ANOTHER tribunal! How absolutely spiffing! And I thought my chances were blown after the homobenignal beef tribunal. God, it was pure bloody murder to see my entire generation from UCD pass through Dublin Castle for month after month, turning up at the beginning in an Austin Seven and leaving at the end in a Boeing 747 Jacuzzi, en route for whatever paradise they had made their holiday home.
One lawyer who in his youth was distinguished by his ferretyface, his greasy hair, his shiny suit and a tie which, if boiled, could render a quite passable pigswill, at the conclusion of the beef tribunal was able to buy a couple of islands. By the name of Hawaii, I believe. He even bought a little craft to shuttle between them - the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower, complete with F-14 Tomcats.
Not everybody did as well as he did. One barrister was only able to buy a modest plot of land to build his little house on, namely, the Midlands, but most lawyers seem to have done the equivalent of coating themselves in glue and then diving into a swimming pool of golddust, day after day after day.
Down Payment
But not me, though I have been a beef eater all my life. I have been to Brussels. I once even sat next to a Goodman accountant on a plane - surely these were grounds for a call up? I waited and waited, all a tremble with excitement, and mentally spending my money in advance. My first day's fee would be used as a down payment on a property I have my eye on, called Kildare, my second day's would perhaps buy me a little salmon stream I rather like, the Shannon I believe it's called, which comes complete with free electricity.
Not a word. Not a bloody word. Gazed at my phone for months on end as an entire population passed through the portals of Dublin Castle en route for the pastures of plenty and the field of the cloth of gold by their expenses claims shall ye know them - The Cost Generation. By the time the beef tribunal came to an end, a completely new class had come into existence: not since the Normans arrived has so much flowed from so many to so few. And amazingly this huge transfer of resources from the many to the few was done at the behest of the Labour Party, the very people whose careful regard of public resources gave us TnaG as well.
After such a generous use of taxpayers' money to benefit a minority, it was generally assumed that we were done with, tribunals, which would hence forward be as redundant as parchment and quills. The reverse has been the case. The legal profession has since been gorged on tribunals like geese on chestnuts, and their livers have grown large and tasty.
This is where the more cunning of us should seize our chance. So many established lawyers have become so fat on tribunals that they cannot pass through the swingdoors of the Four Courts. The slimmer, the trimmer the zimmerless of us can now finally make it to a tribunal, over the recumbent wheezing corpses of The Cost Generation.
Who is better equipped to help the Dunne tribunal than myself? I own a passable pair of St Bernards knickers, and I have seen Ben Dunne's house from afar. And as for Michael Lowry, what better fellow than myself? Have I not spent a pleasant afternoon in Thurles? Have I not rummaged gaily through the odd deep freeze looking for frozen chips? In other words, I am what is called a perfect tribunal performer - and thanks to the homobenignal precedents, I've got a shrewd idea what to ask for.
Taxing Master
Taxing master, take note. From this moment I am on standby, ready to serve the State at the drop of a wig. My daily retainer while I await your call is a mere £5,000. I will be poised beside the rooftop pool at the Hotel George Sank on the Cap d'Antibes, my gold mobile phone cleared to receive calls solely from the Dunne Inquiry - rental of said phone adding a further £500 a day.
Ingrid, my Finnish masseuse, and her two friends Britt and Hannalena, will be in constant attendance, keeping my brain and mind fit with carefully administered unguents imported, from Thailand. Needless to say, these companions must be reimbursed for the skill, knowledge, complexity and difficulty for the task in hand and taxing master, take note, if you please their fees will be necessary and appropriate.
We might as well agree on these fees now - perhaps £100,000 for the aforesaid skill, knowledge, complexity and difficulty, and another £100,000 for effort and responsibility, which for simplicity's sake we will round off to £3.2 million. This, needless to say, does not cover my three assistants personal expenses, such as catering costs, fresh toast in the morning, etc, etc, etc - call it a further round million, okay? No point in creating unnecessary headaches for the accountants.
Serious Fees
Now. Let us deal with the serious fees once you have whistled me up before the tribunal. Needless to say, it would be entirely inappropriate for me to disclose to you the hourly rate I charge. That would compromise the relationship between myself and the plain folk of Ireland, who have no business knowing such details. Essentially, my fees come down to the notional rate I myself devise - it most certainly should not be a sordid hourly matter, open to examination by any Tom, Dick or Larry. It stands to reason - such information is confidential, and enjoys absolute privilege.
The same must be said about my three companions, Ingrid, Britt and Hannalena, who will need full reimbursement for the long hours they expect to put in. Needless to say, I cannot reveal the hourly rates Ing, Britt and Hann charge concerns that some might have that you will end up paying me more than I am paying them are a complete red herring, and an unwarranted intrusion between a chap and his masseuses.
We will be putting up in the Shelbourne during our stay in Dublin. You cry, why the Shelbourne? Because there is nowhere better, TM, my old fellow. I await your call anxiously.