Gavan Reilly: My book research proves it: the Dáil is full of bluffers*

They never give it away. They will always give off the air of self-assuredness; that they know what’s what, who’s who, and how to get stuff done.

The good ones do eventually get to that level, and are genuinely at ease with the surroundings - figuring out which phone calls can speed up a passport renewal, or how best to prove that a sports club is worthy of a capital grant.

But before that, they’re bluffing. Almost all of them.

The inhabitants of Leinster House might eventually reach the highest offices in the country, but they often start out as spoofers, faking it until they make it.

In my book (The Secret Life of Leinster House, out now in all good bookshops) I mention an underground tunnel that links the ‘proper’ Leinster House, the Georgian building you’ll see over my shoulder on the news, with the adjoining multistorey building that houses the Oireachtas committee rooms and many politicians’ personal offices.

After doing the first few publicity interviews for radio, TV and podcasts, I realised that ‘underground tunnel’ made the passageway sound either like an escape route from Shawshank Prison. It is no such thing: it is a fully lit and paved path from one building to another. I should instead have used the slightly less sexy, but factually correct, label of ‘basement corridor’.

Nonetheless, what is germane about this corridor is that so few TDs seem to know it exists. On an especially blustery day the winter before last, I was surprised to meet a high-profile deputy on that corridor, passing me in some level of bewilderment.

“How long has this thing been here?!”

“Honestly, I can’t say? But LH2000 was built as a millennium project, so probably over twenty years?”

“I never knew this existed. I’ve been going up to the ground floor and getting my hair blown all over the place.”

I shared the anecdote with a few media colleagues. Some of them, also, had no idea about the existence of this corridor. This was some cause for reflection, as I’m also the chair of the Oireachtas Press Gallery, and wondered if I should arrange some kind of orientation. Colleagues who knew of it, though, had similar stories of passing novice politicians who are never formally told it’s there.

It may be a superficial example but it speaks to a broader point: that whatever about journalists not being given proper induction to their new workplaces, politicians are often thrown in at the deep end and must learn to either swim immediately, or struggle and flounder.

In interviews for the book I heard of TDs who, for example, heard ‘division bells’ playing on the public address system – summoning deputies down to the Dáil chamber for a vote – and, in panic, bolted down multiple flights of stairs in a frenzied rush for fear of missing some important vote. It was only when they arrived at the door that they saw the Dáil chamber was in its usual state of poor attendance: what they had heard was the bell for a Seanad vote, not the Dáil.

Another admitted that when they arrived in Leinster House, not alone did they have no idea how to put questions to ministers, they didn’t even know how to arrange speaking time in the chamber. One was in the canteen when they glanced at a monitor and saw a fellow newcomer on his feet; they left their meal and went into the chamber to sit beside their new recruit, not just for moral support but to ask how they had arranged getting a chance to speak.

Others admitted to not being fully clear in their own heads about the process through which a bill becomes a law. This is on one level understandable – only public affairs wonks and serial Oireachtas squatters like me, would be able to explain it at a moment’s notice. But considering that the Oireachtas is a legislature, meaning that TDs and Senators have the unique power to propose and amend laws that bind the rest of us, this procedural illiteracy ought to be a worry.

And that’s to say nothing of the fact that on a Wednesday night, when most of the week’s votes are organised to be held in succession, many TDs will admit they’re not entirely sure what they’re voting for. A Labour amendment to the Government’s countermotion on an Sinn Féin private member’s motion? Are we in favour of that?

Many deputies will simply keep an eye on the two giant monitors, fixed to the wall above the media seats. Only when some bulbs turn green or red, corresponding with the votes of their party leaders and whips, will a backbencher know for certain how they should go.

But the broader point is that there is no induction course. The Oireachtas will give new members some basic advice on their duties as an employer, given that all TDs are entitled to have two personal staff. However it is beyond the scope of Leinster House to tell people how to be politicians. Do they want to be active contributors on a specific policy area? Do they want to chair a committee? Do they want to be obsessive nitpickers on draft legislation? Do they want simply to be a constituency fixer, knowing who to call to get things done?

Often, politicians want to be all things to all people – partly because the public expects them to be legislators and glorified councillors all at once. But it’s an impossible bridge to cross: doing all those things demands five or six long days of work per week, and inevitably still leaves some work undone and some stones unturned.

At the end of the day, it’s not the job of Leinster House to teach people how to be politicians. It’s merely a stark discovery to hear so many of them admit that, when they come in first – even with years of experience on local authorities – they’re still bluffing.