Ivor's long goodbye

So farewell, then, Ivor. The engine has finally run out of steam.

An ignominious end to a torrid career. It didn't take a genius to predict it was going to end in a derailment. The only real wonder is that it took so long. His list of mistakes is lengthy. Too lengthy to list here. His tenure in the Department of Transport was increasingly descending into farce, with so many boobs and blunders he was almost making Cullen look accomplished. (Almost. Don't go getting carried away down the back. We don't tolerate revisionism in this classroom. And redemption? Fuhgeddaboutit.) He ruffled more feathers along the way than a turkey plucker at Christmas.

The poor man was infamous for his obsession with publicity. It must be a terribly lonely, fearful existence being a politician, constantly craving approval. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Except, of course, politicians.

His behaviour became more desperate as the inevitable approached, by all accounts resembling a little Napoleon ranting away as his empire disintegrated around him.

("Send in the PR people! Get me a model to stand beside! Make sure she's not a tall one, I don't want to look ridiculous. And posters, I want lots of posters. And ads in the Indo. Big ones. Here you, where d'you think you're going? Quitting? Another one? Rats, the lot of you. I'll show you, this ship ain't sinking yet. And you? Off as well? Hold on, wait, I'm sorry, don't leave me. I need you. Here, take a car. What do you mean that's unethical? What's ethics got to do with politics? Of course I'm not fobbing you off with a freebie I was given. No, it's not some old taxi either. I'll buy it myself. What? You still won't stay? Well go on then, see if I care, I don't need anyone anyway...")

He had some bizarre notions: putting gardaí on rollerblades, banning tinted windows to slow down boy racers, stealing Cullen's thunder on announcements over Dublin's Metro, emblazoning his face all over promotions for Operation Freeflow and thinking he'd get away with it, that type of thing.

And finally, the paintjob that turned into a whitewash. He'd brushed De Leader up the wrong way for the last time.

There is no proof he did anything in return for getting the painters in. But the merest whiff of sleaze these days is enough to curl De Leader's nose.

And Callely's stubborn refusal to see why that should be was embarrassing for everyone concerned. His whimpering display of bluff and bluster on the Pat Kenny Show as the vultures circled overhead had the nation cringing as one. "Come on man, face the inevitable, the game is up," the country, including, tellingly, the whole Fianna Fáil party, shouted at the radio.

But Irish politicians tend to be an invertebrate bunch. Finding themselves in Ivor's position, they wail and moan and whinge and lash out and play the victim. (Notice the way Ivor, when he felt unjustly slighted, slipped into speaking about himself in the third person, in the style of those great paragons of probity Liam Lawlor and Michael Lowry before him?)

All to no avail. His fate was sealed. He was history.

De Leader spoke. Informed the Dáil that Callely had fallen on his sword. ("Fallen" being a Bertie-ism for "was hurled, kicking and screaming, from a great height.")

And what a sharp sword it was. Perhaps if he'd had the savvy to skulk off straight away, or, better still, a few months ago when it was still a mere butter-knife, maybe he'd have lived to fight another day. As it is, he's been cleaved in half.

Poor old Ivor. Shunted off down a lonely siding to rust away in the shed of obscurity where clapped-out old engines go to die. Choo choo!!