How to run a household on less than €4,000 a week

Sunday Tribune, 29 March

It was one of the great comic performances of the Celtic Tiger era. Pee Flynn on The Late Late Show, grinning like he had a coathanger in his gob after telling the audience how he ran three households on £100,000 a year. Poor out-of-touch Pee, the poster boy for gombeen politics. Who else would claim to spend so much on housekeeping?
Another Fianna Fáil man, perhaps?
Zip forward 10 years and Offaly councillor Ger Killally is bemoaning the high cost of housekeeping. Killally, a former running mate of Brian Cowen, sobbed as he told a judge he needs €4,000 a week to meet household expenses. FOUR GRAND A WEEK. That's €192,000 a year – six times the average industrial wage.
Councillor/auctioneer Killally, who has admitted he made secret profits from land deals and resigned his party's whip, was ordered by the Commercial Court not to reduce his assets below €8m in February. Last Tuesday, he pleaded to have those assets unfrozen to make ends meet. He wept as he detailed his outgoings, which included problems with his underfloor heating and the expense of raising two small children, with another on the way. He was "in between" cars, as his 2008 Audi SUV had been damaged in a road accident. He can't afford to repair it. Oh, and his mobile phone has been cut off.
Killally is actually a victim of the Celtic Tiger. If it wasn't for the boom, he wouldn't be living in a nine-bedroom castellated monster-mansion with all those bills to pay. He deserves our sympathy. Imagine having to struggle with a €4,000-a-week housekeeping bill. There aren't many of us who have faced that kind of challenge. With the exception of Fiona Nagle, of course.
Remember Fiona? She's the socialite wife of Breifne O'Brien, the Dublin tycoon who has been ordered to pay €16m to investors in his alleged 'pyramid scheme'.
Fiona is a former receptionist and party organiser who told Image magazine in 2006 that she never "sticks to one designer". A few Chanel pieces "always rise to the top of the pile", she said, adding that Roland Mouret makes her "feel like a woman". Her "diamond butterfly ring from Van Cleef & Arpels goes with jeans or evening wear". Well it would, wouldn't it?
In January, Nagle – who is not accused of any wrongdoing – also pleaded with a judge to unfreeze the family's assets. She said she needed money to cover her household expenses. Coincidentally, like Killally, she also needed €4,000 a week to pay her bills. Diamond polish obviously isn't cheap (not that I'd know).
Nagle must really be short of a few bob as, last month, a judge had to instruct gardaí to bring her to court for non-payment of parking fines. The warrant was withdrawn and she has since ponied up. Still, at least she had a car to park illegally, unlike poor Ger Killally.
A week later, Nagle pleaded with the media to respect her privacy. There's an irony in that: a PR person asking the press to stay away. It was not as ironic, however, as hearing a Fianna Fáil man blaming the crash for his ruination. It was Fianna Fáil, after all, that sowed the seeds of it with the property boom, from which he profited. It was his former running mate that was at the financial helm when everything went belly-up.
It was Fianna Fáil that refinanced the banks and then let an old-age pensioner give it two fingers over a €1m bonus. Only a hard-necked Tiger stalwart like Michael Fingleton could believe he deserves that and a €28m pension. Is he mad? He's in his 70s – it's not like he has a lot of time left to spend it all. Does he have housekeeping bills like Killally and Nagle? Does his house cost €4,000 a week to run?
You really have to marvel at how out of touch these people are. They just don't get it: the party's over. The rest of us have known this for months. No one, except perhaps Fingleton, is running up housekeeping bills of €4,000 a week any more. We're drawing the dole or taking pay cuts.
On Friday, Judge Peter Kelly said Killally must come to his sense and reduce his living expenses. So the councillor will just have to stop crying and get on with life. He'll have to learn how to shop with an eye for a bargain, just like us. (Eurospar has a €3.49 deal on a cabbage/turnip/carrots combo.) He may even have to use public transport and wear slippers now that the underfloor heating is shot.
Here's an offer for you, Ger. Why don't you hire me as your housekeeper? I know how to run a household on less than €4,000 a week. Come on, give me a call. I've a load of mince in the freezer and can be at your place, making your dinner, by tomorrow evening.
I have to admit that when I read about your housekeeping plight last week, the tears ran down my face as well.
Well, where would we be without our sense of humour?

dkenny@tribune.ie

Pope vs Messiah: the conflict that will define modern Ireland

Sunday Tribune, 22 March

There he was, the little Taoiseach: bassett-hound cheeks blushing, trying to stop his tongue flopping out the side of his mouth as it does when he's happy. If he had a tail, he'd have wagged it.
After all the flak at home, Brian Cowen was finally enjoying himself. He had come bearing gifts (a begging bowl of Irish weeds) and got a pat on the head and a good aul' feed at the White House. More important, he'd got Obama to promise to visit Offaly.
Nice one.
When Gordon Brown visited Washington, he only got a few manky DVDs – and he's blind in one eye, lads.
"Jaze, but tha' was some craic," said Cowen the next morning, as he popped a Panadol and changed his socks for the flight home. "Hould on a sec though, who're them lads?" he asked, pointing at the four rows of bearded gentlemen waving at him from across the aisle.
"Guantanamo Bay, boss," replied his aide. "You adopted them last night."
"Wha'? How did tha' happen?"
The aide raised an imaginary glass to his lips and tilted it a couple of times. Jaze, thought the Taoiseach, Obama spiked my pint.
"Don't worry," said the aide, "we'll shave them and stick them in Carlow along with the 48 other lads we have coming over from Burma. No one will notice."
Before take-off, Cowen checked his voicemail. "Jaze lads," he sighed, "looks like the Pope's coming to Ireland too."

And so, Ireland is now facing visits from the world's two most powerful men: one bringing a message of hope, the other bringing a boot to kick our pagan backsides. One represents the material world, the other the spiritual. One is liberal, the other ultra-conservative. Cowen must be hoping they don't want to come on the same day.
Last week, the Telegraph newspaper reported that Pope Benedict will tour Britain next year and is considering coming here as well. Unlike the euphoria over Obama, there's been no great rejoicing at the prospect of him visiting us.
What kind of reception will each man get? Sociologists will be watching closely, because the Pope's welcome will, inevitably, be measured against Obama's. The result will define post-Celtic Tiger Ireland.
If the public had to choose between both visits, it would probably pick Obama. It's easy to see why. He is handsome, healthy and young. The Pope is stern, stooped and ancient. Barack says "Yes, we can", Benedict says "No, you can't". The former sees stem-cell research as a boon to mankind, the latter sees it as dooming mankind. Obama stands for hope, Benedict says hell really exists.
Then there's the Hitler Youth thing. Oh, and the condoms. Benedict visited Cameroon last week and said the church still opposes the use of condoms, even in a country with an Aids epidemic. Cameroon, by the way, has the world's fastest-growing Catholic population. Well it would, wouldn't it, considering he won't let them wear condoms.
So how would Ireland benefit from a visit by Benedict? Would it yank us back in line? Probably not. When John Paul II visited he was given a hero's welcome, but his trip didn't halt social change. Since then, we've introduced divorce, contraception, exposed church scandals, etc.
We now prefer sound bites to sermons, so if Benedict's visit is to bring hope, he's on a loser compared to Obama. When the civil-rights hero comes, the multitudes will hang on every word. The Pope's visit, on the other hand, will probably be marked by civil-rights protests. It would be disastrous for Catholicism if the Irish booed Benedict and greeted Obama like the Messiah. It would deal the ailing church here yet another sucker punch.
For this reason, Benedict should not come to Ireland. Obama's popularity would only highlight his lack of it. Besides, he'd be better off at home rethinking the rules on condoms.
Unlike the Pope, Brian Cowen is benefiting from the Obama effect. Yes, the visuals at the White House were awful: at one stage he looked like a bullfrog trying to catch a fly with his tongue. That said, he actually did a good job, even if Obama spiked his pint and made him adopt some Guantanamo lads. The word is, however, that Cowen's having the last laugh on the president.
Apparently, he's asked them to do security for his visit.


March 22, 2009

This is not a rebel column: Bono still makes me proud

Sunday Tribune, 15 March

It was in the summer of 1983 that the strange man asked my little sister what she was having for tea. She was 12 and I recall her holding the receiver away as if it had farted in her ear. “What’s up?” I asked. She had been in the hall for five minutes since the phone rang.
“He’s messing,” she said, alarmingly.
“Who’s messing?”
“Burgers,” she told the mystery caller adding, to me, “he says he’s Bono, but I’ve told him he’s not. He won’t go away. I want my burgers.” The phone was nearly back on the hook before the penny dropped. “MUUUUUMMMM! Come quick!” I roared, grabbing it.
I’d better explain. It really was Bono, but in my sister’s defence, you don’t expect rock stars to phone up asking what’s for tea. My mother is an anti-drugs campaigner and was producing a charity video with him called ‘Bands Against Drugs’. Bono had brought in the biggies: Lou Reid, Peter Gabriel, Sting. You won’t remember the video, but I mention it because Bono did it without fanfare.
For the past month, Bono has been slow-roasted at the stake over his tax affairs. In 2006 – before the recession – U2 decided to move part of its business to Holland to cut its tax burden. Annoyance over this has re-ignited and all Bono’s extraordinary achievements have been thrown onto the blaze along with him. What’s galling is that his detractors are mainly from my generation – the people who took such pride in U2’s conquest of the world.
The mob has forgotten that Bono is a rock star and could spend his time snorting coke with hookers. Instead, he uses it, and his own money, lobbying for an end to poverty. Bad Bono. Why can’t you be more like Keith Moon?
Bono is one of our most successful businessmen ever. We used to be proud of our top entrepreneurs. Why not him? He spends a lot of money here, employs people and – whether we like it or not – U2 is a business and is entitled to protect its interests. With the abuse he’s getting, you’d swear he punches kittens for fun.
Granted, sometimes his pronouncements are too high-falutin’ for our tastes, but he’s also known for being down-to-earth with fans and hacks. However, if you’re in the media, it’s not ‘cool’ to like Bono. Still, when he plays Croker, every bar-stool critic will want to be there.
U2 have given more to this country than is quantifiable in cash, and for little thanks. They wrote the soundtrack to our youth. If you’re too young to remember the Dandelion Market there will always be someone older to claim they were there for their first gig. (Like the GPO in 1916.)
Whenever I hear “This is not a rebel song …” the hairs still stand up on the back of my neck. When ‘War’ hit number one in the depths of the recession I nearly burst with pride: four Dubs were cracking the UK charts. My generation thought, ‘maybe we can succeed’. U2’s success gave us hope.
Then came the moment that a thousand Riverdances couldn’t match: the world watching as a mullet-haired Irishman mesmerised Wembley. Bono’s performance at Live Aid was possibly the greatest feat of crowd control since JC and the loaves and fishes. (Maybe.)
I’m not Bono’s PR and don’t want, or need, anything from him. He doesn’t need me to defend him from the mob but, like many others, I’m sick of the small town begrudgery he has to endure. There are plenty of other heads to stick on spikes (Bertie, bags get Bertie!).
On Tuesday we celebrate our national day. In any other country Bono and the lads would be at the head of the parade. How often have you said you’re Irish, when abroad, and been answered with “Ah, Ireland… Bono, U2.”?
There is some positive news for U2, though. The Dubliner magazine has just published its poll of the Top 10 things that make us proud to be Irish. U2 are at number eight, just ahead of the Irish breakfast roll. In 1983 my sister’s burgers were more popular than Bono. In 2009, he’s edged past some sausages.
Top of the list is our sense of humour. I hope Bono still has his.
F**k the begrudgers.

dkenny@tribune.ie

Why I am not ashamed to be drawing the dole again

Sunday Tribune, 8 March, 2008

June 1995, the sun is shining, the economy is recovering, people are smiling… and there's a cloud over my head. I am redundant and staring at the dole office in Dún Laoghaire. I'm 28 and about to sign on for the first time.
The dole office is located beside the 'Tech' college. I always thought this was a strange juxtaposition that sent out the message: "We know you're going to fail your Leaving so we conveniently plonked the dole queue a few feet away."
I wound up repeating my Leaving there in 1985 because I'd cocked up my application to journalism college.
After an all-boys private school, this was heaven. I got to sit beside girls. (GIRLS!) This concentration-drain guaranteed that I was never going to see the inside of journalism college.
Luck loves a chancer, however, and during my stint at the Tech I had my first article published in the Evening Press and landed a job as a 'junior'. Two years later I was a staffer with money in my pocket and a false sense of pride and security.
Ten years on, in June 1995, the Press collapsed and I walked out of the sunlight and into the dole office. All my grafting amounted to nothing and I was a failure. People from Middle Ireland didn't draw the dole. I was a pariah, in my own eyes at least.
It was hard to see the back of the dole queue through the cloud of Major smoke. I'd like to say I smelt the scent of defeat in the air, but I don't recall it. Just my own shame, magnified by the drabness of the surroundings. This was something some of my peers picked up on.
Although it wasn't said, drawing the dole was the final resort. It carried a stigma that ranked somewhere between banging on the poorhouse door and being named in Stubbs Gazette. You were a dosser.
The man who paid me my dole each week clearly thought this as he flung my money through the hatch. His eyes said: "Sponger."
Thursday 5 March, 2009, and the sun is shining. I'm redundant and at the dole office, signing on again. This time I have Jarlath from RTÉ's Mooney Show at my elbow, recording my thoughts.
Production journalism, from which I made 80% of my living, is being universally pared back and it was inevitable that my job as associate editor would come to an end. Last in, first out, and there are, genuinely, no hard feelings.
I am worried though: my wife has taken a 10% pay cut and this column is my only income. I am worried – but I'm not embarrassed. I have asked the Mooneys along because I want to go public about being made redundant. I am not ashamed of this. Middle Ireland still is though.
In the dole office, I spot a former neighbour who was a legal secretary. The man to my left tells me he's in IT and to my right is a luxury car salesman. There are two graduates in front of me. No one will go on the record.
Outside, Jarlath speaks to an architect who agrees that the stigma persists. So does the lady who deals with my claim. She was very sympathetic, by the way.
I tick all the Middle Ireland boxes: I have a semi-d with a crippling boomtime mortgage and a formerly comfortable life. Now I am looking for help from the state.
I went public on the Mooney Show last week to say that there is no shame in this. This is a democratic recession and everyone is being hit, from lawyers to labourers. We are all in freefall and it's vital to remember that it's nothing personal and your own worth hasn't been diminished. If you're reading this and are unemployed, don't be afraid to admit it. There are 350,000 others like us.
I hope I didn't come across as a twat on the radio, whingeing about my own situation. I don't want sympathy: there are people out there much worse off than I am. However, I am very grateful for all the kind messages I've received.
Anyway, enough of all this gloom.
Normal service will resume in this column next week. Brian Cowen, your arse is in my crosshairs.

dave@davekenny.com

Face reality, we're marching over the edge of an economic cliff

Sunday Tribune 1 March

"Jesus! Who shot you?" My friend, Andrew, was walking towards me with a bullet hole in his forehead.
"It's Ash Wednesday, you idiot," he sighed, pointing out that we had just entered the solemn festival of Lent. Forty days of fast, abstinence and whatever else you're (not) having. I had forgotten this because Lent started early this year in the Kenny household, as it did in thousands of others.
That evening, on RTÉ, I watched protestors march outside the Dáil and recalled beating a similar path 14 years ago.
The summer of 1995 was drier than Daniel O'Donnell's drinks cabinet: perfect weather for a street protest, lousy weather for a sit-in. At noon on Saturday 27 May, a lanky young hack (me) legged it down Burgh Quay, staggering under the weight of a colossal hangover. My sore head was the result of a night spent lamenting the imminent demise of my employer of 10 years, the Irish Press Group. Despite the bleariness, I was determined to take part in the unfolding events.
The background to the Press's decline is unimportant now, but, in short, we journalists believed we could save the loss-making titles, while management appeared hell-bent on closing them down. We decided to lock ourselves into the building as a protest.
In the newsroom, my colleagues had gathered around the 'night town' desk, listening to the radio headlines. On the cigarette-scarred desktops were piles of the XPress, a home-made paper we'd assembled the night before. The air crackled with nervous excitement. At 5.30pm the building was sealed and we were 'locked in'. I remember the rush of empowerment: we were finally making our stand. We would win.
Over the next four days we ate cold pizza and produced the XPress, occasionally braving the icy waters of the machine hall showers. Outside our co-workers fought the propaganda battle. Reporters' contacts books were shared and politicians and celebrities rallied to our cause. Soccer correspondent Charlie Stuart called Jack Charlton and, in a surreal exchange, we cheered out the window as the Irish team cheered back at us from Poolbeg Street. Boxer Steve Collins came too and waved his fist at us – in a friendly way. Gifts of food and booze piled up in the newsroom and well-wishers kept up a constant stream of calls.
Our band of 40 slept on the floor or on desks, scaring each other with tales of the White Lady who was said to haunt the building. We spent the days pulling all the strings we could.
On our last night, we broke into the booze and finished up having a chariot race around the newsroom in swivel chairs. Despite our situation, our morale was high for the upcoming 'second front'. The next morning we marched out as heroes, following a rally attended by 1,000 hacks outside the Dáil. Government and opposition politicians were behind us and came out to shake hands like they did with the protestors last week.
The 'second front' was waged from Liberty Hall where we edited the XPress and continued our campaign: gigging, lobbying and marching to save "our" paper.
Summer doesn't last forever though, and the evenings began crawling in. Colleagues drifted away and the public forgot the Press. It was dead. In September, we wound things up and I slipped, utterly disillusioned, into the dole queue.
We'd been naïve. There are some fights you can't win. Protest marches may make you feel better but they won't stop the inevitable. You can't stop a recession with shoe leather either and strikes will only make it worse.
Ictu is insane if it believes that withdrawing productivity will help the economy. Part of me suspects that David Begg et al are delighted to see strident trade unionism resurrected at last and are manipulating emotions to justify their existence. Don't get me wrong, I believe in the democratic right to strike, but doing it in unprecedented times like these is suicidal.
I say this with genuine sympathy for the protestors: it's better to have a job and take a cut than be on the dole. I know, I've been made redundant three times and have just taken a hit again.
Face reality, don't march away from it. Lent's just starting: there's a long way to go until the resurrection.