PRESENT TENSE:ON WEDNESDAY, it became obvious where Cecelia Ahern had inherited her narrative skills from.
Her father, it seems, has passed on not his penchant for tortuous, intricate and confusing plotting, but his ability to introduce a sudden twist at the moment you least expect it. This week's was surprising, effective and satisfying. Most important for the general public, it was tremendously good fun.
Every story needs a twist, but this is an era in which surprises come rarely. The weekly glossies have destroyed the suspense of the soap opera, whose plots are now revealed weeks before climaxing on screen. Instant media means movie twists are spoiled before they hit the cinemas; books are scanned and posted online for those who want to skip straight to the end; US TV dramas are reported, dissected and spoofed in the few days it takes them to cross the Atlantic.
Meanwhile, because it knows the public gets a kick out of a newsflash, Sky News has devalued the concept by running "news alerts" all day, even for the most minor stories.
Bertie Ahern, it seems, appreciates just how much the public loves a good shock. In hindsight, when the discussion gradually turned to the question of when he might go, the answer should always have been "when we least expect it". He had already proven his narrative élan last year when he allowed the rumours about the date of an election to stretch out almost to the point of tedium. Then, at possibly the least likely moment imaginable, dawn on a Sunday morning, he travelled to Áras an Uachtaráin - trailed by political correspondents so unprepared they might as well have been half-dressed and had toast sticking out of their mouths.
And as this week drew on, it appeared that the story of his tribunal troubles had begun to edge towards monotony. The same questions asked of the same politicians; the same attacks; the same defence. It had moved on a little thanks to the High Court case, but that was legally complex and unengaging for many. And while the discussion had moved towards when it might finally end, this had the feel of a story that could become stuck and repetitive, possibly for months, until someone cobbled together a messy ending.
Instead, Ahern emerged on a Wednesday morning to give an adrenalin shot to the nation. His timing was exceptional. By holding his press conference in the morning, he allowed little time for speculation. Tony Blair flagged his resignation speech from weeks away; Ahern gave everyone a few minutes to get used to the idea. And for a man supposedly at war with parts of the media, he gave them a gift. The daily papers and broadcasters had a full day to deal with the story, and it ensured that the Sundays had enough time to take a run at it too. And the public also got a whole day of excitement. There was no doubt that this was as thrilling a bit of news as we've had in some time. The timing, the execution; we couldn't have asked for more. It was one of those rare collective moments during which almost everyone was talking about the same thing. And we got to talk about it all day, so that by bed-time we had had our fill.
Generally, the more exceptional and unexpected stories tend to be the terrible ones, such as Princess Diana's death, 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. And we gorge on those events too. But Ahern's resignation was not terrible. It had a certain sadness to it, but no one (despite the tone of much of the coverage) had actually died.
So, the national reaction was a mix of serious, comic and farcical and contained a discernible giddiness. Within minutes, texts and e-mails were bouncing across the country and the debates about his legacy which were being broadcast on radio and television were being replicated in homes, online, the inboxes and offices. The waggish e-mails were immediate: a poster advertising Mugabe for taoiseach ("time for cleaner politics"); the position of taoiseach was advertised on a recruitment website. And we got a reminder of how - even if modern media can destroy surprises - we can make so much more out of one than ever before, when we do get one.
On Thursday, of course, we awoke feeling pretty bloated, a little sickly. And it was time to talk about a leadership contest which should offer no surprises. But Ahern's legacy was still being picked over and discussed in endless, increasingly wearisome detail. This was a new chapter, less exciting than the last. But in his darkest hour Ahern had been selfless enough to give the public what it demanded: a good twist. And a twist that, for once, didn't involve a knife.
Post your comments on the Present Tense blog on www.ireland.com/blogs/presenttense
