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| The Honourable Member for Eastleigh |
It couldn't be true, but already there are the tell tale signs: the collection of signed copies of John Cleese's self-help books in the pontifical library; the desire to be neither one thing nor the other, from God's Rottweiler to slightly twinkly Pontifex. And there's a nagging feeling that Chris Huhne may try to make a spectacular, yet utterly miscalculated late run in the Conclave next week; and that's why he resigned his seat in the House of Commons. Anything's possible: even Ikea furniture could be made of horse.
Anything is indeed possible. It's fifteen years to the day since another priest parted the scene, namely my late father, Dermot Morgan, who played priests among his many guises. He had a few more though: father, brother, husband, partner, pal, teacher, writer, columnist (The Sunday Tribune and Evening Herald got some great copy from him, showing his intelligence and whimsy).
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| Not the Honourable Member for Eastleigh |
But there's one more. Last Sunday on his archive show, John Bowman used Dermot's greatest professional moniker: satirist. Yes, he was a comedian, writer and allsuch and more, but he was always more Armando Ianucci than Hal Roach. The sad part is, that with very few examples, satirists seem to be an endangered species when we need them the most.
More than ever, the country's high and mighty need the arse ripped mercilessly out of them. Not because it's funny, but because there is still a level of buffoonery dripping off the backsides of the big (almost exclusively) men on Merrion Street that needs to be scooped up and slapped all over their faces. There's still too much lazy consensus and even lazier discourse; not nearly enough humility from our public representatives who still confuse the national interest with their own interest. There are very few exceptions indeed, in that septic tank of swollen egos and stupidity. You get the government you deserve.
The country is ripe for satire.
Let's not confuse Mike Yarwood with Jonathan Swift. Let's not think 'cos someone can make people laugh it means you have taken on Dermot's mantel. He did both. He walked that tightrope himself, with varying degrees of success. And he paid the price for being, in the final analysis, true to himself.
They're out there, though. Watching The Irish Pictorial Weekly and their like minded brethren, for example, makes me think of the natives malevolently lurking in the bushes in Fitzcarraldo. Enda is Klaus Kinski, so. Ollie Rehn is Werner Herzog.
I'm (very cautiously) optimistic, but we've been here before.
Satire, as Swift said, is a sort of glass, wherein beholders do generally discover everybody's face but their own. We need that glass held up more than ever, to beat the bastards over the head with it.
Anything is still possible. Everything's still to play for. Happy anniversary, Pops.
