There was once a public servant called John O’Donoghue.

He was stuffy of collar and puce of visage, as chunky as a tree trunk and as stubborn, too. He had the restraint of a boy king at mid-term, and liked to be ferried and fed and flattered from dawn until dusk and possibly up until closing time. He ate like a donkey with delusions of grandeur, which is of course to say, he ate like a horse. He felt himself very important, for he was representing his people; for every morsel he ate, for every comfort he sank, sighing, into, he would have always another, then another, for his countrymen who went without. And what is an Irishman without a healthy appetite, a hearty laugh, and a crippling case of gout? What is a public servant without perks, and prizes, and pudding?

The public got quite cranky when they found the bill for John O’Donoghue’s jolly carry-on, though. They were not a rich people. Their roads were holier than their churches; things were as bright as Oxtail soup, and no one wanted to hear claptrap about how John O’Donoghue was entitled to gobble like a slaughterhouse in the second week of December, just because he represented the State on occasion.

“No one needs a limo to get between terminals at Heathrow” said the people. “Could not one of those golf carts have done? His wife would have fit on as well, and the luggage.”

Eventually, the Minister for Finance, a rotund man with a face like a rubber doll named Busty Bernice, got wind of the people’s anger and decided to berate them most pompously. His name was Brian Lenihan and he had the grace and diplomacy of a one-legged dock hand.

Brian Lenihan thought the people were overreacting, and was most displeased that they had used words such as “accountability”, or indeed “accounting”, powerful words plebs had no business using. He reminded the people that their living on Skid Row, just off Dead End Street, was a far more pressing problem than John O’Donoghue’s lobster addiction.

“The abolition of Oireachtas expenses wouldn’t solve that crisis in any degree. So we need to focus on the real issues facing the country,” he growled, like a Rottweiler trying in vain to open a Wispa.

Problem with this approach was that the people would feel more supported and motivated by their public servants if they hadn’t just been snorting caviar out of the belly-buttons of supermodels.

“We feel that arrogance, greed, unethical behaviour in public service, and the celebration of all three are all very pressing issues,” said the people. “We don’t like having grim shadows hacking the shite out of our heels while we ferment on the dole queue.”

“The glare on the dole queue will only increase such shadows,” deflected Brian. “We need to focus on the real issues facing the country.”

“So, not unemployment or lack of control over unnecessary public spending?”

“Right. Grow up, peasants.”

It worried the people that their Minister for Finance thought misappropriation of public funds, a severe allergy to proper financial housekeeping, and a culture of entitlement within the ranks of those they had trusted to lead them out of the murk, were not “real” issues. They were a little put out that their public servants blamed each other, the media, and even the public themselves for “distorting facts” and “persecuting” John O’Donoghue, even though he had been in the wrong, and deserved no sympathy and no send off.

But the people didn’t really do all that much about it. John O’Donoghue went on his merry way, his contract ended prematurely, but milked entirely dry. Brian Lenihan never did get off his high horse. Allegations of John O’Donoghue being made a scapegoat remained as ludicrous as Peter Andre; what use a scapegoat if he’s not the first, not the last, and not even any way unique in his crime? There was no positive step taken during the whole messy, stale affair that would provide tangible hope of a recession cessation.

For what do you think this is? A fucking fairy tale?