Rather than break with the past, however, Bertie decided that it would be better instead to stress the continuities. Haughey was a patriot. A leader. We owe our prosperity to him.

We should look past his "personal" failings. They were none of our business.

Is there a connection between that grave moment and this? Focus group research conducted by at least two political parties of which I'm aware suggests the symbolism of Bertie laundering the legacy of Haughey was a threshold moment for a critical slice of the electorate who feel that it was wrong for perhaps the most corrupt man in Irish history (and there's a lot of competition for that title) to be celebrated in that way.

It shouldn't be surprising, really.

In the run-up to and aftermath of Haughey's death in June, it became clear that not only would there be an official funeral, but a state funeral. Not only would the Taoiseach attend, but he would give the funeral oration. Not only would critics maintain a respectful silence, they would feel compelled to praise Haughey's virtues. It was all too much for some . . .who had understood the deal about Haughey to be that even if Fianna Fail die-hards refused to admit that what Haughey did was wrong, they would at least behave as if they felt a sense of shame.

During the week of Haughey's death, call screeners of RTE radio programmes were swamped with angry punters who simply could not believe this moment of revelation: that Official Ireland, with its studied lack of moral compass in matters as great as war and as small as "debt of honour" dig-outs, was as in charge as ever. Ryan Tubridy could only hint at the existence of these callers, explaining that it was simply not possible to air their comments.

Within minutes of Haughey's death, there was Vincent Browne, his would-be father confessor, on air. When Tubridy suggested that there was bad as well as good in Haughey, Browne snapped that it was true of anyone, why should Haughey be singled out? And in that moment destroyed his own legacy as a moralistic poseur. When Haughey's supposed archnemesis told the country that it should refuse to judge Haughey, who could differ? Who would wish to be seen as more moralistic than Vincent bloody Browne?

The coda to all this was when the people voted with their feet and stayed away from the funeral ceremony, empty barricades a powerful symbol of what was wrong.

Since that week, the conversations I've had with a wide range of people have marked this with a vague sense of betrayal. We were sold a vision of a new Ireland, where people didn't have to go abroad to find a place where they could rise by their own talents rather than through 'gifts'. What did it mean when the leader of the day told the people that we actually owe our prosperity to the man who symbolised dodgy dealing, especially in property? If we choose to accept what he said, what does that say about us?

There are other background factors of course. Can it really be a coincidence that Bertie's crisis comes in the same week this newspaper revealed that the Dublin property boom is over? When 80% of sellers discover that no one is willing to pay their minimum price? How ephemeral prosperity suddenly seems.

Nor can it help matters that the main defence against the charge that taking money from businessmen while minister for finance was wrong turns out to be that the information was supposed to be kept locked away by a secret tribunal. The idea that democratically elected leaders should only be held to account in secret doesn't sound particularly like a democracy to most people.

Some day Bertie's would-be father confessor will ask him why he chose to make that graveside speech. Until that day, only he knows what made him so eager to deliver it and in so doing dig a second grave.