Amazon Product Pages.

The following fact must be borne in mind at all times throughout examining the product page: John Drennan, as Chief Strategist for Renua, bears a large chunk of the responsibility for the biggest political farce in recent Irish history, a total, unmitigated car crash which should have ended the careers of everyone involved.

The first thing to note is the super-lengthy title which seems to echo high-status works like The Spirit Level or The Better Angels of Our Nature. The difference is that this is a soggy pile of nothing written by a public house patron-botherer. How did the publisher attempt to push this bilge? (I obviously haven’t read it, but I can categorically state that it is awful).

From penalty points to water charges, funding cuts to tax hikes, The Great Betrayal is a cutting assessment of the upheavals, egos and scraps that shaped the 31st Dáil by Ireland’s most sagacious political pundit-turned-political operator

Yes, that’s the blurb. That’s how the book describes John Drennan, Renua’s Chief Spindoctor.

Written with the unique insight of one of the most original observers of Irish politics, The Great Betrayal provides an entertaining and enlightening narrative of a government that, in the eyes of many, betrayed the hopes of the Irish electorate for a democratic revolution, almost immediately after being elected with a thumping majority.

Blurb: Please stop saying nice things about John Drennan, it’s not going to end well for you.

The Great Betrayal is required reading for anyone wondering how it all went wrong and where we might go from here.

It definitely isn’t.

Again, I obviously haven’t read this book. Luckily, at least one other person may have.  So I leave you with the words of the product’s sole (1 star) reviewer, whose eloquence far exceeds my own.

how the hell this book turned up on my kindle its about the I r a and I m welsh I have even been charged for it !!! now its gone from my library anyone else had this problem

Amen brother.