The scene: a generously proportioned ministerial office in the Department of Transport building on Kildare Street, Dublin. A murder of civil servants are huddled conspiratorially, fervently discussing tactics, writes Kilian Doyle
Civil servant 1 (CS1):You tell him.
CS2:Why me? I had a go at the last guy and he nearly had a conniption at me. Bloody Micheál Martin and his workplace smoking ban. I reckon it's your turn.
CS1:Oh alright. Here goes nothing.
(Door opens. Minister strolls in, nary a care in the world. Chilled? Arctic more like.)
Minister:Morning all. How are we this fine day?
CS1:Err, grand, Minister.
Minister:Glad to hear it. So, out with it. You lot called this meeting. What's on your minds?
CS1:Emm, how do I say this? The truth is we're all bored.
Minister:Bored?
CS1:It's just that with your predecessor, we were constantly firefighting, so to speak. Never a week went past without some drama to sort out. We had journalists on the phone all day hassling us about whatever the latest crisis was. We miss it. It was a bit of a buzz, to be honest.
Minister:Ah, I see. I suspected as much. I appreciate your concerns, but you have to understand things have changed. I run a different type of ship. Keep the head down, get the job done, that's my style. No insatiable lust for the limelight here. I can survive without seeing my face in the papers everyday. I've no more desire to sit in front of Bryan Dobson than I do to sit behind Brian Cowen.
CS1:We appreciate that, Minister. And very refreshing it is too. But the question is, if I may be so bold, what exactly is your job?
Minister:I can see where this is going. As I said, I run a different type of ship. It's a lean, mean transport machine. Like the Luas. Which, incidentally, is nothing to do with me. Private operator, you see.
CS1:That's the thing, sir. We can't seem to find anything we're responsible for anymore.
Minister:Clever, isn't it? I've farmed everything out.
CS1:So what do we tell journalists when they ring up looking for answers to their inane little questions?
Minister:Just refer them to Transport 21. And tell anyone asking about costings to contact the Department of Finance.
CS1:What about the M3?
Minister:Nothing to do with me. That's Gormley's baby now.
CS1:And Aer Lingus?
Minister:Not my responsibility. Isn't it a private company now? Can't be seen to be meddling in that, can we?
CS1:Road safety?
Minister: Tell them to call the Road Safety Authority. Gaybo will be only too happy to give them a quote.
CS1:The M50?
Minister:Work underway. These things take time. Out of my hands.
CS1:The Westlink?
Minister:An unbreakable contract. Again, it's out of my hands.
CS1:And Dublin Airport? Nothing to do with you, I take it?
Minister:You catch on quick, don't you?
CS1:So what are we to do? We're starved of attention here.
Minister:I know. Let's whack up taxes on classic cars. That'll get that barely-contained lunatic in The Irish Times frothing at the mouth. He'll choke on his own indignation one of these days. That I'd pay to see.
(Civil servants return to huddle. Muttering excitedly. Minister spends interim looking smugly at the empty inbox on his desk.)
CS1:Minister. We take it all back. You, sir, are a genius. I think I speak for all of us when I say we are honoured to find ourselves in the presence of such greatness.
Minister:Glad you think so, too. Now that we know where we stand, I think we'll all get on swimmingly, don't you? So, who's for a go in my new limo? It's got leather seats. I got them installed specially so I never have to share with Gormley on the way to open a bypass. He won't let his principled vegetarian backside anywhere near them.