When Charles Haughey was elected taoiseach, the great Labour leader Frank Cluskey argued that his ambition wasn't confined to running the country; he wanted to own it. And in pursuit of his effort to look as though he did, he ended up in hock to some of the most powerful, most devious and most secretive people he could lay hands on.
The result was that they became even richer and more powerful; the political system was shaken to the point of destruction and a party which had laid claim to republican principles lent its weight to widening the gap between rich and poor.
Haughey's appearance at Dublin Castle yesterday, far from being an acknowledgment of the damage done, marked the start of another attempt to frustrate the efforts of the State to unravel his financial affairs.
The argument is made that to examine his financial affairs is an intrusion on privacy. The argument will be repeated again and again. But his financial affairs have had a profound effect on public life; to undo the damage they must be unravelled.
On his departure from office, he had claimed, in that faintly mocking style which characterised many of his contributions to Dail debates, that he had done the State some service. But then, no doubt, he was sure the extent to which the related infections of cronyism, patronage and dependence had spread through the body politic would never be discovered.
And, indeed, had it not been for a series of accidents, all that remained in the air would have been a whiff of sulphur, which his critics might take for confirmation of their worst suspicions but his friends would claim to be no more than a puff of paranoia.
It has taken years of inquiry, disclosure and argument to get to the point where the only doubt - in the political, if not the legal sense - appears to be about the detail. Haughey's legacy, to politics generally and Fianna Fail in particular, is clear; even this week reports from Government Buildings and the Flood tribunal show how Ray Burke shared and Charlie McCreevy inherited his illusions.
When it came to dismissing anyone who dared question his decisions, Burke was back there in the company of such masters of the stone wall as those ministers of the 1960s: Kevin Boland, Neil Blaney and Micheal O Morain.
But while they were stubborn and Burke was Haughey's man - backing commercial radio and its moneyed investors, bent on putting manners on RTE - McCreevy's stance is stubbornly ideological.
Haughey and Burke acted as if they owned the country; McCreevy's claim is that he knows best how to run it, though he has yet to explain how the present flush of prosperity arose. The one certainty is that, whether the scheme is Haughey's, Burke's or McCreevy's, it's for the benefit of the same class.
McCreevy has yet to start drawing lines in the sand, as Burke once did, but by the time he meets the social partners next week to discuss the Programme for Prosperity and Fairness and inflation - for which he accepts no responsibility - he may well have got around to it.
Meanwhile the origins and support of Century Radio, now being examined by Mr Justice Flood and his colleagues, have surprised even Jim Mitchell and Michael D. Higgins, long-time critics of Burke's politics and approach to broadcasting.
Burke's attachment to the communications portfolio, which made him minister for RTE, was extraordinary. He carried it with him into three separate departments in four years. He was in turn minister for energy and communications (1987-88), minister for industry and commerce and communications (1988-89) and minister for justice and communications (1989-91).
No one asked at the time what communications had to do with energy which was, significantly but not exclusively, concerned with the issue of mining licences. Or with justice, a department obsessed with secrecy.
The questions raised by Mitchell, Higgins and others began with an assumption that Haughey was determined to put manners on RTE (the phrase is Michael D's) and Burke was the man to do it. As Higgins explained after Thursday's hearings, Fianna Fail had always viewed communications simply as a means of exercising control over broadcasting and as a way of making money.
But this was a bloody-minded project in which, according to the evidence, the minister had taken a hand. And, as you may have guessed from Oliver Barry's donation to Burke, a money-making one as well.
Both Higgins and Mitchell considered improper the way in which (it's claimed) Burke told the directors of Century about questions which might or might not be asked when they met the Independent Radio and Television Commission; and how a ministerial directive might be sought.
Remarkably, no one seems to have paid attention to broadcasting or, with the exception of Gay Byrne (Byrne, by all accounts, was to drop out of the scheme), to broadcasters. But then, the tribunals have been shedding light on those corners of Irish life which other inquiries, official and unofficial, never reach.
To judge by Eamon Dunphy's comments on Today FM, some commentators seem to think there's nothing scandalous about ministers using their power and influence for the benefit of their friends and financial supporters.
If you still suspect that, somehow, there's nothing much wrong with what's happening here - either because they're all at it or because we're really a bunch of leprechauns with a nervous tic - book now for Will We Get A Receipt: Will We F--k.
Then go down to HQ Irish Music Hall of Fame in Middle Abbey Street, Dublin, and get an earful of Joe Taylor, Malcolm Douglas, Susie Kennedy and Gaby Smyth. You'll recognise the lines; they're by the usual suspects, direct from Dublin Castle.
You may not have an envelope. At least you have a vote.
dwalsh@irish-times.ie