Wound up like cuckoo clocks, they delivered Yawnarama

Pressure? What pressure? Here were two men more wound up than a roomful of cuckoo clocks, but determined to maintain the breezy…

Pressure? What pressure? Here were two men more wound up than a roomful of cuckoo clocks, but determined to maintain the breezy pretence of nonchalance, writes Miriam Lordin Montrose

Enda Kenny was first to arrive. So nonchalant he said nothing, stepping from his car, jacket slung over his shoulder, gold of hair, jutting of jaw and doing his best to look like the Sundance Kid.

Bertie Ahern was next. He leapt from his Merc, bristling with nonchalantly nervous energy.

Where Enda chose to stay silent, Bertie chose to talk.

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"Hiya, folks," he cried, greeting the media like welcome old friends. "Nice fine evening." He could have been on his way into Parnell Park for a league match.

Like the Fine Gael leader, he too was a walking monument to the skills of the make-up artist. Although upon closer inspection, one fell to wondering whether Paddy the Plasterer, on a nixer, had a hand in the application of his mate's foundation.

There was a crowd of Fine Gael supporters at the main gates of RTÉ for last night's Great Debate between Bertie and Enda.

"I could see all the Fine Gael young people out welcoming me as well. They should be out canvassing," commented the Taoiseach, who appeared in no hurry to get inside for the main event.

Had he done much preparation for the debate? The Taoiseach, grinning like his life depended on it, replied, "Yeah, canvassin'."

This debate was all about whether the country "goes backwards or forwards". (Bertie was in such determinedly nonchalant mood, it was like Biffo had loaned him an emergency spliff he saved from his UCD days.)

Eventually, just when we worried that RTÉ's director general was going to take root outside the front door of television centre, the Taoiseach decided to head inside.

But not before he answered a final question. "Are you nervous?"

He looked up, and with a thin smile he asked, "Of wha'?" There was an edge to his voice. A dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Oh, there's going to be a bloodbath in there tonight," predicted an onlooker, thrilled.

There was the traditional photocall before the hostilities - a more civilised version of boxers tipping gloves before the opening bell.

The Taoiseach came in first to studio two. He stood behind the desk, holding onto the back of his chair. Gripping it tightly, and grinning with grim determination.

Enda followed, upping the ante in the grinning department. The two men met behind the desk and shook hands.

Both in dark navy suits, identical pale blue shirts and very similar stripped ties. Both dressed by Louis Copeland, you'll be glad to know.

The two of them were very nervous, but were trying to cover it up. It was quite difficult having to watch them, conscious of the state of mind the two men must have been in.

This debate had been built up as a make-or-break event for both the Taoiseach and the pretender to his throne. No wonder they were both so nervous.

They made small talk, and more small talk. Shook hands again and again. It was a relief to see them depart for their dressing rooms again.

The debate finally began. Bertie seemed marginally more nervous than Enda, although both politicians recovered their confidence early into the debate.

Bloodbath? Defining moment? Riveting? After 10 minutes of Bertie and Enda playing it safe and presidential, interest began to wane.

By 20 minutes, we were praying for a late intervention by Pat Rabbitte or Michael McDowell.

Put the kettle on! Get the zapper - what's on the other side? They covered all the ground - economy, crime, health, transport. Bertiegate, for God's sake. And it was Yawnarama City all the way.

Who won? Who cares? Hard to tell. Not a laugh all night from either of them.

Given Fianna Fail's stuttering campaign to date, it was being said that Taoiseach Ahern needed to land a killer blow to stop the resurgent Kenny in his tracks.

He didn't do it.

Instead, Bertie's performance was typical of his party's surprising approach to this most surprising campaign: lacklustre, hesitant and uncertain.

As for Enda: he didn't exactly cover himself in glory either, but he didn't crash in flames. His handlers will be very pleased.

Here's a verdict we got on the phone as soon as it ended: "Enda's tie is nicer and their shirts are the same."