No killer punch as talkfest turns into snorefest
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WE had such high hopes for this debate. Everyone had different opinions about who would emerge the victor.
Some kind souls gave Enda a fighting chance, but most reckoned that Bertie would wipe the studio floor with the Fine Gael whippersnapper, and mop up the mess with his own blue shirt.
And the opening omens were good.
Enda breezed into the RTE TV Centre, jacket slung casually over his shoulder a la Tony Blair, looking fresh as a daisy. Bertie, arriving five minutes later, barrelled out of his Merc in feisty form into the pack of waiting press. "Taoiseach, are you nervous?"
"Of wha'?" he growled. Nor was he rattled by having to run a phalanx of Fine Gael supporters to get into Montrose.
"They should be out canvassing," he sniffed.
They were cordial enough to each other when they posed for pre-game shots in the Prime Time studio. Spookily, both men were both dressed in Louis Copeland, almost identical dark power-suits, blue suits and yellow striped ties, like well-groomed book-ends.
Although the sight of both contestants standing ramrod-straight at their separate podiums couldn't help bringing the catch-phrase "You are the weakest link - Goodbye!" sneakily to mind.
At 9.45pm, the clash between David of Castlebar and Goliath of Drumcondra kicked off.
And nothing. For the first 15 minutes of the debate, they were as relaxed as shop-front dummies. More handbags on a wet Monday night in Mullingar.
Even when Miriam introduced the sore subject of Bertiegate, the Taoiseach looked puzzled - sure, he had been happy to explain everything fully, hadn't he?
Even with this sort-of porky dangled temptingly in front of Enda, he still refused to dance closer to a subject he has spent the election waltzing away from at speed.
After a somewhat tedious opening 15 minutes, Miriam introduced the H-word - health.
Surely fireworks now. Surely this, the main issue of this closely-fought campaign would have either Bertie or Enda going home in an ambulance.
But no. A few fractious skirmishes but no killer blows. Bertie worked his puppy dog eyes and I'm-being reasonable-face, while Enda was working his firm-but-fair face.
Crime. Still fractious, but no flurry of karate-chops. We started wishing that the new series of
The Sopranos hadn't been moved to accommodate this War And Peace talkfest. Enda took the first drink of water, which was good news for anyone who had placed a few quid with Paddy Power on him to take the first sip. Sigh. Still no craic, even when they were talking about drugs.
Who was better? Hard to say. Bertie by a hair perhaps, but all Enda had to do was not lose the plot, whereas the Taoiseach needed a convincing win.
An hour in and even pots of strong tea were failing to keep me awake.
In terms of blood-sport, the Fab Four debate of the previous night was pure gladitorial combat.
Enda should've slayed him on the chaos of the public service, should've done a Kill Bill number on the Taoiseach but stayed the blow.
I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but in terms of a decent row, it really needed Michael McDowell tearing lumps out of both of them.
