Debauchery and depravity in Dublin

The drunk and the powerful came together, they came with their wives and their fans, they slapped backs and winked at each other for they knew what so many had denied for so long - that Fianna Fail was going to win the 2007 general election. They gathered in groups of two and three, these Fianna Failers, and they had many things in common.

The men had a look about them. They'd made an effort, scrubbed up well, shaved with a new razor and made sure their shirt was washed and ironed. They were middle aged, 40 or 50, and had the distinct appearance of Irishmen; faintly flushed red faces, cheeky puppy fat straying over the waistline and a strut, an air, a palpable confidence that found much of its vibrancy in the releasing of some major anxiety. They had been written off, their failures were well known, they looked washed up and worn out and distinctly past it but they recovered. Rope a dope. Just when you thought they were out, they pulled themselves back in.

In the count centre in Dublin West - a sports hall with sports hall floors, sports hall walls and sports hall stuffiness - they were giving oxygen to the old timer. This old Fianna Fail fox, the one you thought was beaten, had a new tune for us all to hear. It was the only show in town, they sang. The chorus called out that they and they alone were to be trusted. And the sight of Brian Lenihan tearing past the quota on the first count was a guitar solo that the great Jimi Hendrix himself would have thought igloo cool.

Lenihan's victory had never been in doubt. When I arrived late morning he looked assured. He jumped every fence and won at a canter. But in his dust lay some Trojan mares. The newcomer, Leo Varadkar from Fine Gael. The lady of some class and genuine tenderness, Joan Burton of Labour. And the tough old orator, the man they want to label but can't hold down, Joe Higgins of the Socialist Party.

They trampled all over the competition. Mags Murray of the PDs got 500 votes and a pat on the head: Mags Murray in the Dail - no thanks! Roderic O'Gorman of the Greens, with his fresher than organic parsley face and his clunkier than tonycascarino name (why not Roddy?) could never make much of a mark in an area dominated by voters who value down to earth people rather than politics. Felix Gallagher of Sinn Fein came nowhere and really didn't lay a glove on the main contenders. Gerry Lynam, the number two Fianna Fail man, did what was expected - ate into Higgins' vote and claimed Lenihan's surplus. It must be funny being the number two - there were rosettes for Brian Lenihan and stickers for Gerry Lynam.

While the three waited to see who would take the two seats Fianna Failers walked around with grins that Pat Rabbitte would think a bit much. They reeked of drink, brandy and Guinness. They gathered and whispered. They run the country, these men and women. They are the party machine. They saw the polls and the bad coverage and they redoubled their efforts. They bought second pairs of shoes and taped Coronation Street - serious canvassing had to be done. And you could see from them, they were over the moon, it had worked, whatever their strategy, whatever won it for them, it worked. They offer people hope. That's my guess. They offer social mobility to the working classes and social stability to the middle classes and social dominance to the builders classes. Labour and Fine Gael offer social solidity. Just as admirable - and some would say more so - but not romantic, not special, not new and richer.

For Fianna Fail and Fine Gael there were no young people and no accents you would recognise as Dublin born and bred. There were young people for Greens, Labour, SF and Socialist parties. For the PDs there was just Mags God love her.

Varadkar looked confident. He led the race and was close to the quota. Fianna Fail and Labour whispered about him. Where does he get his money. How much has he spent. How did he afford those posters on bustops. If Fianna Fail were jealous, Labour sounded frustrated. Varadkar came from nowhere, he's a doctor with a weedy voice and an easy affable manner, but who is he? What's he about? What does he represent? Beside Burton and Higgins he looked like a nobody. But he's a somebody, he certainly is, whether people like it or not, he represents thousands of people - reliable, genuine, nice, of good stock, all these things a father looks for when a daughter brings her boyfriend home - Varadkar has them.

He also has a Dail seat, he took it in a constituency where the weak are swallowed without need for chewing. There are some serious operators out here. We get the government we deserve? In Dublin West we feel pretty good about ourselves on that basis. Or we did until Leo took Joes seat.

Joe was gutted, really shaken. He came to the count centre with his mother. He stood all day with supporters, rifling through the numbers. He slapped no backs and didn't laugh to catch attention. He's not on first name terms with the wheelers and dealers of the other parties. He's his own man, a serious man, but he looked rattled when he saw the figures that pointed to Burton taking the last seat.

When Varadkar won and Burton won there were huge cheers but with those announcements came the death notice for Joe Higgins TD. The man who got up Bertie's nose more than the media and the tribunals put together - he made him crack, and it's rare to get a rise our of this most calm and composed Taoiseach. Joe Higgins did a number of remarkable things for a man whose party had one seat in the Dail. Who in the opposition parties could match him for intellect, decency, sincerity, wit and principle? The truth is we need more Joes. We don't need more Leos. Everybody knew it. Everybody said they'd miss Joe. Celebrations were muted by his loss. It seemed rather tasteless for people of the Left - if that's what Labour are - to celebrate the loss of the purest expression of their ideals.

Those who voted, who came out and did the business for Fianna Fail, they won't miss him. He's everything they fear. They are conservative, that is the nature of the people who vote in this country - that is clear. Joe will be back, Dublin West is due another seat. But his extreme views of social solidity send shivers through those who vote Fianna Fail and Fine Gael. Not only does he represent equality - for them he represents inequality; they would have to give up more than the average earner for his ideas - and that's never going to happen. It's hard to see how things will ever be much different in Ireland. But at least he keeps trying. The struggle in itself to reach the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.

Political compass

This is fun and it's working too. Spin it round and see where you end up. Make sure to check out Ireland's political parties too. Everyone is on the right except SP, SF and the Greens. You can also measure yourself against world leaders. Bush finishes dangerously close to facism while I finished dangerously close to Ghandi.

German footballers in sex toy victory

German international footballers Michael Ballack and Oliver Kahn romped to a sensational victory today over the use of their names to sell special World Cup dildos.

The lads received €50,000 each after a court in Hamburg found that dildos 'Michael B' and 'Ollie K' were named in reference to them without their permission.

The similarities didn't end there, though. 'Michael B' was found to be over-priced, prone to breakdown and lethargic if used more than once a month. The 'Ollie K' dildo flew off the handle easily, was covered in ginger pubes and repeatedly emitted a noise that sounded uncannily like 'Sheringham no!'

Ballack was disappointed with the episode but nonetheless seemed determined to play down its seriousness. "Yeah of course it's embarrassing, nobody likes to look like a dildo, but at least I wasn't found dogging some bird in Ayia Napa with Rio Ferdinand while Kieron Dyer taped it all on his video camera in 2000."

Kahn, speaking from an insane asylum in rural north Germany, said he was happy with the final result. "Playing in my position I don't get to score much so I was happy to hit the back of so many German nets, but my family name was at stake here so I had to clear this up."

Your local Spar

It's been grating me for a while but now I know what I hate about Spar shops. It's not their outrageous fucking ubiquity. It's not their staff who bark the prices and spit the change at you. It's not the downright rudeness of never offering a receipt. It's not the coldness of it all, the horrible pre-packaged, stage-managed feel of the place, a shop that might as well come in polystyrene. It's not that their presence drives out local, family old business under the guise of progress. It's not that I never get a smile or a nod from the staff, even though I use the same one three or four times a week. It's not that I spent 20 minutes walking around town one day because I wanted to buy a roll but didn't want it to be called a 3sal/1meat roll, which generally will come with an unasked for smattering of sweetcorn, red onion or some other stinking filth. Nah it's none of this.

It's the way the cash registers are placed so that when you make your purchase you have to turn around and fight your way through the crowd that has formed behind you. I was in Spar the other day (doesn't matter which one, they're mostly the same shop) and there was lady in front of me. She had a buggy with a nipper inside. She was buying 7 or 8 things. Checkout girl, a smile free lady, gave the woman her change and said nothing. She watched the woman awkwardly trying to stuff her crap into a plastic bag she had brought with her. Checkout girl looks at me, next in the queue, as if I should give her my paper (why do they have to scan these?) and bread. But because of the checkout set-up I can't get past the woman. Awful situation. I'm thinking: take your time. She's thinking: take me now sweet Jesus. Because there's a big queue behind her and she feels like she's holding it up.

As if that's a fucking crime anyway.

But she wasn't holding anyone up. Spar were. It's a fact that they give more space over to their ice-creams than they do to their customers. A stupid little wooden thing, 2 square foot, to put your groceries on. Get them in, get them out quick. Really a horrible way to run a business. This is the stuff that puts me in bad form. You have to be ready with your bag and your money; you have to stuff the products in your bag before you get your change back; or you just feel like a prick.

Irish irony

Irish truck drivers will protest tomorrow by staging a go-slow on the m50. They are upset at excessive delays on the m50. So they are going to delay things even more. Who knows if this info was leaked by the government or the opposition...who knows anything anymore after a bizarre weekend that felt like a month in politics.

Heads are spinning up and down the country and who knows, maybe people will welcome the perverse ambiance truckers will create on Ireland's worst piece of tarmac. The sound of engines ticking over and expensive petrol being wasted; frustrated workers beeping horns; snippets of women in suits crying they'll be late down their hands free kit; who knows, when put alongside the claims and counter claims of a wearying weekend, who knows - maybe people will support the truckers.

But probably not. Nobody will disagree that the m50 is the seventh circle of hell but who will support the truckers' action? It seems like a dumb move to me. This battle is over, the m50 is too small by at least a lane - the government knew this at the time it was being built but decided to plough on with the project anyway. It's all causes and effects; wise men tackle the former, idiots focus on the latter.