Lise Hand

AT LONG LAST it was upon us.

Budget Day arrived amid a fanfare of sad trombones, a steady downpour of rain and to an outbreak of resounding apathy.

Outside the gates of Leinster House on a sodden Kildare Street, a small crowd of lads clad in the protest couture of yellow high-viz vests milled about… but wait, they weren’t local gilets jeunes – or veisteanna buí – it was only a few bored-looking gardaí scrolling on their phones or looking hopefully about for any approaching horde of revolting citizenry bearing placards. Alas, none materialised.

The few barriers remained propped unused against the railings. Fists remained unshaken. There was no dudgeon on display, either high or low.

Inside Leinster House, the carpeted corridors of power were alive with tumbleweed. Large spiky balls of it drifted unhindered along deserted passageways.

The anticipatory tension could have been cut with a pair of wooden chopsticks.

Even the metaphorical kites were gone from over the roof of the place. In the weeks leading up to the unveiling of Budget 2027 by finance minister Simon Harris and public expenditure minister Jack Chambers, proposed measures would be flown cautiously from the windows of Government Buildings as ministers tested the public waters.

Older members of the government are still scarred by memories of the noisy ruckus caused by riled-up protesting pensioners all the way back in 2008 after the budget unexpectedly revealed plans to curtail some medical cards for people aged 70 and over. The very people who vote in every election, and who pass grudges down through generations.

No fear of any repeat of those silver army shenanigans. If this budget were a canoe, it would be settled on the riverbed of the Liffey long ago, so numerous were the leaks which sprang from it in recent days.

Tax cuts. Dig-outs for childcare and energy bills. Check, check, check. Full steam ahead for a no-fuss budget.

The ceremony

Just after 1pm, the two ministers descended the steps into the Dáil chamber, looking for all the world like a pair of neatly-dressed pipe-cleaners, skinny and – by finance minister standards – youthful.

One of the press gallery’s most formidable number-crunchers was doing a pre-calculation tune-up by remarking that the combined ages of Simon (39) and Jack (35) equalled the age of former finance minister Michael Noonan (74) when he delivered his last budget in 2017.

Most of the seats were full – an increasing rarity. After the ceann comhairle began Dáil proceedings with the customary prayer, Simon Harris quickly blessed himself – as well he might. He and his wife Caoimhe welcomed their third child, a baby girl, four days ago, though one suspects that it wasn’t the wee snapper who was solely responsible for his somewhat haggard visage – it was more likely to be the incessant wailing of cabinet colleagues begging for a bigger slice of the €8.6 billion pie.

As he began to speak, ushers fanned out along the benches, distributing the various budget documents to the TDs, who began to leaf through the pages to find the measures which either they can claim credit for, or swiftly disavow any foreknowledge of when confronted by an irate constituent.

Pens, highlighters and calculators set to work.

But lord above – it was a mountainous pile of snazzy, glossy bound books to plough through: Tax Policy Changes (26 pages); Economic & Fiscal Outlook (26 pages); The Budget in Brief (28 pages); two ministers’ speeches (34 and 27 pages apiece). And a whopping Expenditure Report coming in at 244 pages with the weight of a small dog.

The massive tome is stuffed with every facet of expenditure which can be perused at leisure, and then usefully recycled as kindling for the fire, or as a draught-excluder to keep wintry air at bay.

Simon Harris had been slowed down to a speed of 33.3rpm, so everyone could follow him with ease. It was, he reiterated early and often, a budget for “working families” and “hard-working people”, for “people who are working now” and the whole idea was to bring us all “to a place in which work is rewarded”.

When he concluded (with two minutes to spare on the countdown clock), there was applause which was carefully calibrated to be supportive and approving. Not a single yahoo, hup ya boy ya from behind him, or a single snarl from the stony-faced and silent opposition on the far side.

It was the same story when Jack ‘Torture’ Chambers delivered his speech. Like the finance minister, his delivery is so even that one could balance a pint on it. Hard to believe that this is the same person decried (off the record) by an array of ministers who were aghast to find their kitchen-sink-and-all requests for more departmental funds firmly and cruelly nixed by this baby-faced assassin.

Oftentimes, politicians who find themselves delivering big speeches will throw in a bit of Seamus Heaney or WB Yeats, to show they are serious people. Not Torture Chambers – he invoked former Fianna Fáil taoiseach Seán Lemass, revered by his party as an economic wizard of his day.

“We know by theory and experience that we cannot insulate ourselves from the effects of economic decline in other states,” he quoted solemnly.

Well now, that had eyes snapping open all around the country.

There was a muffled reaction among backbenchers behind him as he announced measures to reduce childcare costs.

“Hear hear,” they whispered.

Only once was there a bit of a cheer, when the minister invoked Mayo’s “75-year wait for All-Ireland glory this summer”. A few shouts of “Up Mayo” and one lone “Up Kerry”. Up in the nosebleed seats at the back, far away from the glory of the front benches, a gloomy-looking Michael Healy-Rae became even gloomier.

Chambers resumed his seat to a similar level of applause received by his colleague.

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And that was it. Sin é.

TDs began to stream out through the various doors, to follow proceedings from their offices.

The opposition rose one by one to take pot-shots. But nothing really landed with a thump.

“A fundamentally dishonest Budget from a fundamentally dishonest government,” declared Labour’s Ged Nash, sparking a bit of amusement by describing the two ministers as “soundbite Harris and Jack GPT”.

Nor was Pearse Doherty impressed, claiming the budget was “an insult to workers” and that the “majority” of Irish people “won’t get a sniff at” the €750 tax break.

“Your Government is hell-bent on making life harder,” dubbing it a “gone before you get it” budget.

Outside the Dáil chamber, the corridors still resembled a haunted house, inhabited only by the ghosts of budgets past heading to the bar for a scatter of pints before the price went up at midnight, fighting for space at the counter among the Rabelaisian scrum of TDs and senators and their well-wishers, friends, Oireachtas staff enjoying a big day out.

Taoiseach Micheál Martin strolled down the stairs, looking fairly pleased at the lack of ructions either inside or outside the building.

After all, it was a bit of a Gaybo Budget – something for everyone in the voting audience; a few million here, a few million there, spanning the gamut of beneficiaries from money for the pier at Inis Oírr in Galway, to €29.6 million to the European Space Agency programme – God knows why though – in space nobody can hear you vote.

The one heralded goodie that was missing was the headline-grabbing kite that 16-year-olds would receive a €100 Culture Card to pay for trips to the cinema, theatre and gigs. That was firmly placed on the méar fhada by mean old Torture Chambers, undoubtedly much to the chagrin of the relevant Arts and Culture minister, Fine Gael’s Patrick O’Donovan.

A few hours after the Budget, two young fellas were strolling along Merrion Street past Leinster House.

“We’re getting a Culture Card,” one confidently told the other. Uh-oh. Those languishing barriers may be pressed into action yet. But the question is – will there actually be any live bodies in the Haunted House to hear them roar?