In years to come, the cry will go out around Kildare Street: 'Where were you in 2008?', writes Miriam Lord
TWENTY-ONE HOURS is a mighty long time . . . It'll go down in song and story. Twenty-one hours and 40 minutes, to be precise. In years to come, the cry will go out around Kildare Street: Where were you in 2008? After it was over, those wanton stop-outs from Seanad Éireann marked their marathon all-night sitting with applause and congratulations all round.
Heroes one and all, when they finally left Leinster House for their beds, they could feel the duvet of history on their toes.
Our brave boys and girls had gone over the top in the national interest. They couldn't contain their excitement and spent yesterday morning swapping war stories.
At midday, the Upper House reconvened. There wasn't a full muster. Many chairs lay empty, a monument to the fallen, snoring their brains out in unknown fields. Joe O'Toole stood in the elegant chamber, still in his combat fatigues. "Sorry, I didn't get a chance to change my shirt," he said to his comrades.
"We can smell it!" came a shout from the ranks.
The Senators, who rarely see any action, were giddy.
They greeted fellow veterans of the Talkathon with a new-found respect.
"I managed to get two hours' sleep . . . got the head down for an hour and a half . . . haven't had a wink . . . firing on the fourth cylinder now."
Listening to them, it was like they had just been released from Guantanamo after a month of sleep deprivation.
TDs, who had played their part too, were slightly sniffy at being relegated to the role of auxiliaries. "Huh. We didn't get away until half two. The way that lot are talking, there'll have been more people in the Seanad last night than were in the GPO in 1916," sniped one deputy.
But the real hero of the night - feted by deputies and TDs from all sides - was Minister for Finance Brian Lenihan. He operated on both fronts: in the Dáil and in the Seanad. All day, all night, into the wee small hours and beyond, he shipped a ferocious pounding from incoming amendments.
Brian, with a cry of "we're going in very deep to the banking system", held the line and emerged with distinction, bearing the scars of battle. He looked dead on his feet by dawn, half blind, with dark circles under his eyes and a five o'clock shadow. At about three in the morning, one of the lenses fell out of his spectacles. In between contributions, he tried to put it back in, but he couldn't, and was forced to read his notes with just the one good eye.
At 8.02am, he rose to speak for the final time. He finished to resounding applause, and had it not been for the dignity of office, a besotted Donie Cassidy would surely have attempted to shoulder him from the battle-field.
Instead, he pumped the Minister's hand. "Historic," he appeared to say. "Historic."
Even Labour Senators, who voted against the measure, clapped. "Take care," said Alan Kelly softly, as the doughty Lenihan withdrew.
Deputies, refreshed from a few hours' sleep, began returning to Leinster House as the gallant Senators prepared to leave.
Ger Feeney looked cool and unruffled in her pearls and matelot top, not a hair out of place. Donie hadn't a hair out of place either.
Ciarán Cannon rubbed his eyes. The dark Mark Daly appeared to have gained a week's growth of beard while Liam Twomey looked like he hadn't slept in a month.
"It's the first time I've worked all day and all night since my days as a junior doctor," the Fine Gael Senator told his colleagues.
By the way, the stretched staff in the Dáil bar worked an 18-hour shift. Last orders in the Members Bar were called at 3am. No point in having the frontline troops too plastered on their big night.
Sustenance was provided by the staff of the Oireachtas restaurant, who worked through the night to keep the Senators (and those heroic journalists who drew the short straw) fed and watered.
By 10.30 yesterday morning, business resumed in the Dáil. Fianna Fáil's deputy whip John Creegan, despite changing into a clean shirt and bright red tie, was losing the battle to keep awake. His chief whip, Pat "Scary" Carey, looked scarily bright-eyed.
The indefatigable Joan Burton, who has been Labour's equivalent of a Navy Seal during the three-day engagement, was still going strong. Ditto Fine Gael's Richard Bruton. Tánaiste Mary Coughlan took the Order of Business. Despite the pressure of the previous 48 hours, she sped impressively through the Order. Then, looking remarkably fresh, she left for the plinth to make a job creation announcement.
As she passed the chamber doors, the Tánaiste did a double take. Bearing down on her was the British ambassador and three MPs.
The emergency legislation was going down like a lead balloon across the water, but a full-on assault hadn't been expected this early. As it turned out, David Reddaway was in Leinster House to meet the MPs, who had just had a very cordial meeting with Dermot Ahern on pub licensing laws. In fact, the MPs seemed delighted to be around during the drama. "It's wonderful to be here on such an historic day," one of them told Mary. He must have been talking to Donie.
Truly, as Churchill might have said, never in the field of political endeavour has so much been done for so many by so few. We hear talk of a monument on Leinster Lawn. Lest we forget. No chance.