That little chestnut has been resurrected in Martin Scorcese's latest film The Departed, a movie about the Irish mob in Boston. A shrink, played by Vera Farmiga, examines the claim in the movie. Is the Paddy psyche that impenetrable?

What definable matter floats around the recesses of their subconscious? Are they all wackos?

Today's striding Celtic cubs might take offence at Freud's ravings. They might contend that time has thoroughly washed peasant sensibilities from the national psyche, particularly over the last decade as the Irish took their place among the great property owners of the world.

But scratch the surface and you might find that Siggy baby was on the ball. In one area in particular . . . our attitudes to our leaders in various spheres of life . . . the national subconscious tells a tale of a people unhinged.

Take the lionising of Bertie Ahern, the Taoiseach formerly known as Blankcheque Bertie. He recently told us that he saved £50,000 over six years when he was Minister for Finance and, according to himself, under huge personal financial strain. He didn't put this money in a bank account, because he didn't have one. He kept it "in my possession."

He didn't put it in a shoebox, he said when asked. He hardly carried it around with him, his pockets bulging with sweaty notes as he managed the state's finances. Would it be reasonable to assume that as a man of the people, he kept it in a biscuit tin?

It wouldn't do for a minister for finance in a developed country to be folding away his notes in a tin, so we must assume that, at the time, he was wearing his citizen Bertie hat, the same hat that was passed around on his behalf in Dublin and Manchester.

Why do few people find this stuff disconcerting? Even the opposition are afraid to dig too deep because the wider public want Biscuit Tin Bertie left alone. Is the national psyche lost in space, out there beyond the parameters used by Freud to define the human condition?

Look at poor Steve Staunton. A year ago, he was happily making his way as a glorified gofer with lowly Walsall. Now he finds himself at the centre of the oscillating passions of the soccer public.

One minute, they want his head on a plate. Then, following a home draw against middling opposition, they throw garlands at his feet.

What is going on here? A basic law of physics, not to mind psychoanalysis, is that every action is followed by a reaction. Pay peanuts, and you will getf somebody who doesn't know what he's doing.

Appoint a defensive coach at Walsall to manage Ireland, and disaster will ensue.

Why is everybody so het up? Leave the man alone. If Siggy was around, he would be stroking his chin, perplexed at how the Irish defy analysis even when it comes to kicking around a pig's bladder.

Then there is the benign attitude to our spiritual leader, Bono. Last year, he came home with three chords and the truth, lecturing Biscuit Tin Bertie that the state was not paying its fair share to the poor of the world. This year, his tax-free status was taken away, and what does he do but move one of his operations abroad, to ensure he doesn't have to pay his fair share.

His manager, Paul McGuinness, says that Bono and his mates are businessmen, and why shouldn't they minimise their tax bill. So when is Bono a businessman and when is he the conscience of the nation? Does he have as many hats as biscuit tins?

We seem incapable of applying rational standards to those who lead us. We are either bamboozled by Bertie's bonhomie, dazzled by Bono's celebrity, or confused by the sight of Stan in a suit. No question about it, the bould Mr Freud was onto something.

Ze Irish, they are crazy.